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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.

 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 12th, 2017

I’m a wobbly monkey on Mondays,

hanging from the iron bar

with a forced, sardonic grin

as I swing in my cage,

plodding through the motions

of what monkey work...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 6th, 2017

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 5th, 2017

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Aug 28th, 2017

“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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 22nd, 2017

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,...

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,...

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