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Poetry

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

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

 

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.

 


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 morning

when clouds want to rain,

yet hold back from raining,

as if release itself were a pain

 

rather than an act of creation

that showers earth and mind

with blue flowers of fruition

blooming well-ahead of time

 

in the rattling narrative

of ordinary dishes and pans.

Husbandry I daily give,

despite any creative plans.


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 world

and Mister T has given his fiat

in the same way the Creator gave us

the universe to be the ruler of,

just as we men rule women and peons

who labor in our vineyards with visas

approved by the highest algorithms

serving our super computer frames.

ALL space aliens will be deported

To VANA PENAL PLANETS LTD.


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 dry. Whose paintings are gaudy? Certainly not ours!

 

Gaudy is not even askable, John. We joylessly assimilate the sun,

the many hundreds of kilometers of super-arid gravel plains and dunes,

while other painters in Namibia paint karoo ecoregions...green succulents,

 

monkey beetles, and melittid bees, and the densely foggy shoreline

where the Atlantic's cold waters meet Africa's hot climate. Other painters

paint with violet, orange, yellow, green; their tribal villages have names.

 

Other painters hint at shafts of sapphire, the weightlessness of deep water

beyond the shore; but not us, John. No, we sketch in black pencil

and charcoal in recycled notebooks...two seriously sunburnt imbeciles.

 

Sure, we dream of whalesongs. Sure, we dream of rainforest bird calls.

Doesn't everybody? But we only dream, don't we?

And now one of us has died -- suddenly died -- and I am troubled more

 

by insomnia than usual; I act on the belief I need to paint, need to live,

living by no less, no more, than by stubbornness. What I need to do

is stretch out, and discharge myself of myself; look for green from afar.


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 dewy entanglement.

 

The rebuke for picking a tomato

was disappointing. I was

banished from the dense garden

where trellises hefted peas,

beans, and grapes up to the roofline

of the shanty single car garage.

 

Joe was patient, methodical,

virtues that did not grow in me,

as I wished to grow skyward

with a different strain of seed

that found harvest in allegory,

metaphor, and entangled poetry.


for Bob and Kathleen
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 1st, 2017

That blue-black cloud you thought

was laboring on the indifferent horizon

then sailing above your head in a blink

now hovers gently like a mist in your lungs

 

and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Apr 20th, 2017

Buttercups bursting in greeny meadow,

oriole chattering in oak above,

geese squawking and euphorbia prolix

under golden orb setting in the west,

as midges celebrate their most brief lives.

Amid...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Apr 18th, 2017

when poetry astonished the ear,

yet astronomy, physics, and chemistry

now pioneer that frontier.

Mathematics has overshadowed metaphor.

 

A poet may recollect a full moon,

but satellites can map...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 10th, 2017

If you don’t have an appointment,

getting lost is the most under-rated

experience you may have in life.

 

If walking, one can observe

a variety of foliage, stones, and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 3rd, 2017

Physicists can prove there’s a fourth dimension,

yet, try as we can, we cannot imagine

what the fourth looks like, or how it might be.

Being by trade a poet,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Mar 28th, 2017

Spring’s a-comin’-in

 

ice on deck

yard a wreck

 

rain stippling lake

birds at seed cake

 

clouds proliferate

mallards rotate

 

my peepers see

fallen tree

 

mud...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 24th, 2017

swerving like old ox

 

grackles cawing

insects crawling

 

trees bare

in cool air

 

driveway mucky mud

on windowsill dead ladybug

 

snow dripping from roof

cloudy sky...

(before Equinox)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Mar 15th, 2017

Blizzard-bound in white:

there’s ecstasy in wind-force,

sudden flake in the eye,

nose pinched red by cold,

mourning dove fluttering,

snow-laden fir branches

slowly swaying in gusts,

wind whirling fate,...

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