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Best Poems Written by Keenan Mackay

Below are the all-time best Keenan Mackay poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

I Wish

I wish fatherhood could be written into words.
Let daddisms be put into pages.
Papaness be published in poetry for people without.

Let little surprises that the old man fixes,
be signified and simplified into single syllable sentences.

I wish wisdom for such a task could be reserved for the young,
at seventeen I can manufacture miracles in mass quantities,
but I can't write the simulation of a father in so many words,
for a dad can only be replaced with time,
and on second thought,
I have all the time in the world.

I may know next to nothing about booboo's,
but in teenager-isms I'm miles ahead.
Instead of knowing how to play peek-a-boo,
I know teen angst and it's many symptoms.
I know fake love at first sight,
and true love in hindsight.

Maybe I can be a good father after all.

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

Ted and Fred In Our Heads

Check in Ted,
Check in Fred.
Office space in the nervous system,
and the employees are nervous,
one wrong move and kablamo,
they are splattered on the ceiling,
on the floor.
Brain matter would be everywhere,
but no matter,
the show must go on.
Impulses convulse and pulse here and there,
and Ted and Fred are in control of it all,
in their three by eight inch stall.
Cabinets of memories long forgot,
newer folders of memories just got.
Things taught and learned,
Fred turns to Ted and asks,
"Ever wonder what's outside these walls?
What's past our three by eight inch stall?"
Ted could only answer what he knew,
"This is it Fred, 
this is all,
all we'll ever see,
either me or you.
Now go check the hamster, 
I think he's fallen off his wheel,
I have to deal with a fax,
that informed me of a troubling fact,
that we left the lights on with no one home,
that the gears are turning with no result."
Fred turned away to check on Benny,
Benny had indeed fallen off,
dead of a whooping cough.
The end of Benny marked Ted and Fred's certainty of being alone.
So now the two lone brain running businessmen check out.
Swipe out Ted,
Swipe out Fred,
Benny's not the only thing dead....

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

Demonic Irony

I sat on a merry-go-round from, to, and of Hell.
Goblins floating round and round,
Gremlins going up and down.
I sat on the merry-go-round from, to, and of Hell
Playing "Let's make a deal." with the devil himself.
And as his smile turned into knives,
I could see the infinite expanse of lives he had claimed,
like an insurance company running your life,
like an investor running your business,
like a lawyer running your troubles,
but this man led all of the above for millions.
There was suffering in his eyes,
but not his own.
You could tell how many tears have been shed,
but not his.
His hands were hooks,
"all the better to hug you with",
more like all the better to ravage my heart.
His nose was an expanse of two deep holes,
"all the better to smell you with",
more like all the better to sniff up my soul.
His ears were large and bat like,
"all the better to hear your wishes",
more like all the better to hear my supersonic whispers of all my deepest fears.
He spoke:
"Your soul is a small price to pay for true happiness, what do you desire?"
Right there I made my wish,
and before I could barely finish,
a contract pulled up and I scrawled my name.
Keenan MacKay.
After a short while he showed me those knives again,
those reflective blades that refuse to show the whole picture,
a metallic and deceptive smile.
And I smiled back.
For with my wish,
my plea for ultimate power,
I struck him down.
I made him afraid.
And as he cowered in the corner,
I took back my soul and walked away.
But not before I scratched at his feet.
"The Keenan giveth, and the good Keenan taketh away."

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

Shot Glass Heart

I've got a medicine cabinet
doubling as my bedside table
to where I'm able
to store my Bacardi white rum
in case I wake up
teary-eyed and screaming
in the middle of the night
from a dream
I wasn't preferring

My heart's a shot glass
that no one wants to take all of
so they sip me
and I burn them mercilessly
leaving little time in this
'pour me another' romance
for intimacy

So if a shot glass cracks
as it struggles to keep up
with the names
to the all the lips it touches
does anybody care?

Or is it just
a morning after
mindless answering machine message stare
into one more window
that shows fractured life
through chipped glass

And if a shot glass
falls off a table
shattering on the floor
in an empty bar
three hours past cut-off
does it make a sound?

Well
I set my alarm for
four a.m. after a heartbreak
and I put a pitcher to my chest
to check and see
and yes
a shot glass does indeed
scream when it's smashed

But it also has the capacity
to laugh
and it particularly purrs
when it's led
by two loving female fingers
to a VIP room

And later
my body interrogates it
about the experience
because the heart
always feels things
a few seconds faster
than everything else

So a shot glass
glowing alone
on a neon bar sign lit table
is just reporting
the days news
to the extremities

And a pitcher
is just another way
to say
'I'm still alive'

And a medicine cabinet
is just a place
to keep secrets
that keep you that way.

And your body
is only the bridge between
real, emotional, and spiritual

Making alcohol the lubrication
to which we use
to slip in between two opposite lives

And planning to leave one behind
would be like begging
for our shot glasses
to cut our lips
with mis-matched romances
and flowers playing themselves off
as people pretending to be
'forget-me-please's

It's too bad the glass
can be both half
of empty and full
simultaneously.

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

If I Was a Fool

If I was a fool 
I'd love as many times as I wanted

If I was a millionaire 
I'd beg to be a poor man wishing for more
because I believe my dreams should stay in my sleep
I'd rather be a struggling actor so far off Broadway 
I'm staring Hollywood in the face
than replace Brad Pitt
or have my name in lights
because I believe the second I come up short
on the possession of problems
achieve my truest dreams
is the second before I become no more

So please don't clap for me
instead let silence ease itself in
like a teenager out a little too late
a cat slipping between a crack in a door
placing doubt for me to see in the mirror tomorrow morning
so I can work to overcome it

If I was a fool
I'd call this love

If I purchased a four pack of Red bull
with the intent of staying up all night
I would watch the sunrise just to know
you're waking up soon somewhere
and sometime before noon
there's a chance
I might get to see your cheeks rise
into a smile 
that will guile it's way into my mind
and rob me blind
normal thought processes shop-lifted
from my skull
and all I can say is
How kind of you

If I was a thief 
I'd steal time over anything
pick the pocket of the pocket watch 
that belongs to the grandfather clock
locked away in the back of our hearts

If I was a stalker
I'd shape words into a shadow
because the physical only gets me to your window
but a fake silhouette would get me under your skin
words would splinter cell their way in through your ears
and I could be closer than ever to you

creepy
I know

If I was a fool
I'd take this too far

If I don't spend every second
doing something
if I wasted a second
doing nothing
then I might as well
cease breath
resign from earth
because a second of life
is equal
to an eternity without

If I wasn't a poet
I'd know better
than to call this
what she said once to me
the result of a decision 
made on a near subconscious level 
based off evil suggestions 
bred from my darkest thoughts 
my tallest despairs 
and a slip up of not caring for five minutes 
that turned my life diagonally into an alley 
on the wrong side of town 
hoping to not find myself in a gutter 
but instead to hit a strike 
in this baseball game kind of the same 
as Sunday school 

redundant to everything beyond it

but it's what my life is now
and I can't avoid it

If I wasn't a fool
I wouldn't feel this way about anyone ever again
but I do

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

Home Alone Forever

I sit at home,
alone as usual.
I pick up the phone,
too bad it hasn't rang in years.

Cabin fever becoming complex.
and the fever is starting to boil,
it's struck oil,
this condominium deep-frying is trying to end me.

I hear the phone,
who would call?
This apartment prison must have gotten me delusional.
Because it's got me in it's grasp,
and every breathe is a rasp of it,
a drag off a solitary cigarette,
alone like me.

But there it was again,
this time a knock,
it feels like shell shock against the usual silence.
Therapy won't help me after this.
I yelp at the tapping at my window.

The fax machine spits out "We Miss You"s,
The mailbox is overjoyed as it overflows with "We Love You"s
The telephone has rung off the hook,
flown the nest and is on it's own,
but far from alone.
It mimics the voices it's been too long to be able to place.
And I waste no time in going to my door.

Chains that once held the dead bolt still,
now look deathly ill,
they wither and die right before my eyes,
and I realize,
I was the one that decided to lock the door and shut them out.

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

The Cat

The cat fell off it's high horse,
it's course of flight only pointed down.
Screeching a sound while it was dragged,
a body bag would be necessary.
But the cat was struck by lightning,
and a single yelp for help issued from it's mouth,
cat monthly front page.
But even though it died twice,
it still lived to tell the tale,
but lost it's tail.
The cat got rabies at the vet,
passed from some god forsaken rabbits,
and had to be put down.
But before it was buried and laid to rest,
it pried open it's eyes and ran for freedom,
leaving a baffled doctor behind to try and comprehend what aspired.
And in it's flight it ran a red light,
and became a rubber guard for a semi's tire.
And even though it died twice more,
it still lived to tell the tale,
and was without a tail.
The cat flailed to free itself from 8 sets of winter tires,
and landed in a desert,
where it ironically drowned in an oasis,
and more ironically was food for the fishes.
And though it died twice more yet again,
it lived to tell the tale,
but was still lacking a tail.
Waking up not yet ashore,
middle of the ocean the cat was bound,
unfound yet by all past owners,
alone it made a raft,
and like a grill,
the cat fried alive,
but before it could be claimed by the sea,
some deep sea fishers caught this cat-fish,
fried and ready for a dish,
but sympathy was on it's side,
and the fishers couldn't let it die,
so they nursed it back to health.
The owners took the cat home,
and spoiled it rotten,
even giving it a tail,
before it rotted in it's mind from a lack of adventure,
and hung itself with a cat toy over it's scratching post.
And although it died twice more,
and had a tail,
it forgot,
it also had one more life,
and awoke just in time to escape a box set for six feet deep,
to go retire it's last life in peace.

Details | Keenan Mackay Poem

Exit Stage Center

There's been a tragedy,
"THE MAN" can no longer see,
his eyes are fine but nothing registers,
flashing colours, faded faces, each fighting for flawless focus.

There's been a catastrophe,
"THE ONE" can no longer hear,
his ears are fine but nothing comes clear,
sounds simply saturate into unseductive secluded nothingness.

There's been an accident,
"THE HERO" can no longer think,
his brain is fine but is on automatic,
never wishing, wanting, the woes and worries of his past to come wandering.

There's been a true criminal offense,
"THE STAR" can no longer taste,
the uniqueness from her kiss has faded from his lips,
now he, finally finished with forever feinting forgiveness, begs for forgetfulness.

There's been a travesty,
"THE PROTAGONIST" can no longer feel,
at least he found the heart stolen from him,
picking up precious pieces practically perished from the one person he 
cherished.

So please clap and throw roses for him as he takes his final bow, exit stage 
center.