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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
Wed Dec 5th, 2018

The Gospel of Gauguin hung in the air:

all emptied their pockets or ran a tab

while philosophers sipped their black coffee

as Jukebox blared “At the Dock of the...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Nov 28th, 2018

Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,

wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,

huffing and puffing like a berserker,

ferreting out a splinter from finger,

waiting for the first flakes...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 20th, 2018

When young I had an insane lust for books:

novels, history, deep philosophy,

and especially noted poetry.

My bookshelves bend with grave biographies,

yet I cherish autobiographies

that I cannot...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 13th, 2018

When rain pelts, pours incessantly for days,

streets swell with splashing puddles, running streams.

A temptation to sleep-away the day

afflicts a blue, pampered, preening psyche.

 

Under microscope-lens water...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 6th, 2018

The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 30th, 2018

"Whoever becomes the leader in [artificial intelligence]

will become the ruler of the world" --Vladimir Putin

 

It’s coming very soon,

all around you quite a bit.

We’re now about...

for Douglas
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 23rd, 2018

Everything around us is mystery:

atoms in a raindrop, sudden thunder,

chemical composition of a tree,

trillions of stars whirling, bloom of flower,

that finger you use to stir your...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 16th, 2018

When brown-red leaves dance in autumn wind

and the cries of crickets no longer sing,

heart grows sterner, appetite increases,

wanton thoughts rage before the coming freeze.

Heavy rain warns...

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