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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 Nov 21st, 2017

Blasted flowers stand withered in bright sunlight

while others like chrysanthemums prosper.

Lingering phlox might attract hummingbirds

while late moths and butterflies flutter in air

performing snap-ballet of leaps and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 14th, 2017

Vibrations behind eyelid magnify

exploding sensors in inner cortex

with soothing, calming, implicit élan

that thrills spinal cord, wired head-hairs—

such the violin’s delicate finesse.

 

Its sweetness is like...

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...

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