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Poetry

Propelled by torrents onto the lawn

    her fragile body wracked by rain

 

what looked like a throbbing leaf or grounded sparrow

   turned out to be the largest moth I’d ever seen

 

Watery drops rolled off her cinnamon wings like mercury balls

  when fully dry, they opened to the span of an octave

 

each wing had what looked like eye spots

   each circle, wide with surprise

  

as if drawn in pastel, the orbital rims goldenrod,

   yellow and chicory blue;

 

   each cellophane-like center,

the sclera, clear all the way through

 

but there was an inch-long gash in one wing

   which complicated things.

 

She rested indoors in the shadow of a paper bag,

    eventually to walk out from under, flapping;

 

antennae, twitched full of life,

   but she could not lift off 

 

could not propel herself upward

   and as she tried, the rip augmented


I passed an orchard twice a day.

Never stopped, till I saw the way

The orchard springs to life: slender, small,

Tender greens with pink-milk petals.

 

But up close, they looked more stumps than trees—

With sawed-off arms and tortured knees—

Like headless, scarred, and stymied men.

I wondered how they drew me in.

 

Had I not seen the crippling care,

Not understood I’d find more there

Than simple, pleasing, youthful joy—

The things that bend and we bend for?

 

I thought, let's not stand in rows,

Not let Them choose where the root goes,

Never let us be cut or become mute,

Not flower only for the fruit.

 

Let's grow with wild abandon, truly,

Just as us—to say how far.

Let's be ruthless and unruly,

Exactly who we think we are!


Glowing, winking embers at poker-point

become swarming tea leaves in your cup;

cast of I-Ching demythologized

by devout, mindful meditation.

 

Daily horoscope lifts aspiration,

a prayer to a saint accomplishes same;

Jack of Diamonds crooning to Queen of Spades,

replacing entrail of sacrificed bird.

 

Astrological headgear discovers

Archer, Ram, Lion, the Twins and Maiden—

perhaps even a fate you would prefer

in an imagined reincarnation.

 

From Egypt, Italy, to Las Vegas,

the turn of a card determined your luck;

then eighteenth century cartomancy

offered occult, improvised prophecy. 

 

That chattering blue telephone psychic

will tell you that you are halfway there

to what you dream in early twilght

as your bill becomes astronomical.

 

Rolling dice offers another fate

with better odds than roulette,

as the game of chance escalates

down the hoof-pounding stretch.

 

That old magic of childhood wonder

when gazing at blinking, isolate stars,

or caught astonished in clap of thunder—

was it all chance—or imagined sighs?


Puddles stipple-drilled, dandelions closed,

cherry bush waving frail pink-and-white blooms,

that satisfying softness under foot,

aural breeze on ears, mallards swim in pond,

full planting moon rising over east hills

as pond peepers sing mezzo-soprano

until the first warming rays of sunlight

bathe hill and valley, stream and running rill

while chickadees chirp and woodpeckers drum

intense tattoo in cerulean blue.

And what about that evening rainbow

that arcs across gray sky in gentle mist?

Then I wiggle my toes in blissful joy,

walking with renewed cordiality!


I am an oak tree,

yet few will listen to me.

Back in the old days,

men knew my dignified ways,

treating me with love

as their eyes gazed up above,

knowing there’s beauty

in me and clouds poignantly

passing overhead

like cottony feather-bed

where their eyes would rest

amid midst of quiet quest

to discover self

not as thing-in-itself,

but as part of whole

landscape of a divine soul

linked to greater role

of being in love with all.


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....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Aug 18th, 2016

Idyll

 

Summer evening fragrance,

sun dipping orange

through tree matrix

in refulgent pink:

scent of lily, poppy, dahlia,

coreopsis, linum;

guttural frogs on pond,

hummingbird wings abuzz,

giggle of...

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...

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