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Poetry

To pen poetry is to imitate

the grass beneath our feet, ants crawling there;

yet composing it can be confusing

like walking blindfolded up wooded hill

or like digging a twenty-five-foot hole

to make a well, uncertain of success.

While one may record the pleasures of life

in pastures of rolling seasons, or love,

or the progress of celestial spheres,

the process resembles a self-tattoo.

 

Yes, it’s old Sisyphus puffing uphill,

knowing your project will tumble back down,

and yet that rock may recoil back down

with a wild, scrunching, singing, thrilling sound


It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue, passing cloud.

 

Wind huffed mightily

as I wanted to say something

startling or exciting, yet the wind

held the stage as I offered outstretched

my empty palms

to pay homage to the seasonal mix.

 

Anticipation of spring

can be marvelously maddening,

and a quick glance about the disordered garden

conjures up images of hard work,

.

Digging remains more satisfying

than the idle frustrations of winter.

 

Even a four-year-old yearns to build,

with fertile imagination,

with hands on wood or stone.


If music be the alphabet of love,

play on through the hours and days of life,

enriching each moment with a wisdom

unspoken in all the earth’s sacred writ

and prized by the world’s varied religions

under red-setting skies around the globe.

For if music falls on our ears as we walk,

the earth itself would be free of hatred

and people would greet each other freely

with open embrace, hearty handshakes,

and words of such enthusiastic joy

that war would be banished and we would love

each other and the earth we tread upon.

We would speak the language of dawn’s bright song. 


Sleet nestling on stone walls.

Sleet whips gray air,

crackles window pane,

forms footing uncertain;

stoic eyelids blinking.

 

Sleet inhabits a netherworld

harsh to navigate:

sleet sliding down your neck

melts with smearing pinch.

Sleet is like a tax form—

ugly, uncomfortable to look at.

 

Sleet: crystal, wingèd curse;

enemy of commerce;

tombstones crusty, perverse;

shifting life in reverse;

disdained with scowling verse.

 

A marvel of nature:

wondrous lament

for rain or snow

which death does not know.


Out of nowhere

it can come

 

like a car passing

under the window,

 

but what to do

with it?

 

Especially when

the car’s gone

 

and there’s

no sound at all,

 

except the slight

rustle of leaves,

 

a dandelion seed

floating in air,

 

and glint of sunlight

sparkling on a pond?

 


for Clifford
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Mar 6th, 2017

False spring is not my favorite thing,

even though snowbells seem not to mind,

or peepers who sing despite crusted frost,

or birds on the wing looking for nests,

or...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 3rd, 2017

If that little button in the “football”

was angrily pushed for some island

you don’t even know about, and then all

civilization was transformed to sand—

everything turning radioactive,

even...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Feb 24th, 2017

Early signs of spring:

pale tracks of wandering birds

melted to liquid wonder;

aconite sings its lonely solo

song by a red shed;

a waxing increment

of two minutes a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 21st, 2017

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....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 14th, 2017

Snow melting off roof,

that slow joyous drip

of icicles melting 

on Valentine’s Day

when lovers celebrate reunion

as snow and light unite

to produce the liquid symbol

of love’s...

(on which we stand)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 12th, 2017

On Valentine’s Day we kidnap,

cuff illegal bad daddies

(whose wives are on food stamps)

who work assembly line nightshifts,

and take them away from

wives, sons, and daughters.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 8th, 2017

Ticking-and-tocking in the pendulum

Of historical turnings and tumult

What enfant terrible hosts elbow room

For aggrandizement, bluster, and insult?

Veracity is what he says it is.

Finance becomes final...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 30th, 2017

Walls: an historical meditation

Everybody loves a wall.

Walls can last a long time.

Look at the Great Wall of China—

it’s great to take photos from it.

Walls are...

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