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Poetry

Thunder quakes its bluff—

or so I hope and purposely laugh—

as cats skittle under the couch

and children shiver with blear eyes,

puzzlement at august mystery

while lightning flashes

its zigzagging sword

and trees sway, tremble.

 

My laughter is to shock

children out of shock,

bestow confidence

of authorial fatherhood

that laughs at fate,

even when laughter is too late.


Touching the sky

with feet upraised

children swing

to the music

in their arms

 

as their heads

float free

of the earth

and any knowledge

of the difficulties

that await them

 

while morels whisper quietly

amid leaves and grass

as they grip invisible soil

beneath the visible sward.

 


As a poet writes with pen to paper,

the poet enters a peculiar space

where time has lost its common dimensions

without a hint of romantic vista

and the prospect at hand is about words

dancing like blown seeds, airborne, descending

to the fertile humus of rhythmic line

where burnished metaphor enlightens mind.


He picked grape hyacinth

and brought it to me,

asking what it was.

 

He asks what bird

makes that peculiar call.

Woodpeckers fascinate him.

At the age of three

all the world is wonder….

 

While I caution him

not to eat the tiny hyacinth,

I’m thinking that purple pyramid

looks good enough to eat.

 

The problem with adults

is that they have shed

the cloak of wonder

that breathes at their feet—

their heads are too high

from verdant earth.


Early to rise

in greeny surprise

 

Bright aconite

at early dawn light

 

Glimpse of robin wing

surging hope of spring

 

Grass going green

in gold-brown dream

 

Banish all mortal fear

with springy time near

 

Insects appear

fly in your ear

 

Daffodils near bloom

to banish gloom

 

Woodshed door

needed no more

 

Geese honking loud

low wet blue cloud

 

Pleasant to tread

soft squishy mud

 

Ready the plough

as kittens meow


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Apr 17th, 2016

When earth shakes like a rattle in child’s hand,

our knees absorb the fury of earthquake.

Run out to street, the open air saves!

When hillsides of stone fall, run...

by Miloš Djurdjević in Poetry
Tue Apr 12th, 2016

no one dies here they are still standing

on the street their hollow knees limp

arms they never leave move nowhere

as if halted one step back is their

 ...

by Marcelo Quevedo, translated by Liz McNicoll in Poetry
Fri Apr 8th, 2016

When sunlight beams off balconies

and cumulous clouds barely move

while grass sleeps in green contentment,

I pretend to stroll in blue air

along a gurgling embankment

with a froth...

by Loredana Ingenito in Poetry
Fri Mar 18th, 2016
What are they there for
What’s their purpose
Elevated there in the galaxy, looking beautiful
All those planets
No life on them
I am perplexed by the things that don’t...
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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Feb 15th, 2016

Writing names in snow with my grandson,

we celebrate our temporality

before wind, wandering eyes, history,

which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt

or roadside plough-sludge in the valley.

When children...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 7th, 2016

Striped brown chipmunk scrabbled into food pantry—

Bully cat Willie chased him through the door.

Once the thing settled amid canned bottles

Of pickles, jams and jellies, wee tin cans,...

by Rennie McQuilkin in Poetry
Tue Jan 26th, 2016

The Digging

 

It's that time of year,
the hedgerows hung with bittersweet.
Potato time.

How early the freeze, I'd say
if we were speaking. We're

...

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