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Poetry

Puddles stipple-drilled, dandelions closed,

cherry bush waving their frail pink-white blooms,

that satisfying softness under foot,

aural breeze on ears, mallards swim in pond,

full planting moon rising over east hills

as pond peppers sing mezzo-soprano

until the first warming rays of sunlight

bathe hill and valley, stream and running rill

while chickadees chirp and woodpeckers drum

intense tattoo in cerulean blue.

And what about that evening rainbow

that arcs across gray sky in gentle mist?

Then I wiggle my toes in blissful joy,

walking with renewed cordiality!


I am an oak tree,

yet few will listen to me.

Back in the old days,

men knew my dignified ways,

treating me with love

as their eyes gazed up above,

knowing there’s beauty

in me and clouds poignantly

passing overhead

like cottony feather-bed

where their eyes would rest

amid midst of quiet quest

to discover self

not as thing-in-itself,

but as part of whole

landscape of a divine soul

linked to greater role

of being in love with all.


Sometimes I would walk down

Riverside Drive by Ulysses Grant’s Tomb,

stopping at Barnes & Noble

on Broadway and 82nd Street

to use their clean restroom.

 

Last year I browsed through Poetry,

feeling depressed at about 800 volumes.

I had read a few of the poets:

Dante, Homer, Pushkin, and Frost,

yet there were many new scribblers

I did not know, spending an hour

perusing unalleviated, drab nonsense.

 

I stopped by again a year later

with faint memories of melted snow

filling mental corners of my cerebellum

like fuzzy, gray, dust bunnies.

The cold metal chairs were welcome.

 

When I checked the Poetry Section,

the roster of players was reduced to seventeen.

Homer’s Odyssey was still there

and a collection of Bukowski’s blathering boasts.

The other fifteen were recent unknowns.

 

I wanted to ask the Ever-living Muse

if Homer will be there next year,

but the Muse was comatose bored.

She pointed out a local bar

where if I had the money,

 I might discover what it’s like

 to be lively words without a house,

as often happened to wandering Odysseus.

 

Ah, the grand futility of poetry

in times of intense tragedy

must revert to irreverent comedy!


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.

 


by Loredana Ingenito in Poetry
Fri Mar 18th, 2016
What are they there for
What’s their purpose
Elevated there in the galaxy, looking beautiful
All those planets
No life on them
I am perplexed by the things that don’t...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Mar 5th, 2016

Sub-zero weather, bluebird on bent bough,

snow crunching nearly up to knobby knees--

memory of fire flickering flame

in my mind like long-lost childhood dreams.

Do bluebirds dream of sky...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Feb 15th, 2016

Writing names in snow with my grandson,

we celebrate our temporality

before wind, wandering eyes, history,

which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt

or roadside plough-sludge in the valley.

When children...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 7th, 2016

Striped brown chipmunk scrabbled into food pantry—

Bully cat Willie chased him through the door.

Once the thing settled amid canned bottles

Of pickles, jams and jellies, wee tin cans,...

by Rennie McQuilkin in Poetry
Tue Jan 26th, 2016

The Digging

 

It's that time of year,
the hedgerows hung with bittersweet.
Potato time.

How early the freeze, I'd say
if we were speaking. We're

...
by Jonathan Wells in Poetry
Fri Jan 22nd, 2016

His sandals were found

pointing south from the cave

next to his drinking cup. The vines

he’d staked tailed into the ravine

where the river was sinewy

over the rocks....

by Michaela Coplen in Poetry
Fri Jan 15th, 2016

where they were basically giving away food for free.

Of course that’s why we went there—each of us empty-bellied

and wanting warmth, the blood rising to blush

on our wind-chapped cheeks. The butternut squash soup...

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

...

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