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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
Mon Jun 19th, 2017

When life is raindrops on slate steps

Petals falling from sunflowers

Dawn rising east with rosy hue

Urge to make love half awake

Bathrobe close to skin

Baby rollicking rattling...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 12th, 2017

Spring: aconite and daffodil

Have vanished yet flocks of flowers—

lilacs, rainbows of tulips, purple iris

surround a path to the driveway.

 

Everything appears reborn in vivid color

while...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 5th, 2017

Prizing doubt

they certainly

do it well,

philosophers

gazing at the mind

 

amid encrusted sediment

of sandstone fossils,

crunching numbers

few intellects

can comprehend...

 

and then there are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 29th, 2017

If words could resurrect the dead,

we would speak those words today.

If war was a solution to problems,

we would have no problems today.

If the past were not...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 23rd, 2017

As violinist

to violin

or flautist

to flute,

 

the poet

wed to Muse

must choose

notes inspired

by lunar music

unwritten

except

to inner ear

& its mystic

exaltation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 15th, 2017

At Notre Dame one can sit in wooden pew

to hear an organist play Vidor or Saint-Saens;

you can tour the Vatican to see ceiling murals

painted by the marvelous...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 9th, 2017

Feel the inner green landscape

of gentle falling rain

as it coats black street

with fresh patina

communicating peace

to pulse of blood running in brain,

much like willowing wind...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 3rd, 2017

Few rise before sunrise

for the symphony of bird song.

Fewer can identify that song,

which humans have heard

ever since they were human,

and even before that.

 

Music...

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