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Poetry

Six inches of fluffy snow

loafing on fence, walk, and roof.

Imprisoned by white,

I’m fixated by birds:

for once they are serious,

not fighting or squabbling,

there’s no time for any of that.

They peck and fly with the prize.

 

My prize is the woodstove:

I feed it with spilt logs,

watch its embers glow

and in that solemn glow

I’m content as a bird feeder

waiting for the next bird.

 

Without such sedentary patience,

one lives a hectic life,

wherein one doesn't’t know

if one is a bird at the feeder,

or someone who lives in the glow

of embers winking

and pipes clinking

to philosophic thoughts

on flitting seasonal tribulations

and compensating spring joys

when snowdrop flowers appear.


February evokes mediations

on mortality: not only the cold,

but the bleak crunch of ice on fastened boot,

plumage panicky at the bird-feeder,

lowering slate clouds that appear endless,

bare skeletal trees, frozen local pond,

hungry sweaters gathering food and fuzz,

dwindling stack of logs by clanking woodstove.

 

Sometimes overcoming February

brings out the best in me as I shovel

mounds of snow into sensible pathways,

fill the stew pot with vegetables and herbs,

talk to myself like I’m in asylum.

The latter is what really keeps me sane.


We will all lay our heads down in brown leaves,

hoping that from our decay flowers bloom

over us, but much more importantly,

hoping that those who are younger than us

will embrace our memory with fondness,

seek to imitate or best qualities,

and inform their life with the joy we had

when we walked and breathed morning air at dawn.

 

I frequently talk to my dead parents,

even though I’ve little to say to them.

Likewise, I talk to numerous dead friends

with poignant content, longing for answers,

but that is like looking at a full moon,

knowing nothingness can be beautiful.


“Here’s the longest icicle you’ve ever seen.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, feel its wetness.”

“It’s cold.”

 

The warmth of mid-winter meltdown

swells the heart with joy, optimistic slant.

Merciful respite from freezing.

Toes want to dance in mud.

 

Drip, drip, drip goes the song

as birds, frantic in wing, skitter

on icy mounds of melting snow.

Lungs retrieve confidence.

 

Yet I want to know

what a child thinks

of flux in this world

as he stomps in puddles.

 

But what can a child know

about flux, waterfalls of time,

those labyrinthine turns,

many-sided decisions a man must make?

 

Winter will soon return with cold blast

and its bone-shaking, bleaky chill.

Only wood enough for stove burning

can keep the heart warm and kind.


The bass provides musical foundation

for string and winds, prime springboard for rhythm

that propels the vector of instruments

to follow, build, dance with elegance.

Without good bass other players are lost.

 

The bass player is an unsung hero

who shoulders the base of a pyramid,

allowing others to sing unfettered.

A bass player is the soul of a band,

the psychologist of an orchestra.

 

Cool bass has unexpected energy,

dynamism beyond explanation,

the kernelled conundrum in a question.

Is not bass always asking questions?

Is it not asking you to dance for joy?

 

And does it not ask you sometimes to weep?

Bass can be a sad cave-sound resounding….

Don’t we all blink twice at a bass player

lugging his instrument at an airport?

Without bass our intellect cannot fly…. 


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Since latitude remains so obvious—
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no one dies here they are still standing

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arms they never leave move nowhere

as if halted one step back is their

 ...

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When sunlight beams off balconies

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What are they there for
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by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Mar 5th, 2016

Sub-zero weather, bluebird on bent bough,

snow crunching nearly up to knobby knees--

memory of fire flickering flame

in my mind like long-lost childhood dreams.

Do bluebirds dream of sky...

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