Poetry

by Kevin T McEneaney Humans have difficulties with eyesight, which are defective if one compares them to birds, fish, or even tiny insects. These many creatures have better eyesight. All mammal retinas are inverted, a huge evolutionary problem. We see ...
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crocus by Kevin T McEneaney A dusting of snow to remind us all that bountiful Spring has not yet arrived as tall trees skyward splay sleeves of white lace, chipmunks and squirrels dot-dot their footprints on lightly dusted gray patio ...
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by Kevin T McEneaney Since there are ten quintillion molecules of water in a typical snowflake, they are unwilling to be alike as you or I, yet they appear to be more attractive, symmetrical dendrites with six arms (usually), while ...
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white bat flower by Kevin T McEneaney In yam family, but not a yammer; obviously, an obviator. A flower, not an oboe relative, which is to say florid conical shape: never obsolete in nature’s garden, nor obscene, nor obvious to ...
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by Kevin T McEneaney Today, on Valentine’s Day, young children draw hearts, hoping to love one another in the face of massive gun violence, now the leading cause of death for children. Over thirty-six thousand deaths per year! We are ...
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Houseboat, lithograph by Juan Miro by Kevin T McEneaney Neanderthals finger-painted in caves lit by fire, using various plant dyes for clothes: black, red, pink, or shades of ochre. Jewelry was made of shell, bone, or stone. Their black-dot markings ...
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Violet-tailed sylph by Kevin T McEneaney Since we are Johnny-come-lately creatures on evolutionary chart of life, we have more wisdom than our feathered friends who have flown billions of years before us. Along with our wisdom, arrogance breeds monstrous and ...
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by Kevin T McEneaney has vague beginning, unknowable end, in terms of timeline, and when it’s working, as it is now, one cannot calculate the number of snowflakes falling right now, nor how many may have fallen in the past, ...
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Slam X, first AI to win the Nobel Prize in Literature by Kevin T McEneaney Very soon AI robots will write poems, and poets can retire to the tavern where they will booze, gossip the day away, stumble back home ...
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by Kevin T McEneaney When the brittle crunch of ice underfoot rings in your ear on a winter morning as a hawk sits majestically in tree, one knows midwinter freeze is serious for cheeks, loins, ears, head, imagination. That still ...
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