Skip to content Skip to navigation

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
Tue Jun 5th, 2018

My three-year-old is in love with Iris,

preferring purple over yellow

as they explode in June bloom.

They are messengers of the gods

I tell him, even though he is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 30th, 2018

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 23rd, 2018

On a glorious, cool, springy morning

when birds are implacably a-twitter,

a unique miracle of the moment

swathes my feet with its blessing: dripping dew.

Inside each drop of this...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 15th, 2018

Thunder quakes its bluff—

or so I hope and purposely laugh—

as cats skittle under the couch

and children shiver with blear eyes,

puzzlement at august mystery

while lightning flashes...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 9th, 2018

Touching the sky

with feet upraised

children swing

to the music

in their arms

 

as their heads

float free

of the earth

and any knowledge

of the difficulties

that...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 30th, 2018

As a poet writes with pen to paper,

the poet enters a peculiar space

where time has lost its common dimensions

without a hint of romantic vista

and the prospect...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 23rd, 2018

He picked grape hyacinth

and brought it to me,

asking what it was.

 

He asks what bird

makes that peculiar call.

Woodpeckers fascinate him.

At the age of three...

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

Early to rise

in greeny surprise

 

Bright aconite

at early dawn light

 

Glimpse of robin wing

surging hope of spring

 

Grass going green

in gold-brown dream

 ...

Pages