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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 Aug 9th, 2016

Marcelo Carrion at 81

 

At eighty-one

you are the one

to whom we look

for wisdom when shook

by odd events

or absurd comments

on how we live

and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Aug 3rd, 2016

I fell in love

with my shadow

when I first noticed it

just before my second birthday

when I thought the scent of flowers

was an overwhelming intoxicant

I could...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Tue Jul 26th, 2016

Questions for the Pacific

 

Do dreams like rivulets

of love return to you,

having altered little or nothing

     but themselves? are we

 

just a nuisance

or an...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 20th, 2016

At the age of two a daisy evoked wonder worth contemplating for a minute or two.

At the age of four a lilting ball in air was a wonder that...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 13th, 2016

When Lively

Conversation stamps a dance

without set pattern

although it will set patterns

improvised in the moment:

patterns of association

and linked ideas

moving like spears of sunlight.

or...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Wed Jul 6th, 2016

Brilliant Summer

on certain days life is a sea

intermittently hushed

 

furious, unaccountable

in its repetitions it flashes

 

is a terrible blade it cuts

brutally cuts while...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 27th, 2016

Illuminations

 

While blunt words of a poet are his wings

that must soar up into the clouds and sky,

his heart often remains modestly shy

when he rummages in...

by George Quasha in Poetry
Mon Jun 20th, 2016

traveling at 90 hands free and no fear

preverbs for José Reissig on his birthday

 

A poem never asks why it says what it says.

Some live accordingly.

Our...

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