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Poetry

Li Po was correct about collecting

books for a writer’s personal pleasure.

Reading copies just don’t last forever.

They are subject to mold, worms; common dust

damages them. Pages turn pale yellow,

fray, become brittle, even turn to dust.

If they are any good—like Homer or James Joyce—

they are reprinted each generation.

 

A writer should not overly admire

another writer, not even great ones

because in the end that’s a distraction.

Best to heave your shoulder to the iron plow

and drive your crooked furrow as you will

without ever thinking of our great Will!


Crack, Crack, Crack

sings sheet ice in winter when the sun shouts

and ice melts slowly with drip, drip, drip

while geese land in flurry on frozen pond.

 

Tweet, Tweet, Tweet

say bright birds when the first buds of Spring bloom

from apple, cherry, and promising plum

on the rolling hills of heavenly breath.

 

Moo, Moo, Moo

say brindled cows in drowsy summer heat

as they eat green grass and dandelion

under blue sky until haloed moonrise.

 

Clop, Clop, Clop,

halt, hooves of horses on rural lane

when Autumn leaves turn ocher, yellow, brown

as sun sets orange over western hills.


At six I had a yellow bike, 
its pedals thick with wooden blocks, 
so that my rubber soles could reach. 
I rode up to the empty school, 
then racing downhill, missed the turn
and pitched into a vacant lot,
tangling legs, spokes, and rocks.

I visit that place now and then, 
see little slope, little danger in 
a crash. There’s no mnemonic scar.
But facts can’t curb the quickening 
of that leap into air....


The stolid turkey in my freezer

has been hibernating a full year,

a left-over from the year before.

 

Melting in my kitchen sink

like some sci-fi experiment,

I expected his wings to furl, fly

into the oven and blush red-brown

like leaves littering the landscape

of a pastoral that was habitual

under my wandering feet in autumn

as I walk unconscious in a world

teaming with wonder sleeping

under the crackling patina of morning frost

which evokes humble Thanksgiving.


First snowfall is usually a mere prank,

as it was this morning with a dusting

of snow, roads and skies clear as a whistle.

But during the night coydogs were howling

as if they had cornered over-sized prey—

deer most likely, maybe two miles away

in deep darkness before rain turned to snow.

 

That snow was so exciting for my son

who, at almost four, built his first snowman

last winter with hat, coal eyes, scarf, straw broom.

I don’t know what it is that attracts him

to snow sculpture: I admit doing it

when I, too, was that age decades ago,

frolicking in fluffy, malleable snow!


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....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jan 4th, 2019

Wan December sunlight, snow-covered hills,

pond semi-frozen, hollows mucky with mud,

stream reduced to etiolated rills.

Hauling in split wood amid squelching sludge

up to my wobbly ankles. Birch burns...

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