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Poetry

When rain pelts, pours incessantly for days,

streets swell with splashing puddles, running streams.

A temptation to sleep-away the day

afflicts a blue, pampered, preening psyche.

 

Under microscope-lens water reveals

fifty million morphing, dancing patterns;

they descend about our ears like droll tears,

each drop containing myriad marvels.

 

These window drummers whisper history

of slow molecular evolution

about which we are blindly ignorant,

yet we imbibe some of that legacy

at faucet, or in the drenched sensation

of showering in lucent refreshment.


The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring vehicles,

or children plagued by traumatic nightmare,

or one’s own insomniac, riddle dreams,

which may inspire momentary scare.

 

Still silence in the night is a pleasure

to be savored like a cheerful bouquet

of flowers you have picked from your garden.

Silence itself is a form of leisure

like gazing fondly at the Milky Way

or contemplating your childhood again.


"Whoever becomes the leader in [artificial intelligence]

will become the ruler of the world" --Vladimir Putin

 

It’s coming very soon,

all around you quite a bit.

We’re now about noon,

nearly a fabulous fit.

 

Make sure to check all boxes

that apply to your dream life,

including all physical specs

for temp mates or wife.

 

All “work” will be performed

on portable computers

like autos, or just phoned

in to massive data servers.

 

You won’t have to worry or think—

It will all be done for you.

You can jus sit back and drink

dawn to dusk, laugh the day through.

 

Yes, we will all be like machines

in artificial neural networks

where language is rational

as we evolve greater “free will.”

 

In the end you and I

will live on as AI:

immortal algorithms

whose insidious mistakes

will happily replicate

without irony or hate.


Everything around us is mystery:

atoms in a raindrop, sudden thunder,

chemical composition of a tree,

trillions of stars whirling, bloom of flower,

that finger you use to stir your coffee

on this planet which offers such delight

amid rotational velocity

since that day you opened eyes to sunlight!

 

While some people blind themselves with cliché,

the cosmos careens on its merry way

to points unknown and unfathomable.

All we can work with is comparison.

Yet poetry is more than mere fable,

while God is hardly a theologian….


Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about vaunted ambition

as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves

while forebodings of winter shiver bones.

Just what is it that we wish to achieve?

All will pass, even renewal of leaves.

 

Yet many crave headline folly of news,

or the illusion of media fame.

It’s best to live kindly in the moment

where love conjures happy contentment,

and like mushrooms create your own small rain

by hefting your own spores of hope in air!


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Jun 25th, 2017

A little water now on your forehead

to remember we are all mostly water,

that we go with the flow like water,

that we are weak in the face of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 19th, 2017

When life is raindrops on slate steps

Petals falling from sunflowers

Dawn rising east with rosy hue

Urge to make love half awake

Bathrobe close to skin

Baby rollicking rattling...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 12th, 2017

Spring: aconite and daffodil

Have vanished yet flocks of flowers—

lilacs, rainbows of tulips, purple iris

surround a path to the driveway.

 

Everything appears reborn in vivid color

while...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 5th, 2017

Prizing doubt

they certainly

do it well,

philosophers

gazing at the mind

 

amid encrusted sediment

of sandstone fossils,

crunching numbers

few intellects

can comprehend...

 

and then there are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 29th, 2017

If words could resurrect the dead,

we would speak those words today.

If war was a solution to problems,

we would have no problems today.

If the past were not...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 23rd, 2017

As violinist

to violin

or flautist

to flute,

 

the poet

wed to Muse

must choose

notes inspired

by lunar music

unwritten

except

to inner ear

& its mystic

exaltation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 15th, 2017

At Notre Dame one can sit in wooden pew

to hear an organist play Vidor or Saint-Saens;

you can tour the Vatican to see ceiling murals

painted by the marvelous...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 9th, 2017

Feel the inner green landscape

of gentle falling rain

as it coats black street

with fresh patina

communicating peace

to pulse of blood running in brain,

much like willowing wind...

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