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Poetry

Blessed is the afternoon ambiance

when raindrops tickle your eyelids

as your feet tread between puddles

and your hat drips like a leaky faucet.

 

Blessed is the afternoon light

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

 

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.

 


The impossibility of being me

is that I keep changing my mind

about what it is to be me

as I’m fretting about wasting time

 

on a drab slate morning

when clouds want to rain,

yet hold back from raining,

as if release itself were a pain

 

rather than an act of creation

that showers earth and mind

with blue flowers of fruition

blooming well-ahead of time

 

in the rattling narrative

of ordinary dishes and pans.

Husbandry I daily give,

despite any creative plans.


Hurrah, we are going to War in Space

to fight aliens on distant planets:

Klingons, Dark Side Plutonians, whoever

exits on interplanetary spoil,

since we own every atom in the world

and Mister T has given his fiat

in the same way the Creator gave us

the universe to be the ruler of,

just as we men rule women and peons

who labor in our vineyards with visas

approved by the highest algorithms

serving our super computer frames.

ALL space aliens will be deported

To VANA PENAL PLANETS LTD.


The Kalahari Desert is far from Millbrook, far from Dutchess County, NY,

but not as far as you might think. The canons governing our paintings

are thin, thin and dry. Whose paintings are gaudy? Certainly not ours!

 

Gaudy is not even askable, John. We joylessly assimilate the sun,

the many hundreds of kilometers of super-arid gravel plains and dunes,

while other painters in Namibia paint karoo ecoregions...green succulents,

 

monkey beetles, and melittid bees, and the densely foggy shoreline

where the Atlantic's cold waters meet Africa's hot climate. Other painters

paint with violet, orange, yellow, green; their tribal villages have names.

 

Other painters hint at shafts of sapphire, the weightlessness of deep water

beyond the shore; but not us, John. No, we sketch in black pencil

and charcoal in recycled notebooks...two seriously sunburnt imbeciles.

 

Sure, we dream of whalesongs. Sure, we dream of rainforest bird calls.

Doesn't everybody? But we only dream, don't we?

And now one of us has died -- suddenly died -- and I am troubled more

 

by insomnia than usual; I act on the belief I need to paint, need to live,

living by no less, no more, than by stubbornness. What I need to do

is stretch out, and discharge myself of myself; look for green from afar.


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 dewy entanglement.

 

The rebuke for picking a tomato

was disappointing. I was

banished from the dense garden

where trellises hefted peas,

beans, and grapes up to the roofline

of the shanty single car garage.

 

Joe was patient, methodical,

virtues that did not grow in me,

as I wished to grow skyward

with a different strain of seed

that found harvest in allegory,

metaphor, and entangled poetry.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 15th, 2017

A sunflower spikes its wheeling fan

like a pinwheel frozen in time;

its yellow halo hypnotizes the eye,

transporting it briefly to Neverland.

 

That sturdy stalk stands bolt upright...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 8th, 2017

Of late administrative problems

have obstructed constant production of poetry.

 

Poetry is not a production

but a product of the unconscious.

 

I have rescheduled writing times

and locations...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 1st, 2017

A drab tooth-bitten pencil with

its innumerable shadows and wayward squiggles

lolls between my blunt thumb

and elegant middle finger

like a scalpel ready to open up

fissures in language,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Jul 20th, 2017

                                                           ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 12th, 2017

The Mouth who made America great again

denied all science, allowed lead in water,

permitted unlimited air pollution,

encouraged all bigots to feel mightier.

 

The Mouth that governed by...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jul 7th, 2017

My lover’s body is nothing at all

like glossy pics in upscale magazines

depicting coats, hats, shoes, vests, overalls,

lingerie, ties, underwear or sweaters.

Absent is that vacuous model gaze...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jul 3rd, 2017

Do you know who you are, why you are here?

Can you live your life without any fear?

Fear of death, fear of failure or weakness,

Mediocrity or fear of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Jun 25th, 2017

A little water now on your forehead

to remember we are all mostly water,

that we go with the flow like water,

that we are weak in the face of...

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