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Poetry

When burrrring back of Old Man Winter breaks

like resounding crack of ice on white lake

and winds grow slow-mild like fervent whispers

in cool ear of close friend, then bold heralds

of Spring appear: ambassadorial

birds of plumage, rejoicing peeper frogs,

hover flies, bumble bees, prancing squirrels,

motley congregation of lady bugs,

plus those unlikely transient midges

that flock in your face like sward memories

of foliage you skipped through barefoot with

wonder on the trembling grasses of laud

mere years after your incredible birth,

one falls in love with this blue, blooming earth. 

 


When I dwelt outside of time

spear-shaped leaves of grass

and the waving flags of maple trees

were a green beyond words

before I had many words

as the sun glowed with such fire

I felt I might melt

like an ice cube on a plate,

yet at night in pitch dark

that summer intoxication of flowers

left me in near-paralytic swoon.

 

In spring I could dance in shade

barefoot under an apple tree

where robins often nested,

watching delicate blue eggs hatch,

admiring adolescent, awkward

first attempts to fly,

mourning for the broken wing

I had artfully mended

and the bird’s death

at the beak of its mother

because I had repaired the bird

with a small splint.

 

In that clumsy comedy

of erratic swoops and falls,

so ardently diligent,

there was more delight

in birds learning to fly

than the pretend excitement

paraded on television,

or even adult conversation

about politics and bomb shelters

that I found so pedestrian,

as I kept musing, wondering,

about birds and geese flying

with rough spontaneous freedom

not accessible to those

who didn’t have the wings

of metaphors that dazzle.

 


It's white then black,
Churns, turns slack;
Salt and fresh
Part just to mesh;

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm, slow cold,
Soft green, sharp gold,

Joyful then glum,
Tells all, keeps mum – 

The river
Can't escape the sea,
So it loves
Uncertainty.


Ringing in Spring

with burst of bright harmony,

shivering in dissonant sleet.


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 twenty-five-foot hole

to make a well, uncertain of success.

While one may record the pleasures of life

in pastures of rolling seasons, or love,

or the progress of celestial spheres,

the process resembles a self-tattoo.

 

Yes, it’s old Sisyphus puffing uphill,

knowing your project will tumble back down,

and yet that rock may recoil back down

with a wild, scrunching, singing, thrilling sound


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Aug 15th, 2018

The First Congregational Church

is now available for meetings,

weddings, and social events.

 

The Presbyterian Church

with its big bell tower and giant clock

is now a Baptist Church....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 7th, 2018

I’ve heard folks making fun of Homer

and his “rosy-fingered dawn” trope,

but those who say such things

have little appreciation of dawn:

its pristine hope, awesome promise,

that glow...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Aug 1st, 2018

Waves pound the shore with sputtering froth.

Young children terrified of crushing waves

are quite content with sifting malleable sand.

Old men lounge in sunlight like lizards.

Breast-less young girls...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Jul 26th, 2018

Rain patters on roof

all night long without reprieve

in an old story known

to ears of humankind

since huts and houses

dotted the landscape

of furrowed rows

while people...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jul 17th, 2018

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 11th, 2018

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...

The New Frontier
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jun 26th, 2018

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...

for John Hersey Jr
by John Good Iron in Poetry
Fri Jun 15th, 2018

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

...

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