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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
Wed Nov 2nd, 2016

Ego is strange because it’s so familiar.

The rose takes for granted the soil below.

All birds assume azure aerial space,

just as we take for granted the air we...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Oct 26th, 2016

Cricket in my palm

Not uttering sound

 

Cloud above my head

Shape of slow ship

 

Chewing stalk of grass

Wind waving maple tree

 

Sad September flowers

Yellow-jackets...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 18th, 2016

At two I kicked orange-red-yellow leaves

shushing underfoot into damp twilight.

 

At four I rolled in brisk, dry, crackling leaves

until I fell to a swoon of wonder.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 13th, 2016

Pretty striped stink bug, where are you going?

Come down from the roof—going to party?

Or is it some food you are looking for?

Maybe locate a mate before sunrise?...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 6th, 2016

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

to blooming lilac sprays

during early days of sun-drop spring.

 

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

into the thicket of adolescence

where music...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Sep 26th, 2016

There are times when to love the calls of birds

Becomes a crime worse than theft or incest;

When hills and valleys described in fleet words

Evoke anger of a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 20th, 2016

Gusting winds—whiplike—batter bent bushes,

bowing, battered,  bludgeoned; resilient trees

wave as storm rages with ravenous pitch,

while in cottage a lonely candle burns,

comforting four hands at plain deal table.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 7th, 2016

Cyprus trees comb blue air

as I turn a page in a book,

while a hawk circles above

cleaving azure air with elegance.

With that upstart fantasy

of passing time...

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