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Poetry

Blasted flowers stand withered in bright sunlight

while others like chrysanthemums prosper.

Lingering phlox might attract hummingbirds

while late moths and butterflies flutter in air

performing snap-ballet of leaps and twirls

above seeping crenelated brown margin

of leaves, fading flowers, crinkled and furled.

 

Heaps of corn whisper in silken bounty,

long green beans dangle in autumnal air.

Squash, plump pumpkins, chives, juicy plums,

sweet basil, ripe melon, hairy quince

all scent our nostrils, dizzy the eye

as baskets and pails burst with overflow—

a cornucopia of color, scent, and shape.

 

In ancient Anglo-Saxon days the lord

was keeper of the tribal granary key,

the only man who might ration out

bread, grain, sundry dried fruit

during unseasonal winter weather.

 

Days, nights, grow pensive in pendulum swing

as leaves turn yellow, brown, screaming red.

The scales of Libra groan to balance

that long-promised tether of tomorrow.

 

Great harvest accumulates with golden fruit:

Thanksgiving, that American Sabbath of the year,

tawny feast of plentiful harvest,

pivots our gratitude toward heaven—

wherever that highest node winks in sky,

saying “Thank you, dear Lord,

for heightened Joy of bountiful harvest.”


Vibrations behind eyelid magnify

exploding sensors in inner cortex

with soothing, calming, implicit élan

that thrills spinal cord, wired head-hairs—

such the violin’s delicate finesse.

 

Its sweetness is like sunrise on a hill,

bloom of a red rose bejeweled with dewdrops,

green-sheen encasement of a chrysalis,

fluttering flight of monarch butterfly,

peaceful awe of horizon summer moon.

 

Youngest of joyful, antique instruments,

fashioned of spruce top, maple neck, bridge, ribs,

ebony fingerboard, willow blocks, brass bar.

Violins improve with age like great wines:

makers hold secrets of the mystic craft.

 

But even greater secrets are burnished

in the hands of great violin masters

like Kreisler, Heifetz, Oistrakh, Menuhin,

Stern, Faust, Mutter, Meyers, Perlman, Bell and….

Five centuries of hypnotic technique:

 

Amati, Guarneri, Stradivari,

and those imaginative composers

who create those slender swerve-curves of thrill

that seize the listener’s presuming neck,

freighting the brain such Elysium joy.

 


Among the delicate, delightful

creatures in the musical menagerie,

the most alarming, even frightening

animal to a child of two or three

is the organ, Behemoth of the Zoo.

 

It’s bellows pump thunder of heavens,

roars from the bottomless pits of hell,

and yet its Stop can part the burly clouds

with sunlit, spearing jigs or gossamer fugue

crawling from spine to cerebellum joy.

 

And between all extremes of feeling,

tone-colors to shade every listing mood

emerge like the swell of brook and stream

flowing into mighty rivers mouthing

an ocean of eternal time and night!

 

The range of the organ remains unsurpassed:

it is in itself an orchestra of fifty

with one dexterous conductor pedaling

like champion cyclist up a mountain

for glorious, panoramic view

 

that may convert a person of open mind

to fall to knee in sudden, awed wonder,

as tiny bones tingle, reverberate

like reeds waving in brown bracken marsh

while sunlight beams down in burnished glory!


A trumpet rings like a new breath of life:

the mind clears away all obsolete dross.

Trumpet re-arranges synapses.

Two feet feel as if they carry no weight—

one is transported to a Lotus Land….

 

What creature does not respond to trumpet?

Even a mouse or dog trembles in awe.

In the hands of a skilled trumpet player,

the earth itself half-appears to tremble.

Trumpet, the ace of all wind instruments!

 

Having the highest register in brass,

the horn can project a golden tone

that vibrates the occult cerebellum,

causing distant toes to wiggle in joy.

The trumpet is an awesome instrument.

 

A hot trumpet may extend a refrain

into the rarest realm of ecstasy

and enter the chamber of the sublime

where God reclines in mystic majesty

beyond reason or bright apprehension.

 

A well-played trumpet is simply divine,

whether baroque, romantic, or in jazz

where subtle rhythms may excite the knees.

A strong trumpet does all it can to please

the inner ear of anyone that’s here.


I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what I'd be gathering could be wool.

 

An inconsequential breeze ruffles the leaves

while some red and yellow flyers take off.

To know that this may be the last warm day

of the year provides poignancy and repose,

which is why I tire of being merely human.

 

I seek divine laughter in the rustling leaves

without any care for antic augury.

This sacramental day, work should be minimal—

it shouldn't be taken too seriously!

To loaf is godly and not blasphemy!

 

Great minds can only think while doodling

about the unknown: that element of play

predisposes the spirit to expand

to the cloud-laden stratosphere where

imaginary squirrels climb and play.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 13th, 2016

When Lively

Conversation stamps a dance

without set pattern

although it will set patterns

improvised in the moment:

patterns of association

and linked ideas

moving like spears of sunlight.

or...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Wed Jul 6th, 2016

Brilliant Summer

on certain days life is a sea

intermittently hushed

 

furious, unaccountable

in its repetitions it flashes

 

is a terrible blade it cuts

brutally cuts while...

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...

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