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Poetry

The chirp of phoebe wakes me at daybreak

while green grasshopper greets me at breakfast.

A woodpecker tattoos his pointy beak

into a black birch that will not long last

the rigor of harsh winter seasonal weather.

With autumn approaching, I’ll need to cut

a blizzard of logs, stack them up together,

check that the house stands snug, tidy, and shut

against whatever winter may offer

as landscape suffers inclement weather.

 

Television not Nature rules the day;

magazines boast how trendy models look

as bankers cheer the rise of Wall Street stock.

We are but dust on a planet of clay.


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 in ventilated containers

shipped to the gold shore of Brazil's Rio,

dumped on the beach to be shell foragers,

or grow sugarcane  in Curacao.

 

Removing Dreamers will cause Recession,

so we will need to remove some others.

Maybe we need an ethnic lottery?

Would that not be an act of Compassion?

Yet first we must eliminate taxes

as we consolidate our anarchy.

 


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 was a red rush of confusion.

When Will at thirty succeeded romance

as discipline became a burning sun,

Work fired a bright, burnished, whirling dance.

 

Yet when Will and Romance combined

at fifty to forge a great synthesis

with the emergence of exquisite skill,

life appeared no longer obtusely blind

to the space between our parenthesis

in the song we so casually distill. 


“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 nearly a certainty,

perhaps even by twenty twenty-nine

with our no more “Mr. Nice Guy” policy,

which means flash night raids on suspected men

as well as their many wives and children.

 

Re-stocking Guantanamo for torture—

and further research on advanced torture—

will insure our global supremacy

and the triumph of our economy.

This also means we can’t afford health care,

but this policy shows we really care.


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,

and dire lack of hope in our politique

where bigotry became our hill beacon.

Yet that is a nightmare Christians reject

by tossing flowers at tanks and rifles.

 

Love music is a hug, embrace of two

or more against the Tower of Babel

where words are weapons, instead of comfort

toward a future bound only by love

and valorous virtues of true friendship.

As for hate, I’m not encouraging it.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Aug 29th, 2016

In Bryce Canyon burnt ochre sandstone

lazes in sunlight like an arrow line

leading to hidden caves of bleak

antique beauty where time evaporates

like a dwindling puddle on gray slate....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Aug 18th, 2016

Idyll

 

Summer evening fragrance,

sun dipping orange

through tree matrix

in refulgent pink:

scent of lily, poppy, dahlia,

coreopsis, linum;

guttural frogs on pond,

hummingbird wings abuzz,

giggle of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 9th, 2016

Marcelo Carrion at 81

 

At eighty-one

you are the one

to whom we look

for wisdom when shook

by odd events

or absurd comments

on how we live

and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Aug 3rd, 2016

I fell in love

with my shadow

when I first noticed it

just before my second birthday

when I thought the scent of flowers

was an overwhelming intoxicant

I could...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Tue Jul 26th, 2016

Questions for the Pacific

 

Do dreams like rivulets

of love return to you,

having altered little or nothing

     but themselves? are we

 

just a nuisance

or an...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 20th, 2016

At the age of two a daisy evoked wonder worth contemplating for a minute or two.

At the age of four a lilting ball in air was a wonder that...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 13th, 2016

When Lively

Conversation stamps a dance

without set pattern

although it will set patterns

improvised in the moment:

patterns of association

and linked ideas

moving like spears of sunlight.

or...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Wed Jul 6th, 2016

Brilliant Summer

on certain days life is a sea

intermittently hushed

 

furious, unaccountable

in its repetitions it flashes

 

is a terrible blade it cuts

brutally cuts while...

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