Michael McKenna Poems

 A lovely mind locked to truth.

The glory of a flower recovered him. 

The Reaper

There at the margin of the tide
I found not plated scallop shells
Nor any spiral sea-horn whelks,
Nor secret cowrie bells:
Nothing save white pebbles where
The Curling water swells. 

And found sweet rest on the shore.

When the waves come romping in

And the sun plays tinkerbell 
With houses on the land

Wind-tossed man


There's havoc in the heaven this night

Storms do boil the sea this night
And storms make men dismayed,
And fury twists about the streets,
And there is none to aid:
Yet a bird's voice I hear: thou art king
Storm-singer unafraid.

Swifts

When the air was filled with wings
And chirrupings:

See the storm being roused
In the conflict of the clouds:

In the flood of beauty's morn
Quenchless, of no mortal strain:
They who walk the earth at night,
Full of ecstasy unsought.

Clouds

She silvering all their sea

For sleep was on the ocean

Sail with fairy motion

In France, we drove through a storm

Her pale armadas 

She pressed him sore

Her prison of storms 


The Early Morning

The diamonds of dew

The leaves their jewels shed

And the spiders glinting pattern,
And through the secret windows

Full of celestial beams
Escapéd from the stars.


The Sun and the Stars

Then measureless, measureless
Is what they are
Who burn the heart at night
E'en with their little light.