Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

So many things that I once learned as a child

are either obsolete or downright wrong:

that mushrooms, celery have no nutrition,

that coffee and chocolate are quite bad.

Jupiter now has seventy-nine moons?

Who knew men and women are preparing

their own demise through over-population?

Or that religion could be so corrupt?

That science-denial would be a fad?

That knotweed would rule your backyard garden?

Can’t we just elect a big bullfrog king

to solve our problems with his magic ring?

 


Propelled by torrents onto the lawn

    her fragile body wracked by rain

 

what looked like a throbbing leaf or grounded sparrow

   turned out to be the largest moth I’d ever seen

 

Watery drops rolled off her cinnamon wings like mercury balls

  when fully dry, they opened to the span of an octave

 

each wing had what looked like eye spots

   each circle, wide with surprise

  

as if drawn in pastel, the orbital rims goldenrod,

   yellow and chicory blue;

 

   each cellophane-like center,

the sclera, clear all the way through

 

but there was an inch-long gash in one wing

   which complicated things.

 

She rested indoors in the shadow of a paper bag,

    eventually to walk out from under, flapping;

 

antennae, twitched full of life,

   but she could not lift off 

 

could not propel herself upward

   and as she tried, the rip augmented


I passed an orchard twice a day.

Never stopped, till I saw the way

The orchard springs to life: slender, small,

Tender greens with pink-milk petals.

 

But up close, they looked more stumps than trees—

With sawed-off arms and tortured knees—

Like headless, scarred, and stymied men.

I wondered how they drew me in.

 

Had I not seen the crippling care,

Not understood I’d find more there

Than simple, pleasing, youthful joy—

The things that bend and we bend for?

 

I thought, let's not stand in rows,

Not let Them choose where the root goes,

Never let us be cut or become mute,

Not flower only for the fruit.

 

Let's grow with wild abandon, truly,

Just as us—to say how far.

Let's be ruthless and unruly,

Exactly who we think we are!


Glowing, winking embers at poker-point

become swarming tea leaves in your cup;

cast of I-Ching demythologized

by devout, mindful meditation.

 

Daily horoscope lifts aspiration,

a prayer to a saint accomplishes same;

Jack of Diamonds crooning to Queen of Spades,

replacing entrail of sacrificed bird.

 

Astrological headgear discovers

Archer, Ram, Lion, the Twins and Maiden—

perhaps even a fate you would prefer

in an imagined reincarnation.

 

From Egypt, Italy, to Las Vegas,

the turn of a card determined your luck;

then eighteenth century cartomancy

offered occult, improvised prophecy. 

 

That chattering blue telephone psychic

will tell you that you are halfway there

to what you dream in early twilght

as your bill becomes astronomical.

 

Rolling dice offers another fate

with better odds than roulette,

as the game of chance escalates

down the hoof-pounding stretch.

 

That old magic of childhood wonder

when gazing at blinking, isolate stars,

or caught astonished in clap of thunder—

was it all chance—or imagined sighs?


Puddles stipple-drilled, dandelions closed,

cherry bush waving frail pink-and-white blooms,

that satisfying softness under foot,

aural breeze on ears, mallards swim in pond,

full planting moon rising over east hills

as pond peepers sing mezzo-soprano

until the first warming rays of sunlight

bathe hill and valley, stream and running rill

while chickadees chirp and woodpeckers drum

intense tattoo in cerulean blue.

And what about that evening rainbow

that arcs across gray sky in gentle mist?

Then I wiggle my toes in blissful joy,

walking with renewed cordiality!


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

 ...

for Clifford Lefebvre
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Apr 10th, 2018

Clustered daffodils swaying on green hill

evoke fervent desire in my will

to embrace vivid dreams of Spring—

accomplish this or that ambitious thing!

Shrugging off winter’s icy stagnation,

burdened...

Pages