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Poetry

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

the rigor of harsh winter seasonal weather.

With autumn approaching, I’ll need to cut

a blizzard of logs, stack them up together,

check that the house stands snug, tidy, and shut

against whatever winter may offer

as landscape suffers inclement weather.

 

Television not Nature rules the day;

magazines boast how trendy models look

as bankers cheer the rise of Wall Street stock.

We are but dust on a planet of clay.


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 in ventilated containers

shipped to the gold shore of Brazil's Rio,

dumped on the beach to be shell foragers,

or grow sugarcane  in Curacao.

 

Removing Dreamers will cause Recession,

so we will need to remove some others.

Maybe we need an ethnic lottery?

Would that not be an act of Compassion?

Yet first we must eliminate taxes

as we consolidate our anarchy.

 


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 was a red rush of confusion.

When Will at thirty succeeded romance

as discipline became a burning sun,

Work fired a bright, burnished, whirling dance.

 

Yet when Will and Romance combined

at fifty to forge a great synthesis

with the emergence of exquisite skill,

life appeared no longer obtusely blind

to the space between our parenthesis

in the song we so casually distill. 


“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 nearly a certainty,

perhaps even by twenty twenty-nine

with our no more “Mr. Nice Guy” policy,

which means flash night raids on suspected men

as well as their many wives and children.

 

Re-stocking Guantanamo for torture—

and further research on advanced torture—

will insure our global supremacy

and the triumph of our economy.

This also means we can’t afford health care,

but this policy shows we really care.


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,

and dire lack of hope in our politique

where bigotry became our hill beacon.

Yet that is a nightmare Christians reject

by tossing flowers at tanks and rifles.

 

Love music is a hug, embrace of two

or more against the Tower of Babel

where words are weapons, instead of comfort

toward a future bound only by love

and valorous virtues of true friendship.

As for hate, I’m not encouraging it.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Apr 18th, 2017

when poetry astonished the ear,

yet astronomy, physics, and chemistry

now pioneer that frontier.

Mathematics has overshadowed metaphor.

 

A poet may recollect a full moon,

but satellites can map...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 10th, 2017

If you don’t have an appointment,

getting lost is the most under-rated

experience you may have in life.

 

If walking, one can observe

a variety of foliage, stones, and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 3rd, 2017

Physicists can prove there’s a fourth dimension,

yet, try as we can, we cannot imagine

what the fourth looks like, or how it might be.

Being by trade a poet,...

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

Spring’s a-comin’-in

 

ice on deck

yard a wreck

 

rain stippling lake

birds at seed cake

 

clouds proliferate

mallards rotate

 

my peepers see

fallen tree

 

mud...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 24th, 2017

swerving like old ox

 

grackles cawing

insects crawling

 

trees bare

in cool air

 

driveway mucky mud

on windowsill dead ladybug

 

snow dripping from roof

cloudy sky...

(before Equinox)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Mar 15th, 2017

Blizzard-bound in white:

there’s ecstasy in wind-force,

sudden flake in the eye,

nose pinched red by cold,

mourning dove fluttering,

snow-laden fir branches

slowly swaying in gusts,

wind whirling fate,...

for Clifford
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Mar 6th, 2017

False spring is not my favorite thing,

even though snowbells seem not to mind,

or peepers who sing despite crusted frost,

or birds on the wing looking for nests,

or...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 3rd, 2017

If that little button in the “football”

was angrily pushed for some island

you don’t even know about, and then all

civilization was transformed to sand—

everything turning radioactive,

even...

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