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Poetry

When burrrring back of Old Man Winter breaks

like resounding crack of ice on white lake

and winds grow slow-mild like fervent whispers

in cool ear of close friend, then bold heralds

of Spring appear: ambassadorial

birds of plumage, rejoicing peeper frogs,

hover flies, bumble bees, prancing squirrels,

motley congregation of lady bugs,

plus those unlikely transient midges

that flock in your face like sward memories

of foliage you skipped through barefoot with

wonder on the trembling grasses of laud

mere years after your incredible birth,

one falls in love with this blue, blooming earth. 

 


When I dwelt outside of time

spear-shaped leaves of grass

and the waving flags of maple trees

were a green beyond words

before I had many words

as the sun glowed with such fire

I felt I might melt

like an ice cube on a plate,

yet at night in pitch dark

that summer intoxication of flowers

left me in near-paralytic swoon.

 

In spring I could dance in shade

barefoot under an apple tree

where robins often nested,

watching delicate blue eggs hatch,

admiring adolescent, awkward

first attempts to fly,

mourning for the broken wing

I had artfully mended

and the bird’s death

at the beak of its mother

because I had repaired the bird

with a small splint.

 

In that clumsy comedy

of erratic swoops and falls,

so ardently diligent,

there was more delight

in birds learning to fly

than the pretend excitement

paraded on television,

or even adult conversation

about politics and bomb shelters

that I found so pedestrian,

as I kept musing, wondering,

about birds and geese flying

with rough spontaneous freedom

not accessible to those

who didn’t have the wings

of metaphors that dazzle.

 


It's white then black,
Churns, turns slack;
Salt and fresh
Part just to mesh;

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm, slow cold,
Soft green, sharp gold,

Joyful then glum,
Tells all, keeps mum – 

The river
Can't escape the sea,
So it loves
Uncertainty.


Ringing in Spring

with burst of bright harmony,

shivering in dissonant sleet.


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


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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 25th, 2017

Salesmen repeat. Reification

produces assurance and consumption,

yet artists loathe repetition,

preferring expostulation, objection,

and often, if bored, even

varied levels of flippant comparison

that evolve their own version

of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 18th, 2017

In the beginning was the word,

but when was the sentence?

The world may be 50 million years old

as even baboons have the word,

yet when was grammar invented?...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Jan 14th, 2017

Sleet and slush are fine manifestations

of silvered water—aqueous droplets

falling from high like mana for rivers,

hand-dug wells, reservoirs, and mountain streams.

The squishy, peculiar consistency

of sleet or...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Dec 29th, 2016

Cinema, religion, and poetry

are all a form of fiction like novels,

painter's portraits, music, philosophy.

Well-written history alone travels

with a solid factual foundation:

collected, analyzed, categorized.

Yet historical interpretation...

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