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Poetry

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain generalists

who attempt eagle-like aerial maps

portraying the plight of humanity.

 

For a poet, so much is metaphor—

the basis of all languages we speak.

The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:

aura red glow on tree bark at sunset

or the patter of rain on splattered roof

makes all the difference to scribbled lines,

which is what a poet most dreams about.


Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray designer suit

Hugs your supple frame.

The wonderment enthralls me.

Are you a tap dancer?

Are you a celebrity?

Main Stem? On Broadway?

MY view of you from the bus window

Doesn’t answer my questions,

But I loooooooooove that purple hat!


When whitecaps wave with ardent excitement

and fierce wind topples umbrellas like kite

flying surf side while waves pound sand—

birds screeching with ambiguous delight

and tykes digging desultory holes in sand,

clouds remain sailing heroes of the day

scudding to their global destiny

as ambassadors of climatic play.

 

Those unfettered clouds have no small regrets

inhabiting those blue celestial spheres

that some humans daydream upon absurdly

in moments of narcistic reverie.

The cawing of a seagull on bleached beach

is older than mankind’s ambitious reach.


by Bill Keller in Poetry
Tue May 7th, 2019

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,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Apr 30th, 2019

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 22nd, 2019

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Apr 4th, 2019

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Mar 27th, 2019

Sometimes I would walk down

Riverside Drive by Ulysses Grant’s Tomb,

stopping at Barnes & Noble

on Broadway and 82nd Street

to use their clean restroom.

 

Last year I...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Mar 19th, 2019

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 8th, 2019

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...

by Bill Keller in Poetry
Fri Mar 1st, 2019

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

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm,...

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