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Paul Keenan Poem
She has a proclivity in being jaunty
As she looks down the asphalt way
With stunted growth of apple orchards
That blossom in the spring
They begin; they begin
A carefree end
To what was swollen, bloated, and rotten
And wickedness emitting the fragrance
Of decaying smells of worthlessness
Across the waters, floating and wet
She catches the why and emulates the peacefulness
On cargo ships at heaven’s gate
And longing for the weight to be lifted,
And longing for the weight to be lifted.
This heavy clumsy mess
This heavy clumsy mess
Ruminate on this
And ruminate on this
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
Wonderment, under the shade of the leaves
Close to where the rivers breath
As the mountains snow replenishes the liquid,
Like a drop of rain,
It is done without being thought of in vain
It gathers; the droplets do, filling a void.
That is not to be destroyed,
With nourishment and sustenance giving life to many,
It starts with a morsel of water,
Then modified and multiplied,
Soon the swelling of the creeks,
Turning a stream into a river
Oh, how the gallantry will deliver,
Planting a droplet in the watershed
Giving hope; freedom, and brilliance said
Daring countless dreamers, to become visionaries.
Believing in themselves as part of the river,
And refusing to wither.
Flowing, the water moves the stones
Paving the path to where the sweet breeze blows
And like a play on its final scene,
The curtain will close, and it will be known,
That the river, once in flux, is pristine.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
The fallen snow procured
Itself with the earth all winter
As spring enters its warm winds,
The snow-transformed-from its frozen home
Begins its path of deviance carving the weak soil
Conveying the grieving trusting earth down river
Where the surmounting horror ends;
Only after a twisted ride does the soil find refuge
In the bottom of a lake;
Where momentarily is thought of as unimportant
By its self and others;
But, a change is at hand; a change is at hand.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
Unmanly; unsightly; unskilled
Unsociable; unsophisticated
Jerk; unruly
And hurt and bruised
Unmanly; unsound
But, unselfish in unseasonable weather
Of warmth, sky clear
Unmistakably; unlikely
Too be unusually calm
In a untouchable manor
And then-unmanly; unruly; jerk.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
In the beginning, there was little hope
working the slaves, and they had to cope
without rights.
That was their plight.
Freedom for them was not real
Until after the civil war, then they received a deal.
they thought freedom was in sight.
That was their plight.
The civil rights activist, did it in a passive manner
with a collective effort, by the raising of a banner,
And they never gave up the fight
That was their plight.
They melted with the rest
and proved they could do their best.
By letting others see the light
That was their plight.
Next they become totally freed
because they fought, and made a plead.
That the sky is the limit, so now they can take flight.
That is their plight.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
This country began, with the melody of an orange rhythm,
Then lady liberty showed her beacon light
Giving in the twilight,
A hope for a new, beginning.
And as these people escaped
A less understanding place,
By God’s grace; we accepted them
And with this understanding came.
Eventually, a hybrid land named, America.
Turmoil of the civil war, but that soon past,
Giving a race, freedom at last.
We fight for the weak, weary and the sick,And usually win.
But one thing has always been practiced;
Uncle Sam is an activist.
With people of different walks of life;Passing in the middle of the night.
Americans, we call ourselves, and since the beginning it has been true.
That a piece of paper called The Declaration of Independence;
Was written, signed and sings true,
That certain rights are bestowed by God;
Like life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
This land of freedom and liberty
Which is bestowed at birth,
With a refined demeanor for defending the weak
With an olive branch and arrows in that bald eagles claws
Representing how this nation brawls
When it comes to a free voice
At length this country has been around;
Eleven scores and fifteen years.
Our founding fathers had the wisdom to write
That every born person in this land has rights.
And under the sky is protected
By persons with valor, courage and spirited uplifting
They defend the constitution with a willingness to uphold.
So remember; if one is a member
Stand proud; not flighty
And one will fit right in
Where wisdom, candidness, and a voice
Will help one make the right choice.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
Ominous cries from the valley below
As the crow flies, he knows
Of yelling, beckoning, of another time
Of when he was too young to be in his prime
The temptation to stray is overwhelming
So he decided to begin; his trip to the valley beneath him,
Declining slowly he maps out a spot
Too land on a river rock
Which was beveled down, by the rivers mighty current
And the river masks the dreadful ominous cries
As the crow finds out the demise;
He landed and took an empathic glance
And what he saw was a toxic lance
Driven deep into nature’s heart.
Nature is screaming for it to be saved
So the crow called up his cronies and they did not play
It took some time but they were victorious
Now the crow is old and withered at clean-ups end
All he can do is bow and bend
The cries are gone and nature is mended
The crow sacrificed is life, an unselfish act
Now he is a legend, for he made quite an impact.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
Peace to one on an evening jaunt
Across the street; a house of haunt
Rests ones soul of armies fallen
For peace, many are a calling’
In days of old, peace meant hate
Keep persons down and they will not proliferate
But now those very persons procreate
Peace is a fountain full of quarters
And not one coveted by mid-night persons crossing borders
Peace is a place; a Utopia in fact
A place of ones wildest dreams that makes an impact-
But not to step on some ones back
One thing is clear, peace is true
Because, if it wasn’t this plant would not be blue.
With a world at stake, peace is not a fake
And wounded soldiers and pedestrians alike
Never wonder why peace is a plight.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Keenan Poem
As they talked,
Emitting rambling laughter
Of subjects unknown
Silly
Light hearted actions
In forums
Of fun-filled and hearty
Leisurely chuckling
In the middle of the coffee shop
In a town not so unknown
A nonchalant indifference
To ones surroundings
A welcome,
To others in the coffee shop
To join in the mirth.
Copyright © Paul Keenan | Year Posted 2011
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