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Poetry

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain generalists

who attempt eagle-like aerial maps

portraying the plight of humanity.

 

For a poet, so much is metaphor—

the basis of all languages we speak.

The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:

aura red glow on tree bark at sunset

or the patter of rain on splattered roof

makes all the difference to scribbled lines,

which is what a poet most dreams about.


Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray designer suit

Hugs your supple frame.

The wonderment enthralls me.

Are you a tap dancer?

Are you a celebrity?

Main Stem? On Broadway?

MY view of you from the bus window

Doesn’t answer my questions,

But I loooooooooove that purple hat!


When whitecaps wave with ardent excitement

and fierce wind topples umbrellas like kite

flying surf side while waves pound sand—

birds screeching with ambiguous delight

and tykes digging desultory holes in sand,

clouds remain sailing heroes of the day

scudding to their global destiny

as ambassadors of climatic play.

 

Those unfettered clouds have no small regrets

inhabiting those blue celestial spheres

that some humans daydream upon absurdly

in moments of narcistic reverie.

The cawing of a seagull on bleached beach

is older than mankind’s ambitious reach.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Jul 26th, 2018

Rain patters on roof

all night long without reprieve

in an old story known

to ears of humankind

since huts and houses

dotted the landscape

of furrowed rows

while people...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jul 17th, 2018

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 11th, 2018

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...

The New Frontier
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jun 26th, 2018

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...

for John Hersey Jr
by John Good Iron in Poetry
Fri Jun 15th, 2018

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

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jun 5th, 2018

My three-year-old is in love with Iris,

preferring purple over yellow

as they explode in June bloom.

They are messengers of the gods

I tell him, even though he is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 30th, 2018

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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 23rd, 2018

On a glorious, cool, springy morning

when birds are implacably a-twitter,

a unique miracle of the moment

swathes my feet with its blessing: dripping dew.

Inside each drop of this...

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