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Poetry

Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about vaunted ambition

as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves

while forebodings of winter shiver bones.

Just what is it that we wish to achieve?

All will pass, even renewal of leaves.

 

Yet many crave headline folly of news,

or the illusion of media fame.

It’s best to live kindly in the moment

where love conjures happy contentment,

and like mushrooms create your own small rain

by hefting your own spores of hope in air!


Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies.

Politicians make a living from lying,

yet conjuring fables is considered opinion

rather than outright corruption,

which they call “price of promotion.”

 

Our texts about the divine

are rooted in metaphors

and even unusual stories.

As a rule, poets lie least

because they have nothing to lose

except their reputation

or practical sense of fun.

 

And when soothing spring arrives

with scent of cherry blossom,

apple and pear blossom,

do any of these ambitious liars ever think

that history itself is a story

which will not survive

humankind’s demise?


Mint: a cosmopolitan family

with so many attractive relatives

that they cannot be kept from your table!

I’m in love with sage, basil, oregano,

while I keep in touch with thyme, rosemary,

and common wild mint that grows by my door.

I’m not lucky enough to lounge on teak,

yet I can rub shoulders with lavender.

 

Over seven thousand species toss scent

into air, although some mints just look nice

like my garden companion Coleus.

Every leaf emerges oppositely,

each pair whorled, some posing at right angles.

Most have fragrance, structure, savory taste.

 


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 of deceit

has made a mockery of prudent law.

And what about our nation’s balance sheet?

 

Where is our Founder’s Christian altruism?

Do we cherish Franklin or just his bill?

Why do we worship guns and fascism?

How are we now a Beacon of Freedom?

 

I’m taking as stroll up a local hill

to cleanse my mind of blunt pessimism.


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 of atoms we cannot see;

trillions of star-galaxies in a swirl.

 

Rotundity highlights it all,

and to be curiously round in mind

remains best whenever you see a friend

come round for keen conversation.

 


for Matt Finley
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 31st, 2017

A trumpet rings like a new breath of life:

the mind clears away all obsolete dross.

Trumpet re-arranges synapses.

Two feet feel as if they carry no weight—

one is...

for Robert Martin
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 24th, 2017

The cello resonates like a garden.

Notes linger like strong flower-aromas.

Vegetation is dense, dark green, blue-bright.

Between strokes and chords sunlight breaks cloud-line.

The cello towers like an immense...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 17th, 2017

I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what...

for Norman Baker
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 10th, 2017

Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo...

for Stephen Kaye
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 3rd, 2017

The piano is a pleasant monster.

It can take your hand for a walk in woods,

portray a bouquet of flowers on table,

deconstruct the contours of your aura,

transform...

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

When Ray Moore takes the floor,

I will need to install a seat belt

on my frumpy television couch

as I cradle a bottle of whiskey

while I peruse a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 26th, 2017

You were the sweet sweat machine,

even at evening in August

when waning sun was orange orb

lingering in glory on the horizon.

 

Pushing the mower

at the age...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 19th, 2017

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...

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