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Poetry

When burrrring back of Old Man Winter breaks

like resounding crack of ice on white lake

and winds grow slow-mild like fervent whispers

in cool ear of close friend, then bold heralds

of Spring appear: ambassadorial

birds of plumage, rejoicing peeper frogs,

hover flies, bumble bees, prancing squirrels,

motley congregation of lady bugs,

plus those unlikely transient midges

that flock in your face like sward memories

of foliage you skipped through barefoot with

wonder on the trembling grasses of laud

mere years after your incredible birth,

one falls in love with this blue, blooming earth. 

 


When I dwelt outside of time

spear-shaped leaves of grass

and the waving flags of maple trees

were a green beyond words

before I had many words

as the sun glowed with such fire

I felt I might melt

like an ice cube on a plate,

yet at night in pitch dark

that summer intoxication of flowers

left me in near-paralytic swoon.

 

In spring I could dance in shade

barefoot under an apple tree

where robins often nested,

watching delicate blue eggs hatch,

admiring adolescent, awkward

first attempts to fly,

mourning for the broken wing

I had artfully mended

and the bird’s death

at the beak of its mother

because I had repaired the bird

with a small splint.

 

In that clumsy comedy

of erratic swoops and falls,

so ardently diligent,

there was more delight

in birds learning to fly

than the pretend excitement

paraded on television,

or even adult conversation

about politics and bomb shelters

that I found so pedestrian,

as I kept musing, wondering,

about birds and geese flying

with rough spontaneous freedom

not accessible to those

who didn’t have the wings

of metaphors that dazzle.

 


It's white then black,
Churns, turns slack;
Salt and fresh
Part just to mesh;

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm, slow cold,
Soft green, sharp gold,

Joyful then glum,
Tells all, keeps mum – 

The river
Can't escape the sea,
So it loves
Uncertainty.


Ringing in Spring

with burst of bright harmony,

shivering in dissonant sleet.


To pen poetry is to imitate

the grass beneath our feet, ants crawling there;

yet composing it can be confusing

like walking blindfolded up wooded hill

or like digging a twenty-five-foot hole

to make a well, uncertain of success.

While one may record the pleasures of life

in pastures of rolling seasons, or love,

or the progress of celestial spheres,

the process resembles a self-tattoo.

 

Yes, it’s old Sisyphus puffing uphill,

knowing your project will tumble back down,

and yet that rock may recoil back down

with a wild, scrunching, singing, thrilling sound


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 13th, 2018

February evokes mediations

on mortality: not only the cold,

but the bleak crunch of ice on fastened boot,

plumage panicky at the bird-feeder,

lowering slate clouds that appear endless,

bare...

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...

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