Poetry

by Kevin T McEneaney There are times in life when one must relax; that remains part of the pattern of life. Pundits say relaxation is an art, yet pundits practice…

by Kevin T McEneaney Can you ever measure too many things? Of course, not! Civilization itself is based on the convention of measure. Without secure standard there is chaos, cheating,…

by Kevin T McEneaney Believe it or not—it’s on a Greek dish, a young boy of ten dangling a yo-yo! The dish: from 440 BC…. Every household apparently had one:…

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…