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Poetry

We spoke of you today, James Stuart Dunne,

Surgeon of the trenches. The swallows rose

And dived across the skies in tumult fun

In practice for their pyramids. Their great-

Great Ancestors had known you round Clonkeen

Preparing for your Internship. Your dream,

Soon nightmare broken, in the savage scream

Of salvage amputation. You set sail

Today, in August, Nineteen and fourteen;

The swallows looked the same, but saw the change

Through smoke, and noise and turmoil, and despair

Where broken men bewildered, found your care.

By rampart breach a Surgeon’s skill was known,

Where brave men wept for home, and home disowned.


One of a writer’s faults remains worship

of the bog-soggy ground on which he walks.

That ground is words and his holy idol

remains the dictionary on a shelf.

To the letter he wishes to be true,

yet a poet who wants to make things new

will forge fresh likenesses in the mirror

of words like a child making faces

that impishly, archaically appear

to resemble the facial expressions

of monkeys playing games with each other:

winking, grinning, mocking, and gesturing.

Unless the Monkey in the poet laughs,

Words will never become epigraph.


First frost of autumn on petals and leaves.

Summer is already a memory

lost in the cold fog of cloudy morning.

Time to pick apples, quince, say fond farewell

to desperate insects flitting about.

The sky will soon be a river of snow

And my mind will be as frozen as ice.

Boiling kettle will now be my best friend.

 

My grandson is more accepting of change,

which may say something about my own age.

It’s time once more to become a bookworm,

find warmth in the wisdom of other men.

Did I say wisdom? Does wisdom still play

a role in life on a cold winter’s day?


I read in newspapers that someone has died.

Sudden death seems to happen every day,

yet few people appear aware of this

as tv sit-coms and sporting events

celebrate victories or fantasies,

while thousands die each day in global war.

And just what is it that we are here for?

 

Some say we’re merely here to gobble food,

do laundry, cut grass, play video games,

or do jobs that robots ask us to do.

Few possess satisfactory answers.

As for me, I’m skipping out to sunlight

to watch blue passing clouds, ask butterflies

if they know why humans are so obtuse.


Sleep is the thinker’s laboratory

where people chat and mostly agree

on what is to be done in this frail world.

Conversation may be enigmatic,

but everyone speaks with shy eloquence.

Dreamworld rarely follows chronology

as one remains spectator to one’s self

acting in imaginary pageant.

 

No rules crimp the script of Dreamworld—

just about anything can happen there.

Dreamworld escape can be a pleasant place

where problems are solved to satisfaction.

Yet waking to sunlight with dew on lawn,

nightmarish confusion trumpets its horn.  


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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Sep 14th, 2018

The roosters have taken over the farm.

Pigs have been set loose to eat the produce.

Horses have been confined to the red barn.

All cats, dogs, and caged birds...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 4th, 2018

America, your rouge looks like a whore:

conflict of interests and corruption,

addiction to international war,

insults, for-profit incarceration.

Some say, “Nothing new, we’ve been here before,”

but the algorithm-scale...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 28th, 2018

Is poetry a proper profession?

Or the blind route of absurd digression?

Or is it an awkward transformation

of purely personal indigestion?

 

Is it the art of absolute failure...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 21st, 2018

Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Aug 15th, 2018

The First Congregational Church

is now available for meetings,

weddings, and social events.

 

The Presbyterian Church

with its big bell tower and giant clock

is now a Baptist Church....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 7th, 2018

I’ve heard folks making fun of Homer

and his “rosy-fingered dawn” trope,

but those who say such things

have little appreciation of dawn:

its pristine hope, awesome promise,

that glow...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Aug 1st, 2018

Waves pound the shore with sputtering froth.

Young children terrified of crushing waves

are quite content with sifting malleable sand.

Old men lounge in sunlight like lizards.

Breast-less young girls...

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