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Poetry

Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about vaunted ambition

as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves

while forebodings of winter shiver bones.

Just what is it that we wish to achieve?

All will pass, even renewal of leaves.

 

Yet many crave headline folly of news,

or the illusion of media fame.

It’s best to live kindly in the moment

where love conjures happy contentment,

and like mushrooms create your own small rain

by hefting your own spores of hope in air!


Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies.

Politicians make a living from lying,

yet conjuring fables is considered opinion

rather than outright corruption,

which they call “price of promotion.”

 

Our texts about the divine

are rooted in metaphors

and even unusual stories.

As a rule, poets lie least

because they have nothing to lose

except their reputation

or practical sense of fun.

 

And when soothing spring arrives

with scent of cherry blossom,

apple and pear blossom,

do any of these ambitious liars ever think

that history itself is a story

which will not survive

humankind’s demise?


Mint: a cosmopolitan family

with so many attractive relatives

that they cannot be kept from your table!

I’m in love with sage, basil, oregano,

while I keep in touch with thyme, rosemary,

and common wild mint that grows by my door.

I’m not lucky enough to lounge on teak,

yet I can rub shoulders with lavender.

 

Over seven thousand species toss scent

into air, although some mints just look nice

like my garden companion Coleus.

Every leaf emerges oppositely,

each pair whorled, some posing at right angles.

Most have fragrance, structure, savory taste.

 


America, your rouge looks like a whore:

conflict of interests and corruption,

addiction to international war,

insults, for-profit incarceration.

Some say, “Nothing new, we’ve been here before,”

but the algorithm-scale of deceit

has made a mockery of prudent law.

And what about our nation’s balance sheet?

 

Where is our Founder’s Christian altruism?

Do we cherish Franklin or just his bill?

Why do we worship guns and fascism?

How are we now a Beacon of Freedom?

 

I’m taking as stroll up a local hill

to cleanse my mind of blunt pessimism.


Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude of atoms we cannot see;

trillions of star-galaxies in a swirl.

 

Rotundity highlights it all,

and to be curiously round in mind

remains best whenever you see a friend

come round for keen conversation.

 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Dec 29th, 2016

Cinema, religion, and poetry

are all a form of fiction like novels,

painter's portraits, music, philosophy.

Well-written history alone travels

with a solid factual foundation:

collected, analyzed, categorized.

Yet historical interpretation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Dec 18th, 2016

For Christmas, let us put aside grudges,

gripes, and obsession—or piquant outrage

at this or that bauble blinking in eye.

Fellowship breathes at the heart of Christmas

when love is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 13th, 2016

            Snowflakes dither in ambivalent air,

            blowing here and there, every-which-way, float-

            ing like paper and melting on eyelids,

            nestling on my...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Nov 28th, 2016

Gazing at blackbird on deck-side table

during cold November, tree-stripped drizzle

when dark clouds lower with dour bluster,

I like to warm my feet under cover

as I recollect childhood...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 22nd, 2016

Orange-red oak leaf spiraling to earth

through gray-blue air in silent slow motion

signals the firm arrival of autumn,

a time to offer fervent thanksgiving

for the abundance of fruitful...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 15th, 2016

When the moon is full and nearest to earth, 

I peer out my door, listening to naught: 

Silence so stark, nude, a startling stillness 

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Nov 10th, 2016

White frost coats the blear eyelid of my car.

Piercing cold stings the larder of my lungs.

I’m happy it’s really ripe pumpkin time.  

My physique has not yet...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Nov 2nd, 2016

Ego is strange because it’s so familiar.

The rose takes for granted the soil below.

All birds assume azure aerial space,

just as we take for granted the air we...

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