Poetry

by Kevin T McEneaney Gray fog-blanket surrounding house, garden Wonder if fog has seeped into my brain My own history appears lost in fog Difficult to recall my whole childhood…

photo by Bill Keller by Bill Keller Don’t tell me bloodied but unbowedor even bent but unbroken. Green leaves aren’t meant for the ground;arched trunks want to straighten.What didn’t kill them still…

by Kevin T McEneaney When air wafts gusty cool in mature autumn while fallen leaves crinkle yellow, orange, making a shushing sound ground underfoot as hum of insects vanish from…

by Phillip Brady The grip of a cold East Wind on the chest, When you and the road are both going West. When you stop for a chat with nothing…

Violet-tailed Sylph If reincarnation were to be true (alas, it is but a children’s fable), one could become a violet-tailed sylph, which is a snazzy blue-green hummingbird flitting on western…

by Kevin T McEneaney Watching baseball is like writing a poem. There are exciting hits or vivid lines…. Minutes may elongate into boredom for the fan, or poet not scribbling…

by Philip Brady What am I? A computer to think, An engine to go, A windmill to trap And convert C 2 0. An incinerator designed With its own gastric…

by Kevin T McEneaney One might amass financial wealth in life, or strive to compete for fame in a sport, indulge in bizarre sexual affairs, train one’s children to live…

by Kevin T McEneaney After hitting a home run or double, I often see batters make a cross sign, thanking the Creator for the big hit. Do they think God…

head of mosquito These ladies are out for your blood, my blood, especially the blood of young children, or blood of teenagers or wise women. They need the blood for…