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Poetry

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain generalists

who attempt eagle-like aerial maps

portraying the plight of humanity.

 

For a poet, so much is metaphor—

the basis of all languages we speak.

The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:

aura red glow on tree bark at sunset

or the patter of rain on splattered roof

makes all the difference to scribbled lines,

which is what a poet most dreams about.


Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray designer suit

Hugs your supple frame.

The wonderment enthralls me.

Are you a tap dancer?

Are you a celebrity?

Main Stem? On Broadway?

MY view of you from the bus window

Doesn’t answer my questions,

But I loooooooooove that purple hat!


When whitecaps wave with ardent excitement

and fierce wind topples umbrellas like kite

flying surf side while waves pound sand—

birds screeching with ambiguous delight

and tykes digging desultory holes in sand,

clouds remain sailing heroes of the day

scudding to their global destiny

as ambassadors of climatic play.

 

Those unfettered clouds have no small regrets

inhabiting those blue celestial spheres

that some humans daydream upon absurdly

in moments of narcistic reverie.

The cawing of a seagull on bleached beach

is older than mankind’s ambitious reach.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 26th, 2019

Ringing in Spring

with burst of bright harmony,

shivering in dissonant sleet.

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 20th, 2019

The toy dump truck

had a good day.

It had been three days

since Christmas,

and this was the best day

Mister Truck ever had.

No more bumping into walls...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 13th, 2019

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 5th, 2019

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,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 30th, 2019

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...

Tue Jan 22nd, 2019

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 16th, 2019

Out of nowhere

it can come

 

like a car passing

under the window,

 

but what to do

with it?

 

Especially when

the car’s gone

 

and there’s...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jan 11th, 2019

on the piano

played

only one

white note

but that note

was enough

for the day

to have

its poignant

memory....

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