Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

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

no sound at all,

 

except the slight

rustle of leaves,

 

a dandelion seed

floating in air,

 

and glint of sunlight

sparkling on a pond?

 


on the piano

played

only one

white note

but that note

was enough

for the day

to have

its poignant

memory.


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 quick

like conversation igniting with wit.

Some maple and cherry for dim twilight,

oak and elm for the dreary, frozen night.

 

Each tree has its own personality

that “speaks” in distinctive, warm vibration

tinkling spine, giving scent, breathing on ear.

Symbol of life-and-death, the spreading tree

makes heart leap in flaming extroversion—

especially at turn of the New Year!


Declare a moratorium on common sense.

Let all multi-millionaires be homeless and hungry for a day.

Let roosters and chickens all have their say.

Televise the parade of Snowmen from Miami Beach

And replace the Super Bowl with the Pleasantville Croquet Finals,

While requiring all players to quaff half a bottle of whiskey before play.

 

Let us know who grew the largest canine teeth in the USA

And where the most beautiful mallard ducks swim.

Ban all autos from all cities and towns for one day a year.

Give every citizen a Thanksgiving turkey

And every child a full day’s worth of sheer play.

 

And since a serious note has here been struck,

Open the Southern Border to refugees

From drug cartels, malnutrition, and hunger,

For we are those who set the example

Of freedom in this world—or not?


A Messiah came, spoke of the Father

(with words of wisdom not heard since David),

becoming a martyr like Osiris,

Dionysos, and those who followed Him.

The Spirit-words of the Man from Nowhere

still inspire the Force of Good today

in the gentle hearts of men and women

who follow their sacred, inner conscience.

 

From where does this bright, inner voice arise?

This Force comes from our meek, caring parents,

who gave us this glorious gift of life.

We are the image of Mother, Father,

from whom tender wonders of love proceed.

A Christian loves the green world and neighbors.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 6th, 2018

We will all lay our heads down in brown leaves,

hoping that from our decay flowers bloom

over us, but much more importantly,

hoping that those who are younger than...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 30th, 2018

Midwinter sun waxing

ever so slowly each day

as cold nights probe freezing delights.

A parallelogram of ice

floats in a small pond,

leaving an impression

of disconnected abeyance….

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 23rd, 2018

“Here’s the longest icicle you’ve ever seen.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, feel its wetness.”

“It’s cold.”

 

The warmth of mid-winter meltdown

swells the heart with joy, optimistic slant....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 16th, 2018

The bass provides musical foundation

for string and winds, prime springboard for rhythm

that propels the vector of instruments

to follow, build, dance with elegance.

Without good bass other players...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 8th, 2018

Is this really me making a snowball?

Or is it some routine childhood relic?

Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:

compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,

so that one can...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 1st, 2018

That man’s a silly fellow in the sky

who only comes to me when he’s drunk.

He can never answer the question why,

or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Dec 27th, 2017

Cold moon riding high, bright over small hill,

snow crunching underfoot , an owl hooting

like a bearer of benevolent will

amid frozen shadows, tree twigs groping

like frozen fingers...

for Pascal Nadon
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 19th, 2017

When a superior flutist performs,

I feel the upper regions of my brain

to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe

before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar

of a secluded, pristine...

Pages