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Poetry

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain generalists

who attempt eagle-like aerial maps

portraying the plight of humanity.

 

For a poet, so much is metaphor—

the basis of all languages we speak.

The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:

aura red glow on tree bark at sunset

or the patter of rain on splattered roof

makes all the difference to scribbled lines,

which is what a poet most dreams about.


Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray designer suit

Hugs your supple frame.

The wonderment enthralls me.

Are you a tap dancer?

Are you a celebrity?

Main Stem? On Broadway?

MY view of you from the bus window

Doesn’t answer my questions,

But I loooooooooove that purple hat!


When whitecaps wave with ardent excitement

and fierce wind topples umbrellas like kite

flying surf side while waves pound sand—

birds screeching with ambiguous delight

and tykes digging desultory holes in sand,

clouds remain sailing heroes of the day

scudding to their global destiny

as ambassadors of climatic play.

 

Those unfettered clouds have no small regrets

inhabiting those blue celestial spheres

that some humans daydream upon absurdly

in moments of narcistic reverie.

The cawing of a seagull on bleached beach

is older than mankind’s ambitious reach.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 18th, 2018

Black ants are gathering short, crooked stems

while an architect ant directs the work

with the patience of ten million sunsets

or the movement of a glacier ten miles,

as...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Sep 14th, 2018

The roosters have taken over the farm.

Pigs have been set loose to eat the produce.

Horses have been confined to the red barn.

All cats, dogs, and caged birds...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 4th, 2018

America, your rouge looks like a whore:

conflict of interests and corruption,

addiction to international war,

insults, for-profit incarceration.

Some say, “Nothing new, we’ve been here before,”

but the algorithm-scale...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 28th, 2018

Is poetry a proper profession?

Or the blind route of absurd digression?

Or is it an awkward transformation

of purely personal indigestion?

 

Is it the art of absolute failure...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 21st, 2018

Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude...

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...

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