Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

We spoke of you today, James Stuart Dunne,

Surgeon of the trenches. The swallows rose

And dived across the skies in tumult fun

In practice for their pyramids. Their great-

Great Ancestors had known you round Clonkeen

Preparing for your Internship. Your dream,

Soon nightmare broken, in the savage scream

Of salvage amputation. You set sail

Today, in August, Nineteen and fourteen;

The swallows looked the same, but saw the change

Through smoke, and noise and turmoil, and despair

Where broken men bewildered, found your care.

By rampart breach a Surgeon’s skill was known,

Where brave men wept for home, and home disowned.


One of a writer’s faults remains worship

of the bog-soggy ground on which he walks.

That ground is words and his holy idol

remains the dictionary on a shelf.

To the letter he wishes to be true,

yet a poet who wants to make things new

will forge fresh likenesses in the mirror

of words like a child making faces

that impishly, archaically appear

to resemble the facial expressions

of monkeys playing games with each other:

winking, grinning, mocking, and gesturing.

Unless the Monkey in the poet laughs,

Words will never become epigraph.


First frost of autumn on petals and leaves.

Summer is already a memory

lost in the cold fog of cloudy morning.

Time to pick apples, quince, say fond farewell

to desperate insects flitting about.

The sky will soon be a river of snow

And my mind will be as frozen as ice.

Boiling kettle will now be my best friend.

 

My grandson is more accepting of change,

which may say something about my own age.

It’s time once more to become a bookworm,

find warmth in the wisdom of other men.

Did I say wisdom? Does wisdom still play

a role in life on a cold winter’s day?


I read in newspapers that someone has died.

Sudden death seems to happen every day,

yet few people appear aware of this

as tv sit-coms and sporting events

celebrate victories or fantasies,

while thousands die each day in global war.

And just what is it that we are here for?

 

Some say we’re merely here to gobble food,

do laundry, cut grass, play video games,

or do jobs that robots ask us to do.

Few possess satisfactory answers.

As for me, I’m skipping out to sunlight

to watch blue passing clouds, ask butterflies

if they know why humans are so obtuse.


Sleep is the thinker’s laboratory

where people chat and mostly agree

on what is to be done in this frail world.

Conversation may be enigmatic,

but everyone speaks with shy eloquence.

Dreamworld rarely follows chronology

as one remains spectator to one’s self

acting in imaginary pageant.

 

No rules crimp the script of Dreamworld—

just about anything can happen there.

Dreamworld escape can be a pleasant place

where problems are solved to satisfaction.

Yet waking to sunlight with dew on lawn,

nightmarish confusion trumpets its horn.  


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 10th, 2019

Sitting by my iron woodstove in winter

with pipes clanking as they warm,

I ponder how fire has played

a pivotal role in forming humankind.

 

With fire we could...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jul 5th, 2019

As for composing poems, I pen my part

whether early with dawn birdsong singing

or midnight wine accompanying the art

of bringing common sense to my scribbling

lyrics, sonnets, odd...

for Walter and Liz
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 17th, 2019

May morning mist, Smithfield Valley,

highlights blue, yellow pansy

blooming as bees hover softly

with air of light comedy

while brindled cows munch quietly,

clouds hovering hillside lightly

with dew-water...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jun 11th, 2019

How pleasant, refreshing to see

our tinpot dictator ranting

at justice, common sense. Silly

Europeans were expecting

 

polite, rational behavior,

but Don displayed ability

to lie, appear superior

with...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jun 4th, 2019

The damp joylessness of first Spring is here

with drooping snowdrops and constant showers

riddling muddy puddles in languages

that can only be translated by ear.

Gray geese bicker about...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 28th, 2019

To pierce the opaque world of corrupt lies

one needs Private Spectacles of Resonance

which bestows vision to see through dim cant

clothed in comic Harlequin arraignment.

Cruelty surrounds us...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 21st, 2019

So many things that I once learned as a child

are either obsolete or downright wrong:

that mushrooms, celery have no nutrition,

that coffee and chocolate are quite bad.

Jupiter...

by jean p. tate in Poetry
Tue May 14th, 2019

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...

Pages