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Poetry

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 are lost.

 

The bass player is an unsung hero

who shoulders the base of a pyramid,

allowing others to sing unfettered.

A bass player is the soul of a band,

the psychologist of an orchestra.

 

Cool bass has unexpected energy,

dynamism beyond explanation,

the kernelled conundrum in a question.

Is not bass always asking questions?

Is it not asking you to dance for joy?

 

And does it not ask you sometimes to weep?

Bass can be a sad cave-sound resounding….

Don’t we all blink twice at a bass player

lugging his instrument at an airport?

Without bass our intellect cannot fly…. 


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 launch a circle to air,

or feel its splattering impact on cheek.

We toss snowballs like cartoon characters,

yet cold frost weighing on our nose is real.

 

The heated life indoors appears more real.

The woodstove becomes a philosopher,

wise with dryness, delicious warmth of air.

Impatient toes can’t get enough of stove.

An old man can’t get enough of childhood;

a child can’t get enough of the word would.

 


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;

he glares at me so impersonally

that I think he’s either profound or dumb….

 

His distant far air of formality

contains no music, not even a hum

of disagreement, something I prefer

to stimulate modest conversation

about the universe of conjecture,

which often concludes with drear dejection.

 

Yet I raise my wee glass to Mister Moon,

hoping that I might see him once more soon.


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 at pitch-black darkness.

Yet morning sunlight glinting on crystals

magnifies the rays with blinding glitter,

while frost makes the touch of metal bitter

on trash can covers, railings without glove,

as flint-shredded snow swirls from roof above.

The concept of zero evaporates

like breath dispelled in air or morning mists.

There’s a harsh, bleak beauty in frightful cold

which creates wry humor: caustic, brief, droll.


When a superior flutist performs,

I feel the upper regions of my brain

to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe

before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar

of a secluded, pristine waterfall.

 

The flute unspools a cool ribbon of sound.

It wipes lines from the worried forehead;

it allows one to forget the body

and all the baggage of its sad defects.

The flute levitates all ten toes to speak.

 

Whether transverse or fipple recorder,

the bone flute is fifty-thousand years old;

the first sophisticated instrument,

it was the cerebral glory of Greece,

dazzling court jewel of French Enlightenment.

 

The flautist who put my breath on pause was

Jean-Pierre Rampal at Carnegie Hall,

giant of circular breathing technique,

who could make the brain tremble in delight.

The trilling flute is a soothing healer.

 

The flute conjures bright bucolic landscape

of hills, rocks, dim caves, streams, and purling rills.

Flute is autochthonous, archetypal,

plaything of a three-year-old child’s birthday.

The healing flute is the child of wonder. 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 25th, 2017

Salesmen repeat. Reification

produces assurance and consumption,

yet artists loathe repetition,

preferring expostulation, objection,

and often, if bored, even

varied levels of flippant comparison

that evolve their own version

of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 18th, 2017

In the beginning was the word,

but when was the sentence?

The world may be 50 million years old

as even baboons have the word,

yet when was grammar invented?...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Jan 14th, 2017

Sleet and slush are fine manifestations

of silvered water—aqueous droplets

falling from high like mana for rivers,

hand-dug wells, reservoirs, and mountain streams.

The squishy, peculiar consistency

of sleet or...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Dec 29th, 2016

Cinema, religion, and poetry

are all a form of fiction like novels,

painter's portraits, music, philosophy.

Well-written history alone travels

with a solid factual foundation:

collected, analyzed, categorized.

Yet historical interpretation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Dec 18th, 2016

For Christmas, let us put aside grudges,

gripes, and obsession—or piquant outrage

at this or that bauble blinking in eye.

Fellowship breathes at the heart of Christmas

when love is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 13th, 2016

            Snowflakes dither in ambivalent air,

            blowing here and there, every-which-way, float-

            ing like paper and melting on eyelids,

            nestling on my...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Nov 28th, 2016

Gazing at blackbird on deck-side table

during cold November, tree-stripped drizzle

when dark clouds lower with dour bluster,

I like to warm my feet under cover

as I recollect childhood...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 22nd, 2016

Orange-red oak leaf spiraling to earth

through gray-blue air in silent slow motion

signals the firm arrival of autumn,

a time to offer fervent thanksgiving

for the abundance of fruitful...

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