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Poetry

The First Congregational Church

is now available for meetings,

weddings, and social events.

 

The Presbyterian Church

with its big bell tower and giant clock

is now a Baptist Church.

 

The Methodist Church,

now called the Chocolate Church

(due to its newly painted shade),

is now an Art Museum.

 

The new church service

is now conveniently at the beach

where tattoos are the new symbols

of emotional devotion.

 

The old-new Redeemer on the scene

is the Sun with Ocean for consort.

Screaming seagulls supply the chorus.

 

The ice cream shop (soft and hard)

offers the new, informal communion.

The Sun provides penance with sunburn.

 

The Holy Spirit still broods in air

with hovering wings over

beach, bridge, and unnoticed barnacle—

 

and hovers over Waterfront Park

where children gather to giggle

at the cascading waterfall….


Waves pound the shore with sputtering froth.

Young children terrified of crushing waves

are quite content with sifting malleable sand.

Old men lounge in sunlight like lizards.

Breast-less young girls in pink bikinis

squeal in the roiling surf.

 

Lifeguard drives a four-wheeler buggy

like he’s CEO of the sand.

Plump middle-aged women sport

fading tattoos of their frolicking youth.

Umbrellas sprout like mushrooms after rain.

Lost plastic shovels and goggles sleep under sand.

 

Seals wonder if humans are safer than sharks.

Broken shells know they are not.

High tide red flags whimsically wave

while beach sand swallows the salty source of life.

 

The ghost of Marconi’s marvelous machine

still lingers in humid moonlight air,

but there is not a solitary soul there

to hear what he had wrought.


Rain patters on roof

all night long without reprieve

in an old story known

to ears of humankind

since huts and houses

dotted the landscape

of furrowed rows

while people sprawl in darkness

as they drift to damp corridors

of oblivious sleep and dreams

that promise dawn-dew-joy

like quince flowering in spring

or orange bulbous moon on horizon

where wonder breathes

secret virtue

in varied shades of blue

running in puddles

to a roiling sea.


Blessed is the afternoon ambiance

when raindrops tickle your eyelids

as your feet tread between puddles

and your hat drips like a leaky faucet.

 

Blessed is the afternoon light

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

 

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.

 


The impossibility of being me

is that I keep changing my mind

about what it is to be me

as I’m fretting about wasting time

 

on a drab slate morning

when clouds want to rain,

yet hold back from raining,

as if release itself were a pain

 

rather than an act of creation

that showers earth and mind

with blue flowers of fruition

blooming well-ahead of time

 

in the rattling narrative

of ordinary dishes and pans.

Husbandry I daily give,

despite any creative plans.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 18th, 2016

At two I kicked orange-red-yellow leaves

shushing underfoot into damp twilight.

 

At four I rolled in brisk, dry, crackling leaves

until I fell to a swoon of wonder.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 13th, 2016

Pretty striped stink bug, where are you going?

Come down from the roof—going to party?

Or is it some food you are looking for?

Maybe locate a mate before sunrise?...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 6th, 2016

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

to blooming lilac sprays

during early days of sun-drop spring.

 

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

into the thicket of adolescence

where music...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Sep 26th, 2016

There are times when to love the calls of birds

Becomes a crime worse than theft or incest;

When hills and valleys described in fleet words

Evoke anger of a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 20th, 2016

Gusting winds—whiplike—batter bent bushes,

bowing, battered,  bludgeoned; resilient trees

wave as storm rages with ravenous pitch,

while in cottage a lonely candle burns,

comforting four hands at plain deal table.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 7th, 2016

Cyprus trees comb blue air

as I turn a page in a book,

while a hawk circles above

cleaving azure air with elegance.

With that upstart fantasy

of passing time...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Aug 29th, 2016

In Bryce Canyon burnt ochre sandstone

lazes in sunlight like an arrow line

leading to hidden caves of bleak

antique beauty where time evaporates

like a dwindling puddle on gray slate....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Aug 18th, 2016

Idyll

 

Summer evening fragrance,

sun dipping orange

through tree matrix

in refulgent pink:

scent of lily, poppy, dahlia,

coreopsis, linum;

guttural frogs on pond,

hummingbird wings abuzz,

giggle of...

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