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Poetry

Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about vaunted ambition

as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves

while forebodings of winter shiver bones.

Just what is it that we wish to achieve?

All will pass, even renewal of leaves.

 

Yet many crave headline folly of news,

or the illusion of media fame.

It’s best to live kindly in the moment

where love conjures happy contentment,

and like mushrooms create your own small rain

by hefting your own spores of hope in air!


Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies.

Politicians make a living from lying,

yet conjuring fables is considered opinion

rather than outright corruption,

which they call “price of promotion.”

 

Our texts about the divine

are rooted in metaphors

and even unusual stories.

As a rule, poets lie least

because they have nothing to lose

except their reputation

or practical sense of fun.

 

And when soothing spring arrives

with scent of cherry blossom,

apple and pear blossom,

do any of these ambitious liars ever think

that history itself is a story

which will not survive

humankind’s demise?


Mint: a cosmopolitan family

with so many attractive relatives

that they cannot be kept from your table!

I’m in love with sage, basil, oregano,

while I keep in touch with thyme, rosemary,

and common wild mint that grows by my door.

I’m not lucky enough to lounge on teak,

yet I can rub shoulders with lavender.

 

Over seven thousand species toss scent

into air, although some mints just look nice

like my garden companion Coleus.

Every leaf emerges oppositely,

each pair whorled, some posing at right angles.

Most have fragrance, structure, savory taste.

 


America, your rouge looks like a whore:

conflict of interests and corruption,

addiction to international war,

insults, for-profit incarceration.

Some say, “Nothing new, we’ve been here before,”

but the algorithm-scale of deceit

has made a mockery of prudent law.

And what about our nation’s balance sheet?

 

Where is our Founder’s Christian altruism?

Do we cherish Franklin or just his bill?

Why do we worship guns and fascism?

How are we now a Beacon of Freedom?

 

I’m taking as stroll up a local hill

to cleanse my mind of blunt pessimism.


Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude of atoms we cannot see;

trillions of star-galaxies in a swirl.

 

Rotundity highlights it all,

and to be curiously round in mind

remains best whenever you see a friend

come round for keen conversation.

 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 21st, 2018

Six inches of fluffy snow

loafing on fence, walk, and roof.

Imprisoned by white,

I’m fixated by birds:

for once they are serious,

not fighting or squabbling,

there’s no time...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 13th, 2018

February evokes mediations

on mortality: not only the cold,

but the bleak crunch of ice on fastened boot,

plumage panicky at the bird-feeder,

lowering slate clouds that appear endless,

bare...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 6th, 2018

We will all lay our heads down in brown leaves,

hoping that from our decay flowers bloom

over us, but much more importantly,

hoping that those who are younger than...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 30th, 2018

Midwinter sun waxing

ever so slowly each day

as cold nights probe freezing delights.

A parallelogram of ice

floats in a small pond,

leaving an impression

of disconnected abeyance….

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 23rd, 2018

“Here’s the longest icicle you’ve ever seen.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, feel its wetness.”

“It’s cold.”

 

The warmth of mid-winter meltdown

swells the heart with joy, optimistic slant....

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;...

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