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Poetry

He picked grape hyacinth

and brought it to me,

asking what it was.

 

He asks what bird

makes that peculiar call.

Woodpeckers fascinate him.

At the age of three

all the world is wonder….

 

While I caution him

not to eat the tiny hyacinth,

I’m thinking that purple pyramid

looks good enough to eat.

 

The problem with adults

is that they have shed

the cloak of wonder

that breathes at their feet—

their heads are too high

from verdant earth.


Early to rise

in greeny surprise

 

Bright aconite

at early dawn light

 

Glimpse of robin wing

surging hope of spring

 

Grass going green

in gold-brown dream

 

Banish all mortal fear

with springy time near

 

Insects appear

fly in your ear

 

Daffodils near bloom

to banish gloom

 

Woodshed door

needed no more

 

Geese honking loud

low wet blue cloud

 

Pleasant to tread

soft squishy mud

 

Ready the plough

as kittens meow


Clustered daffodils swaying on green hill

evoke fervent desire in my will

to embrace vivid dreams of Spring—

accomplish this or that ambitious thing!

Shrugging off winter’s icy stagnation,

burdened with vacant imagination,

I grow more relaxed with lengthening day

as I glimpse the glory of mild May.

 

I say this to all my friends at table:

daffodils frolicking in gentle breeze

present an emblem of honest friendship,

an inspiring ideal for those able

to see God in nature and men’s eyes,

as much as He appears in breast or lip.


Just a note

to remind everyone

that you may

be reborn

if you visit

a waterfall

in springtime:

 

breathe in

ionized air

as your eye

roves over

water rushing

to a horizon

you have yet

to enter.


Palms lay strewn before me.

I knew that was a vanity

I would someday pay

for, yet I did not see

that it would eventually be

such an immense agony.

 

The roar of the raucous crowd

meant nothing to me

as long as friends stood by me.

Shouts of “Hosanna” rang loud,

so I knew Herod heard me.

 

What I did not foresee

was that Pontius Pilate

would take such an interest in me;

he was jealous, full of hate.

In the end Herod held my fate,

while my friends abandoned me.

 

I had worked such wonders,

I thought my friends would stand by me.

Yet the might of the Roman army

can pierce the lungs of the Father’s defenders


for Dr. Hampson Sisler
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 7th, 2017

Among the delicate, delightful

creatures in the musical menagerie,

the most alarming, even frightening

animal to a child of two or three

is the organ, Behemoth of the Zoo.

 ...

for Matt Finley
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 31st, 2017

A trumpet rings like a new breath of life:

the mind clears away all obsolete dross.

Trumpet re-arranges synapses.

Two feet feel as if they carry no weight—

one is...

for Robert Martin
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 24th, 2017

The cello resonates like a garden.

Notes linger like strong flower-aromas.

Vegetation is dense, dark green, blue-bright.

Between strokes and chords sunlight breaks cloud-line.

The cello towers like an immense...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 17th, 2017

I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what...

for Norman Baker
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 10th, 2017

Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo...

for Stephen Kaye
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 3rd, 2017

The piano is a pleasant monster.

It can take your hand for a walk in woods,

portray a bouquet of flowers on table,

deconstruct the contours of your aura,

transform...

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
Tue Sep 26th, 2017

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...

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