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Poetry

The bass provides musical foundation

for string and winds, prime springboard for rhythm

that propels the vector of instruments

to follow, build, dance with elegance.

Without good bass other players are lost.

 

The bass player is an unsung hero

who shoulders the base of a pyramid,

allowing others to sing unfettered.

A bass player is the soul of a band,

the psychologist of an orchestra.

 

Cool bass has unexpected energy,

dynamism beyond explanation,

the kernelled conundrum in a question.

Is not bass always asking questions?

Is it not asking you to dance for joy?

 

And does it not ask you sometimes to weep?

Bass can be a sad cave-sound resounding….

Don’t we all blink twice at a bass player

lugging his instrument at an airport?

Without bass our intellect cannot fly…. 


Is this really me making a snowball?

Or is it some routine childhood relic?

Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:

compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,

so that one can launch a circle to air,

or feel its splattering impact on cheek.

We toss snowballs like cartoon characters,

yet cold frost weighing on our nose is real.

 

The heated life indoors appears more real.

The woodstove becomes a philosopher,

wise with dryness, delicious warmth of air.

Impatient toes can’t get enough of stove.

An old man can’t get enough of childhood;

a child can’t get enough of the word would.

 


That man’s a silly fellow in the sky

who only comes to me when he’s drunk.

He can never answer the question why,

or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;

he glares at me so impersonally

that I think he’s either profound or dumb….

 

His distant far air of formality

contains no music, not even a hum

of disagreement, something I prefer

to stimulate modest conversation

about the universe of conjecture,

which often concludes with drear dejection.

 

Yet I raise my wee glass to Mister Moon,

hoping that I might see him once more soon.


Cold moon riding high, bright over small hill,

snow crunching underfoot , an owl hooting

like a bearer of benevolent will

amid frozen shadows, tree twigs groping

like frozen fingers at pitch-black darkness.

Yet morning sunlight glinting on crystals

magnifies the rays with blinding glitter,

while frost makes the touch of metal bitter

on trash can covers, railings without glove,

as flint-shredded snow swirls from roof above.

The concept of zero evaporates

like breath dispelled in air or morning mists.

There’s a harsh, bleak beauty in frightful cold

which creates wry humor: caustic, brief, droll.


When a superior flutist performs,

I feel the upper regions of my brain

to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe

before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar

of a secluded, pristine waterfall.

 

The flute unspools a cool ribbon of sound.

It wipes lines from the worried forehead;

it allows one to forget the body

and all the baggage of its sad defects.

The flute levitates all ten toes to speak.

 

Whether transverse or fipple recorder,

the bone flute is fifty-thousand years old;

the first sophisticated instrument,

it was the cerebral glory of Greece,

dazzling court jewel of French Enlightenment.

 

The flautist who put my breath on pause was

Jean-Pierre Rampal at Carnegie Hall,

giant of circular breathing technique,

who could make the brain tremble in delight.

The trilling flute is a soothing healer.

 

The flute conjures bright bucolic landscape

of hills, rocks, dim caves, streams, and purling rills.

Flute is autochthonous, archetypal,

plaything of a three-year-old child’s birthday.

The healing flute is the child of wonder. 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 15th, 2016

When the moon is full and nearest to earth, 

I peer out my door, listening to naught: 

Silence so stark, nude, a startling stillness 

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Nov 10th, 2016

White frost coats the blear eyelid of my car.

Piercing cold stings the larder of my lungs.

I’m happy it’s really ripe pumpkin time.  

My physique has not yet...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Nov 2nd, 2016

Ego is strange because it’s so familiar.

The rose takes for granted the soil below.

All birds assume azure aerial space,

just as we take for granted the air we...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Oct 26th, 2016

Cricket in my palm

Not uttering sound

 

Cloud above my head

Shape of slow ship

 

Chewing stalk of grass

Wind waving maple tree

 

Sad September flowers

Yellow-jackets...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 18th, 2016

At two I kicked orange-red-yellow leaves

shushing underfoot into damp twilight.

 

At four I rolled in brisk, dry, crackling leaves

until I fell to a swoon of wonder.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 13th, 2016

Pretty striped stink bug, where are you going?

Come down from the roof—going to party?

Or is it some food you are looking for?

Maybe locate a mate before sunrise?...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 6th, 2016

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

to blooming lilac sprays

during early days of sun-drop spring.

 

I followed a bright yellow butterfly

into the thicket of adolescence

where music...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Sep 26th, 2016

There are times when to love the calls of birds

Becomes a crime worse than theft or incest;

When hills and valleys described in fleet words

Evoke anger of a...

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