Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

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


It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue, passing cloud.

 

Wind huffed mightily

as I wanted to say something

startling or exciting, yet the wind

held the stage as I offered outstretched

my empty palms

to pay homage to the seasonal mix.

 

Anticipation of spring

can be marvelously maddening,

and a quick glance about the disordered garden

conjures up images of hard work,

.

Digging remains more satisfying

than the idle frustrations of winter.

 

Even a four-year-old yearns to build,

with fertile imagination,

with hands on wood or stone.


It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue, passing cloud.

 

Wind huffed mightily

as I wanted to say something

startling or exciting, yet the wind

held the stage as I offered outstretched

my empty palms

to pay homage to the seasonal mix.

 

Anticipation of spring

can be marvelously maddening,

and a quick glance about the disordered garden

conjures up images of hard work,

.

Digging remains more satisfying

than the idle frustrations of winter.

 

Even a four-year-old yearns to build,

with fertile imagination,

with hands on wood or stone.


If music be the alphabet of love,

play on through the hours and days of life,

enriching each moment with a wisdom

unspoken in all the earth’s sacred writ

and prized by the world’s varied religions

under red-setting skies around the globe.

For if music falls on our ears as we walk,

the earth itself would be free of hatred

and people would greet each other freely

with open embrace, hearty handshakes,

and words of such enthusiastic joy

that war would be banished and we would love

each other and the earth we tread upon.

We would speak the language of dawn’s bright song. 


Sleet nestling on stone walls.

Sleet whips gray air,

crackles window pane,

forms footing uncertain;

stoic eyelids blinking.

 

Sleet inhabits a netherworld

harsh to navigate:

sleet sliding down your neck

melts with smearing pinch.

Sleet is like a tax form—

ugly, uncomfortable to look at.

 

Sleet: crystal, wingèd curse;

enemy of commerce;

tombstones crusty, perverse;

shifting life in reverse;

disdained with scowling verse.

 

A marvel of nature:

wondrous lament

for rain or snow

which death does not know.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Dec 20th, 2015

Can there be Christmas without reindeer songs?

What about holly hovering above?

Flashing neon lights blinking at midnight?

Movies about Santa's green elves at work?

A well-done

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Dec 11th, 2015

Here’s my Christmas wish to God Almighty:

A ten percent raise in income, please;

A garage to put old tools and boots in;

A cat that doesn’t rake the spine...

Pages