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Poetry

The bass provides musical foundation

for string and winds, prime springboard for rhythm

that propels the vector of instruments

to follow, build, dance with elegance.

Without good bass other players are lost.

 

The bass player is an unsung hero

who shoulders the base of a pyramid,

allowing others to sing unfettered.

A bass player is the soul of a band,

the psychologist of an orchestra.

 

Cool bass has unexpected energy,

dynamism beyond explanation,

the kernelled conundrum in a question.

Is not bass always asking questions?

Is it not asking you to dance for joy?

 

And does it not ask you sometimes to weep?

Bass can be a sad cave-sound resounding….

Don’t we all blink twice at a bass player

lugging his instrument at an airport?

Without bass our intellect cannot fly…. 


Is this really me making a snowball?

Or is it some routine childhood relic?

Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:

compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,

so that one can launch a circle to air,

or feel its splattering impact on cheek.

We toss snowballs like cartoon characters,

yet cold frost weighing on our nose is real.

 

The heated life indoors appears more real.

The woodstove becomes a philosopher,

wise with dryness, delicious warmth of air.

Impatient toes can’t get enough of stove.

An old man can’t get enough of childhood;

a child can’t get enough of the word would.

 


That man’s a silly fellow in the sky

who only comes to me when he’s drunk.

He can never answer the question why,

or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;

he glares at me so impersonally

that I think he’s either profound or dumb….

 

His distant far air of formality

contains no music, not even a hum

of disagreement, something I prefer

to stimulate modest conversation

about the universe of conjecture,

which often concludes with drear dejection.

 

Yet I raise my wee glass to Mister Moon,

hoping that I might see him once more soon.


Cold moon riding high, bright over small hill,

snow crunching underfoot , an owl hooting

like a bearer of benevolent will

amid frozen shadows, tree twigs groping

like frozen fingers at pitch-black darkness.

Yet morning sunlight glinting on crystals

magnifies the rays with blinding glitter,

while frost makes the touch of metal bitter

on trash can covers, railings without glove,

as flint-shredded snow swirls from roof above.

The concept of zero evaporates

like breath dispelled in air or morning mists.

There’s a harsh, bleak beauty in frightful cold

which creates wry humor: caustic, brief, droll.


When a superior flutist performs,

I feel the upper regions of my brain

to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe

before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar

of a secluded, pristine waterfall.

 

The flute unspools a cool ribbon of sound.

It wipes lines from the worried forehead;

it allows one to forget the body

and all the baggage of its sad defects.

The flute levitates all ten toes to speak.

 

Whether transverse or fipple recorder,

the bone flute is fifty-thousand years old;

the first sophisticated instrument,

it was the cerebral glory of Greece,

dazzling court jewel of French Enlightenment.

 

The flautist who put my breath on pause was

Jean-Pierre Rampal at Carnegie Hall,

giant of circular breathing technique,

who could make the brain tremble in delight.

The trilling flute is a soothing healer.

 

The flute conjures bright bucolic landscape

of hills, rocks, dim caves, streams, and purling rills.

Flute is autochthonous, archetypal,

plaything of a three-year-old child’s birthday.

The healing flute is the child of wonder. 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 27th, 2017

When Ray Moore takes the floor,

I will need to install a seat belt

on my frumpy television couch

as I cradle a bottle of whiskey

while I peruse a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
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You were the sweet sweat machine,

even at evening in August

when waning sun was orange orb

lingering in glory on the horizon.

 

Pushing the mower

at the age...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
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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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
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I’m a wobbly monkey on Mondays,

hanging from the iron bar

with a forced, sardonic grin

as I swing in my cage,

plodding through the motions

of what monkey work...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
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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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
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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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
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“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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 22nd, 2017

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,...

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