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Poetry

The chirp of phoebe wakes me at daybreak

while green grasshopper greets me at breakfast.

A woodpecker tattoos his pointy beak

into a black birch that will not long last

the rigor of harsh winter seasonal weather.

With autumn approaching, I’ll need to cut

a blizzard of logs, stack them up together,

check that the house stands snug, tidy, and shut

against whatever winter may offer

as landscape suffers inclement weather.

 

Television not Nature rules the day;

magazines boast how trendy models look

as bankers cheer the rise of Wall Street stock.

We are but dust on a planet of clay.


President DT loves all the Dreamers,

but Compassion dictates that they must go.

They can all be packed in train containers,

run en masse over the Rio Bravo,

or put in ventilated containers

shipped to the gold shore of Brazil's Rio,

dumped on the beach to be shell foragers,

or grow sugarcane  in Curacao.

 

Removing Dreamers will cause Recession,

so we will need to remove some others.

Maybe we need an ethnic lottery?

Would that not be an act of Compassion?

Yet first we must eliminate taxes

as we consolidate our anarchy.

 


When Reason died at the age of twenty,

replaced as it was by Romance of sex

as skin became the only certainty

while I stroked the beloved’s neck,

the world was a red rush of confusion.

When Will at thirty succeeded romance

as discipline became a burning sun,

Work fired a bright, burnished, whirling dance.

 

Yet when Will and Romance combined

at fifty to forge a great synthesis

with the emergence of exquisite skill,

life appeared no longer obtusely blind

to the space between our parenthesis

in the song we so casually distill. 


“Trump's Afghanistan strategy a breath of fresh air” @thehill.com

 

We are “fully committed” to our war

in far-off, mountainous Afghanistan.

Despite no over-all plan for the war,

victory is nearly a certainty,

perhaps even by twenty twenty-nine

with our no more “Mr. Nice Guy” policy,

which means flash night raids on suspected men

as well as their many wives and children.

 

Re-stocking Guantanamo for torture—

and further research on advanced torture—

will insure our global supremacy

and the triumph of our economy.

This also means we can’t afford health care,

but this policy shows we really care.


If you were eyeing the partial eclipse,

I saw it, too, here with slight hazy sky,

yet a larger eclipse was in my heart,

roiled by bleak, corrupt, social decay,

and dire lack of hope in our politique

where bigotry became our hill beacon.

Yet that is a nightmare Christians reject

by tossing flowers at tanks and rifles.

 

Love music is a hug, embrace of two

or more against the Tower of Babel

where words are weapons, instead of comfort

toward a future bound only by love

and valorous virtues of true friendship.

As for hate, I’m not encouraging it.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 27th, 2016

Illuminations

 

While blunt words of a poet are his wings

that must soar up into the clouds and sky,

his heart often remains modestly shy

when he rummages in...

by George Quasha in Poetry
Mon Jun 20th, 2016

traveling at 90 hands free and no fear

preverbs for José Reissig on his birthday

 

A poem never asks why it says what it says.

Some live accordingly.

Our...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Jun 19th, 2016

Let’s celebrate the hero on the floor

 

My father was a machine steel-cutter.

He would often arrive home with splinters,

sometimes as many as a deep dozen.

 

My...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Mon Jun 13th, 2016

Goodbye to the Lamb

Wheat, apricots, immediate love,

the April lamb’s insouciance,

whatever the sun can manage —

 

I want to stay . . . with the rushes

along...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 6th, 2016

Senior Moments

                for Cherry

You forget the name of a character in a Trollope novel

but that’s understandable.

You forget the name of the company that provides your electricity...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri May 27th, 2016

Say Hello

 

Like flowering seeds in tornado breeze,

not all soldiers survive their assigned task.

And not all civilians offer their thanks

to those who have survived their brush...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Mon May 23rd, 2016
That man
 
              that I may reduce the monster to myself  
—Stevens
 
What is his game? what horse 
can carry him,...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat May 14th, 2016

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...

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