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Poetry

The Gospel of Gauguin hung in the air:

all emptied their pockets or ran a tab

while philosophers sipped their black coffee

as Jukebox blared “At the Dock of the Bay”

among thick wreaths of smoke rising from booths.

There was nothing that could not be discussed.

Professors lurked, drank with their mistresses

in quiet platitudes of derangement;

drugs were sold, bets were placed of baseball games;

women prowled to pick up, exploit a man.

The gleaming bar—shaped, glorious horseshoe—

spoke a hundred tongues of hang-over peak

as novels were dreamed, rather than written.

Here was half a poet’s education.

 


Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,

wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,

huffing and puffing like a berserker,

ferreting out a splinter from finger,

waiting for the first flakes of brute winter

with a shot-glass of gleaming malt whiskey,

one may ponder loss, gain, futility

as glass grows empty as philosophy.

 

Life seems like a preposterous pageant

of wind-blown snowflakes scattering blind cant—

without much effect—in weather frozen,

indifferent, melancholy, wooden.

Yet a glimmer in mirthful memory

boasts an old, happy, larking legacy!


When young I had an insane lust for books:

novels, history, deep philosophy,

and especially noted poetry.

My bookshelves bend with grave biographies,

yet I cherish autobiographies

that I cannot part with until I die.

I have little leisure to read these books,

and now I favor music above all—

there’s more poetry in music than words,

more eloquence, even more emotion.

 

And yet, I remain committed to words,

whether from mere habit or compulsion,

for words are more primary in our lives.

Words abide as the basis of action.

Without words we are not human beings—

we are blind monkeys stuck in a forest...


When rain pelts, pours incessantly for days,

streets swell with splashing puddles, running streams.

A temptation to sleep-away the day

afflicts a blue, pampered, preening psyche.

 

Under microscope-lens water reveals

fifty million morphing, dancing patterns;

they descend about our ears like droll tears,

each drop containing myriad marvels.

 

These window drummers whisper history

of slow molecular evolution

about which we are blindly ignorant,

yet we imbibe some of that legacy

at faucet, or in the drenched sensation

of showering in lucent refreshment.


The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring vehicles,

or children plagued by traumatic nightmare,

or one’s own insomniac, riddle dreams,

which may inspire momentary scare.

 

Still silence in the night is a pleasure

to be savored like a cheerful bouquet

of flowers you have picked from your garden.

Silence itself is a form of leisure

like gazing fondly at the Milky Way

or contemplating your childhood again.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Oct 26th, 2016

Cricket in my palm

Not uttering sound

 

Cloud above my head

Shape of slow ship

 

Chewing stalk of grass

Wind waving maple tree

 

Sad September flowers

Yellow-jackets...

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....

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