Poetry

by Kevin T McEneaney White rime on the grass this frosty morning When you caress frost, it melts quickly Mid-winter can produce frost on your nose Children are fascinated by white frost Frost resurfaces childhood memories Walking on frosted grass ...
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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 exaggeration. Quiet meditation is popular, but for some that is ...
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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, all kinds of clown finagling…. Our lives are based on ...
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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: made from wood, metal, or terracotta. A fortunate god painted ...
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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 Hard to recall what food I ate last month There’s ...
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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 did them harm. They might be tougher at the scar,but ...
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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 blue air, there’s a recognition of abundance when the panty ...
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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 to say, When you wouldn’t have stopped like that yesterday ...
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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 slopes of the Andes, feeding on pure nectar like the ...
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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 a word. Ennui, disappointment may dominate. Innings may go by ...
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