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Poetry

Blessed is the afternoon ambiance

when raindrops tickle your eyelids

as your feet tread between puddles

and your hat drips like a leaky faucet.

 

Blessed is the afternoon light

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

 

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.

 


The impossibility of being me

is that I keep changing my mind

about what it is to be me

as I’m fretting about wasting time

 

on a drab slate morning

when clouds want to rain,

yet hold back from raining,

as if release itself were a pain

 

rather than an act of creation

that showers earth and mind

with blue flowers of fruition

blooming well-ahead of time

 

in the rattling narrative

of ordinary dishes and pans.

Husbandry I daily give,

despite any creative plans.


Hurrah, we are going to War in Space

to fight aliens on distant planets:

Klingons, Dark Side Plutonians, whoever

exits on interplanetary spoil,

since we own every atom in the world

and Mister T has given his fiat

in the same way the Creator gave us

the universe to be the ruler of,

just as we men rule women and peons

who labor in our vineyards with visas

approved by the highest algorithms

serving our super computer frames.

ALL space aliens will be deported

To VANA PENAL PLANETS LTD.


The Kalahari Desert is far from Millbrook, far from Dutchess County, NY,

but not as far as you might think. The canons governing our paintings

are thin, thin and dry. Whose paintings are gaudy? Certainly not ours!

 

Gaudy is not even askable, John. We joylessly assimilate the sun,

the many hundreds of kilometers of super-arid gravel plains and dunes,

while other painters in Namibia paint karoo ecoregions...green succulents,

 

monkey beetles, and melittid bees, and the densely foggy shoreline

where the Atlantic's cold waters meet Africa's hot climate. Other painters

paint with violet, orange, yellow, green; their tribal villages have names.

 

Other painters hint at shafts of sapphire, the weightlessness of deep water

beyond the shore; but not us, John. No, we sketch in black pencil

and charcoal in recycled notebooks...two seriously sunburnt imbeciles.

 

Sure, we dream of whalesongs. Sure, we dream of rainforest bird calls.

Doesn't everybody? But we only dream, don't we?

And now one of us has died -- suddenly died -- and I am troubled more

 

by insomnia than usual; I act on the belief I need to paint, need to live,

living by no less, no more, than by stubbornness. What I need to do

is stretch out, and discharge myself of myself; look for green from afar.


My grandfather Joe grew tomatoes

nearly the size of melons.

I recall vividly at four

sneaking out of his house

on a warm  July Sunday morning

into a labyrinth of dewy entanglement.

 

The rebuke for picking a tomato

was disappointing. I was

banished from the dense garden

where trellises hefted peas,

beans, and grapes up to the roofline

of the shanty single car garage.

 

Joe was patient, methodical,

virtues that did not grow in me,

as I wished to grow skyward

with a different strain of seed

that found harvest in allegory,

metaphor, and entangled poetry.


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

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 8th, 2018

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 1st, 2018

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;...

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

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...

for Pascal Nadon
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 19th, 2017

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 12th, 2017

Just as each snowflake is original,

different, unique, so each Christmas day

should be likewise: in gifts, spirit, and thought,

even if favorite hymns, songs, repeat.

It is slight difference...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 5th, 2017

Today I’m renovating my study,

solarizing my words and diction,

solarizing my philosophic outlook,

solarizing my mood and behavior.

 

I am a sunnier person

and the proof of it...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 28th, 2017

Viola, soul of the string orchestra,

less bright in tone than that star violin

who hogs both spotlight and show-off solos,

yet like the piano, it is useful

for composing:...

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