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Poetry

The chirp of phoebe wakes me at daybreak

while green grasshopper greets me at breakfast.

A woodpecker tattoos his pointy beak

into a black birch that will not long last

the rigor of harsh winter seasonal weather.

With autumn approaching, I’ll need to cut

a blizzard of logs, stack them up together,

check that the house stands snug, tidy, and shut

against whatever winter may offer

as landscape suffers inclement weather.

 

Television not Nature rules the day;

magazines boast how trendy models look

as bankers cheer the rise of Wall Street stock.

We are but dust on a planet of clay.


President DT loves all the Dreamers,

but Compassion dictates that they must go.

They can all be packed in train containers,

run en masse over the Rio Bravo,

or put in ventilated containers

shipped to the gold shore of Brazil's Rio,

dumped on the beach to be shell foragers,

or grow sugarcane  in Curacao.

 

Removing Dreamers will cause Recession,

so we will need to remove some others.

Maybe we need an ethnic lottery?

Would that not be an act of Compassion?

Yet first we must eliminate taxes

as we consolidate our anarchy.

 


When Reason died at the age of twenty,

replaced as it was by Romance of sex

as skin became the only certainty

while I stroked the beloved’s neck,

the world was a red rush of confusion.

When Will at thirty succeeded romance

as discipline became a burning sun,

Work fired a bright, burnished, whirling dance.

 

Yet when Will and Romance combined

at fifty to forge a great synthesis

with the emergence of exquisite skill,

life appeared no longer obtusely blind

to the space between our parenthesis

in the song we so casually distill. 


“Trump's Afghanistan strategy a breath of fresh air” @thehill.com

 

We are “fully committed” to our war

in far-off, mountainous Afghanistan.

Despite no over-all plan for the war,

victory is nearly a certainty,

perhaps even by twenty twenty-nine

with our no more “Mr. Nice Guy” policy,

which means flash night raids on suspected men

as well as their many wives and children.

 

Re-stocking Guantanamo for torture—

and further research on advanced torture—

will insure our global supremacy

and the triumph of our economy.

This also means we can’t afford health care,

but this policy shows we really care.


If you were eyeing the partial eclipse,

I saw it, too, here with slight hazy sky,

yet a larger eclipse was in my heart,

roiled by bleak, corrupt, social decay,

and dire lack of hope in our politique

where bigotry became our hill beacon.

Yet that is a nightmare Christians reject

by tossing flowers at tanks and rifles.

 

Love music is a hug, embrace of two

or more against the Tower of Babel

where words are weapons, instead of comfort

toward a future bound only by love

and valorous virtues of true friendship.

As for hate, I’m not encouraging it.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 5th, 2017

Prizing doubt

they certainly

do it well,

philosophers

gazing at the mind

 

amid encrusted sediment

of sandstone fossils,

crunching numbers

few intellects

can comprehend...

 

and then there are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 29th, 2017

If words could resurrect the dead,

we would speak those words today.

If war was a solution to problems,

we would have no problems today.

If the past were not...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 23rd, 2017

As violinist

to violin

or flautist

to flute,

 

the poet

wed to Muse

must choose

notes inspired

by lunar music

unwritten

except

to inner ear

& its mystic

exaltation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 15th, 2017

At Notre Dame one can sit in wooden pew

to hear an organist play Vidor or Saint-Saens;

you can tour the Vatican to see ceiling murals

painted by the marvelous...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 9th, 2017

Feel the inner green landscape

of gentle falling rain

as it coats black street

with fresh patina

communicating peace

to pulse of blood running in brain,

much like willowing wind...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 3rd, 2017

Few rise before sunrise

for the symphony of bird song.

Fewer can identify that song,

which humans have heard

ever since they were human,

and even before that.

 

Music...

for Bob and Kathleen
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 1st, 2017

That blue-black cloud you thought

was laboring on the indifferent horizon

then sailing above your head in a blink

now hovers gently like a mist in your lungs

 

and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Apr 20th, 2017

Buttercups bursting in greeny meadow,

oriole chattering in oak above,

geese squawking and euphorbia prolix

under golden orb setting in the west,

as midges celebrate their most brief lives.

Amid...

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