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Poetry

Vibrations behind eyelid magnify

exploding sensors in inner cortex

with soothing, calming, implicit élan

that thrills spinal cord, wired head-hairs—

such the violin’s delicate finesse.

 

Its sweetness is like sunrise on a hill,

bloom of a red rose bejeweled with dewdrops,

green-sheen encasement of a chrysalis,

fluttering flight of monarch butterfly,

peaceful awe of horizon summer moon.

 

Youngest of joyful, antique instruments,

fashioned of spruce top, maple neck, bridge, ribs,

ebony fingerboard, willow blocks, brass bar.

Violins improve with age like great wines:

makers hold secrets of the mystic craft.

 

But even greater secrets are burnished

in the hands of great violin masters

like Kreisler, Heifetz, Oistrakh, Menuhin,

Stern, Faust, Mutter, Meyers, Perlman, Bell and….

Five centuries of hypnotic technique:

 

Amati, Guarneri, Stradivari,

and those imaginative composers

who create those slender swerve-curves of thrill

that seize the listener’s presuming neck,

freighting the brain such Elysium joy.

 


Among the delicate, delightful

creatures in the musical menagerie,

the most alarming, even frightening

animal to a child of two or three

is the organ, Behemoth of the Zoo.

 

It’s bellows pump thunder of heavens,

roars from the bottomless pits of hell,

and yet its Stop can part the burly clouds

with sunlit, spearing jigs or gossamer fugue

crawling from spine to cerebellum joy.

 

And between all extremes of feeling,

tone-colors to shade every listing mood

emerge like the swell of brook and stream

flowing into mighty rivers mouthing

an ocean of eternal time and night!

 

The range of the organ remains unsurpassed:

it is in itself an orchestra of fifty

with one dexterous conductor pedaling

like champion cyclist up a mountain

for glorious, panoramic view

 

that may convert a person of open mind

to fall to knee in sudden, awed wonder,

as tiny bones tingle, reverberate

like reeds waving in brown bracken marsh

while sunlight beams down in burnished glory!


A trumpet rings like a new breath of life:

the mind clears away all obsolete dross.

Trumpet re-arranges synapses.

Two feet feel as if they carry no weight—

one is transported to a Lotus Land….

 

What creature does not respond to trumpet?

Even a mouse or dog trembles in awe.

In the hands of a skilled trumpet player,

the earth itself half-appears to tremble.

Trumpet, the ace of all wind instruments!

 

Having the highest register in brass,

the horn can project a golden tone

that vibrates the occult cerebellum,

causing distant toes to wiggle in joy.

The trumpet is an awesome instrument.

 

A hot trumpet may extend a refrain

into the rarest realm of ecstasy

and enter the chamber of the sublime

where God reclines in mystic majesty

beyond reason or bright apprehension.

 

A well-played trumpet is simply divine,

whether baroque, romantic, or in jazz

where subtle rhythms may excite the knees.

A strong trumpet does all it can to please

the inner ear of anyone that’s here.


I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what I'd be gathering could be wool.

 

An inconsequential breeze ruffles the leaves

while some red and yellow flyers take off.

To know that this may be the last warm day

of the year provides poignancy and repose,

which is why I tire of being merely human.

 

I seek divine laughter in the rustling leaves

without any care for antic augury.

This sacramental day, work should be minimal—

it shouldn't be taken too seriously!

To loaf is godly and not blasphemy!

 

Great minds can only think while doodling

about the unknown: that element of play

predisposes the spirit to expand

to the cloud-laden stratosphere where

imaginary squirrels climb and play.


Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo and diminuendo

outdo other wind instruments.

 

Look how modestly the clarinet hides

in an orchestral throng!

Its notes come from down below

to arrive, amid stops, to the ear

 

with sensory bursts like flowers

exploding in air, its petals landing

in your surprised  lap, as if to say:

“That’s a high or low you didn’t expect.”

 

Those who loved you most:

Mozart, Beethoven, Rimsky-Korsakov,

Brahms, Strauss, Prokofiev, Debussy,

Wagner, Weber, Poulenc, Stravinsky.

 

Never middling you are either

sensually low or spiritually high.

While you might be manic-depressive,

you deliver emphatic mood clothed in blue.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Nov 10th, 2016

White frost coats the blear eyelid of my car.

Piercing cold stings the larder of my lungs.

I’m happy it’s really ripe pumpkin time.  

My physique has not yet...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Nov 2nd, 2016

Ego is strange because it’s so familiar.

The rose takes for granted the soil below.

All birds assume azure aerial space,

just as we take for granted the air we...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Oct 26th, 2016

Cricket in my palm

Not uttering sound

 

Cloud above my head

Shape of slow ship

 

Chewing stalk of grass

Wind waving maple tree

 

Sad September flowers

Yellow-jackets...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 18th, 2016

At two I kicked orange-red-yellow leaves

shushing underfoot into damp twilight.

 

At four I rolled in brisk, dry, crackling leaves

until I fell to a swoon of wonder.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 13th, 2016

Pretty striped stink bug, where are you going?

Come down from the roof—going to party?

Or is it some food you are looking for?

Maybe locate a mate before sunrise?...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 6th, 2016

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

to blooming lilac sprays

during early days of sun-drop spring.

 

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

into the thicket of adolescence

where music...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Sep 26th, 2016

There are times when to love the calls of birds

Becomes a crime worse than theft or incest;

When hills and valleys described in fleet words

Evoke anger of a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 20th, 2016

Gusting winds—whiplike—batter bent bushes,

bowing, battered,  bludgeoned; resilient trees

wave as storm rages with ravenous pitch,

while in cottage a lonely candle burns,

comforting four hands at plain deal table.

 ...

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