Poetry

  by Kevin T McEneaney   What is love in high C in the morning when dew nestles on waving leaf and blade while burning sun has burnt all clouds…

by Kevin T McEneaney   After hard rain, silence shudders awesome. Even regular morning birds don’t sing. One imagines that such silence echoes like a boulder rolling down a mountain.…

by Kevin T McEneaaney In English there’s no word for pre-dawn blue, but there once was in old Anglo-Saxon, uhtna which indicates they rose early to plunder their neighbor’s goods…

by Kevin T McEneaney At the high-rise condo they are experimenting with magnetic fields to protect themselves from the Delta Covid virus. At my golf club we delete from membership…

by Kevin T McEneaney    In memory of Nikolai Vavilov   During the dreadful siege of Leningrad, scientists willingly starved themselves to death rather than eat edible tuber seeds stored…

by Kevin T McEneaney If we possessed all Greek literature, painting, and sculpture, we’d be overwhelmed, proceed to learn, study Greek dialects, while their music would be irrelevant.   Vivaldi’s…

by Kevin T McEneaney It’s the ups and downs that get your liver— not the roller coaster of life’s events, but sudden change when going up and down which makes…

by Kevin T McEneaney You see sunlight on steel rails and glance up to see an image mirrored in lake where three granite boulders dance like dice across a discarded…

by Kevin T McEneaney The lives of artists endure much clutter: painters with racks of completed canvas; poets with file cabinets of drafts; musicians, tattered open scores on chairs; sculptors…

by Kevin T McEneaney In our mother’s womb we swam in liquid while being nourished by the womb’s water. Even our conception was liquid act. Like young frogs, we plunge…