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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
Fri Feb 24th, 2017

Early signs of spring:

pale tracks of wandering birds

melted to liquid wonder;

aconite sings its lonely solo

song by a red shed;

a waxing increment

of two minutes a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 21st, 2017

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....

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

Snow melting off roof,

that slow joyous drip

of icicles melting 

on Valentine’s Day

when lovers celebrate reunion

as snow and light unite

to produce the liquid symbol

of love’s...

(on which we stand)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 12th, 2017

On Valentine’s Day we kidnap,

cuff illegal bad daddies

(whose wives are on food stamps)

who work assembly line nightshifts,

and take them away from

wives, sons, and daughters.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 8th, 2017

Ticking-and-tocking in the pendulum

Of historical turnings and tumult

What enfant terrible hosts elbow room

For aggrandizement, bluster, and insult?

Veracity is what he says it is.

Finance becomes final...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 30th, 2017

Walls: an historical meditation

Everybody loves a wall.

Walls can last a long time.

Look at the Great Wall of China—

it’s great to take photos from it.

Walls are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 25th, 2017

Salesmen repeat. Reification

produces assurance and consumption,

yet artists loathe repetition,

preferring expostulation, objection,

and often, if bored, even

varied levels of flippant comparison

that evolve their own version

of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 18th, 2017

In the beginning was the word,

but when was the sentence?

The world may be 50 million years old

as even baboons have the word,

yet when was grammar invented?...

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