Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

Li Po was correct about collecting

books for a writer’s personal pleasure.

Reading copies just don’t last forever.

They are subject to mold, worms; common dust

damages them. Pages turn pale yellow,

fray, become brittle, even turn to dust.

If they are any good—like Homer or James Joyce—

they are reprinted each generation.

 

A writer should not overly admire

another writer, not even great ones

because in the end that’s a distraction.

Best to heave your shoulder to the iron plow

and drive your crooked furrow as you will

without ever thinking of our great Will!


Crack, Crack, Crack

sings sheet ice in winter when the sun shouts

and ice melts slowly with drip, drip, drip

while geese land in flurry on frozen pond.

 

Tweet, Tweet, Tweet

say bright birds when the first buds of Spring bloom

from apple, cherry, and promising plum

on the rolling hills of heavenly breath.

 

Moo, Moo, Moo

say brindled cows in drowsy summer heat

as they eat green grass and dandelion

under blue sky until haloed moonrise.

 

Clop, Clop, Clop,

halt, hooves of horses on rural lane

when Autumn leaves turn ocher, yellow, brown

as sun sets orange over western hills.


At six I had a yellow bike, 
its pedals thick with wooden blocks, 
so that my rubber soles could reach. 
I rode up to the empty school, 
then racing downhill, missed the turn
and pitched into a vacant lot,
tangling legs, spokes, and rocks.

I visit that place now and then, 
see little slope, little danger in 
a crash. There’s no mnemonic scar.
But facts can’t curb the quickening 
of that leap into air....


The stolid turkey in my freezer

has been hibernating a full year,

a left-over from the year before.

 

Melting in my kitchen sink

like some sci-fi experiment,

I expected his wings to furl, fly

into the oven and blush red-brown

like leaves littering the landscape

of a pastoral that was habitual

under my wandering feet in autumn

as I walk unconscious in a world

teaming with wonder sleeping

under the crackling patina of morning frost

which evokes humble Thanksgiving.


First snowfall is usually a mere prank,

as it was this morning with a dusting

of snow, roads and skies clear as a whistle.

But during the night coydogs were howling

as if they had cornered over-sized prey—

deer most likely, maybe two miles away

in deep darkness before rain turned to snow.

 

That snow was so exciting for my son

who, at almost four, built his first snowman

last winter with hat, coal eyes, scarf, straw broom.

I don’t know what it is that attracts him

to snow sculpture: I admit doing it

when I, too, was that age decades ago,

frolicking in fluffy, malleable snow!


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 6th, 2018

The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 30th, 2018

"Whoever becomes the leader in [artificial intelligence]

will become the ruler of the world" --Vladimir Putin

 

It’s coming very soon,

all around you quite a bit.

We’re now about...

for Douglas
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 23rd, 2018

Everything around us is mystery:

atoms in a raindrop, sudden thunder,

chemical composition of a tree,

trillions of stars whirling, bloom of flower,

that finger you use to stir your...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 16th, 2018

When brown-red leaves dance in autumn wind

and the cries of crickets no longer sing,

heart grows sterner, appetite increases,

wanton thoughts rage before the coming freeze.

Heavy rain warns...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 9th, 2018

Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 2nd, 2018

Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 25th, 2018

Mint: a cosmopolitan family

with so many attractive relatives

that they cannot be kept from your table!

I’m in love with sage, basil, oregano,

while I keep in touch with...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 18th, 2018

Black ants are gathering short, crooked stems

while an architect ant directs the work

with the patience of ten million sunsets

or the movement of a glacier ten miles,

as...

Pages