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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
Sat Jan 14th, 2017

Sleet and slush are fine manifestations

of silvered water—aqueous droplets

falling from high like mana for rivers,

hand-dug wells, reservoirs, and mountain streams.

The squishy, peculiar consistency

of sleet or...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Dec 29th, 2016

Cinema, religion, and poetry

are all a form of fiction like novels,

painter's portraits, music, philosophy.

Well-written history alone travels

with a solid factual foundation:

collected, analyzed, categorized.

Yet historical interpretation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Dec 18th, 2016

For Christmas, let us put aside grudges,

gripes, and obsession—or piquant outrage

at this or that bauble blinking in eye.

Fellowship breathes at the heart of Christmas

when love is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 13th, 2016

            Snowflakes dither in ambivalent air,

            blowing here and there, every-which-way, float-

            ing like paper and melting on eyelids,

            nestling on my...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Nov 28th, 2016

Gazing at blackbird on deck-side table

during cold November, tree-stripped drizzle

when dark clouds lower with dour bluster,

I like to warm my feet under cover

as I recollect childhood...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 22nd, 2016

Orange-red oak leaf spiraling to earth

through gray-blue air in silent slow motion

signals the firm arrival of autumn,

a time to offer fervent thanksgiving

for the abundance of fruitful...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 15th, 2016

When the moon is full and nearest to earth, 

I peer out my door, listening to naught: 

Silence so stark, nude, a startling stillness 

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Nov 10th, 2016

White frost coats the blear eyelid of my car.

Piercing cold stings the larder of my lungs.

I’m happy it’s really ripe pumpkin time.  

My physique has not yet...

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