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Poetry

So many things that I once learned as a child

are either obsolete or downright wrong:

that mushrooms, celery have no nutrition,

that coffee and chocolate are quite bad.

Jupiter now has seventy-nine moons?

Who knew men and women are preparing

their own demise through over-population?

Or that religion could be so corrupt?

That science-denial would be a fad?

That knotweed would rule your backyard garden?

Can’t we just elect a big bullfrog king

to solve our problems with his magic ring?

 


Propelled by torrents onto the lawn

    her fragile body wracked by rain

 

what looked like a throbbing leaf or grounded sparrow

   turned out to be the largest moth I’d ever seen

 

Watery drops rolled off her cinnamon wings like mercury balls

  when fully dry, they opened to the span of an octave

 

each wing had what looked like eye spots

   each circle, wide with surprise

  

as if drawn in pastel, the orbital rims goldenrod,

   yellow and chicory blue;

 

   each cellophane-like center,

the sclera, clear all the way through

 

but there was an inch-long gash in one wing

   which complicated things.

 

She rested indoors in the shadow of a paper bag,

    eventually to walk out from under, flapping;

 

antennae, twitched full of life,

   but she could not lift off 

 

could not propel herself upward

   and as she tried, the rip augmented


I passed an orchard twice a day.

Never stopped, till I saw the way

The orchard springs to life: slender, small,

Tender greens with pink-milk petals.

 

But up close, they looked more stumps than trees—

With sawed-off arms and tortured knees—

Like headless, scarred, and stymied men.

I wondered how they drew me in.

 

Had I not seen the crippling care,

Not understood I’d find more there

Than simple, pleasing, youthful joy—

The things that bend and we bend for?

 

I thought, let's not stand in rows,

Not let Them choose where the root goes,

Never let us be cut or become mute,

Not flower only for the fruit.

 

Let's grow with wild abandon, truly,

Just as us—to say how far.

Let's be ruthless and unruly,

Exactly who we think we are!


Glowing, winking embers at poker-point

become swarming tea leaves in your cup;

cast of I-Ching demythologized

by devout, mindful meditation.

 

Daily horoscope lifts aspiration,

a prayer to a saint accomplishes same;

Jack of Diamonds crooning to Queen of Spades,

replacing entrail of sacrificed bird.

 

Astrological headgear discovers

Archer, Ram, Lion, the Twins and Maiden—

perhaps even a fate you would prefer

in an imagined reincarnation.

 

From Egypt, Italy, to Las Vegas,

the turn of a card determined your luck;

then eighteenth century cartomancy

offered occult, improvised prophecy. 

 

That chattering blue telephone psychic

will tell you that you are halfway there

to what you dream in early twilght

as your bill becomes astronomical.

 

Rolling dice offers another fate

with better odds than roulette,

as the game of chance escalates

down the hoof-pounding stretch.

 

That old magic of childhood wonder

when gazing at blinking, isolate stars,

or caught astonished in clap of thunder—

was it all chance—or imagined sighs?


Puddles stipple-drilled, dandelions closed,

cherry bush waving frail pink-and-white blooms,

that satisfying softness under foot,

aural breeze on ears, mallards swim in pond,

full planting moon rising over east hills

as pond peepers sing mezzo-soprano

until the first warming rays of sunlight

bathe hill and valley, stream and running rill

while chickadees chirp and woodpeckers drum

intense tattoo in cerulean blue.

And what about that evening rainbow

that arcs across gray sky in gentle mist?

Then I wiggle my toes in blissful joy,

walking with renewed cordiality!


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Apr 1st, 2018

Just a note

to remind everyone

that you may

be reborn

if you visit

a waterfall

in springtime:

 

breathe in

ionized air

as your eye

roves over

water rushing...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Mar 26th, 2018

Palms lay strewn before me.

I knew that was a vanity

I would someday pay

for, yet I did not see

that it would eventually be

such an immense agony....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Mar 19th, 2018

Bold snowman stands

with anthracite button,

scarf, hat, and carrot nose

 

with stern, wan smile

as he sinks to ground

like parboiled politicians

of immemorial past.

 

As snow...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Mar 12th, 2018

Blizzard-bound in white:

there’s ecstasy in wind-force,

sudden melting mote in eye,

nose pinched red by cold,

 

mourning dove fluttering,

snow-laden fir branches

slowly swaying in swollen gust,

wind-whirling...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Mar 7th, 2018

Oh, those old mysteries of lost childhood:

icebox, ice pic with shards glinting in sun,

gray cloudy days with rain dripping from eaves,

the blossoms of an apple tree in...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 27th, 2018

One travels to leave behind

the certainty of boredom,

only to find unfamiliarity

in landscape, people,

customs, and common sense.

 

One cheerfully returns home

to discover a familiar bed,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 21st, 2018

Six inches of fluffy snow

loafing on fence, walk, and roof.

Imprisoned by white,

I’m fixated by birds:

for once they are serious,

not fighting or squabbling,

there’s no time...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 13th, 2018

February evokes mediations

on mortality: not only the cold,

but the bleak crunch of ice on fastened boot,

plumage panicky at the bird-feeder,

lowering slate clouds that appear endless,

bare...

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