The Ideal Unachievable State

for Blaise Pascal, who died August 19th, 1662

Canary, breathe!
What was not is again,
no thing is an illusion.
What was empty has been
filled with good things.

Heaven takes despair
and puts it somewhere else,
in the mouths of miscreants,
or perhaps, the unaffiliated
creedless, cretins and bores.

Believe in nothing at your peril,
nature abhors a vacuous mind,
better to swerve and hit God
than miss the devil, don-cha-know
if the after life is so great, go now.

Falling off a perch happens,
empty takes up space, not a bit
left for a mote in God’s eye.
I would have written a shorter poem,
but I did not have the time.

What the dream gave me

I fight the pass of seasons,
longing to create
differences where there are
no differences.

The desire to
impose a timely structure:
monument by prior arrangement,
practice goodbye.

No matter how perfectly
bags are packed
when the going comes
what was is abandoned.

Wishing wells are aptly named,
hope spoken into the abyss;
forgiven, brought up again
watered down, something
to be spilled on more reasonable ground.

In the end we embrace-
not long enough, or hard enough,
already beginning
to wake up.

and yes, "heart full of hornets" comes from a great song by Calexico-

Still working out the method of this, I think- for calendar info, please go to my webpage http://groups.msn.com/FlashPaperPoetry- sometimes the link doesn't work- I have no clue why or why not, I have NOTHING to do with that.

here's a poem:

Concomitant variation

Excess caution bottles time
like cheap booze makes you puke
next day regrets and what dids.

Doesn't beg trouble exactly,
only offers the opportunity.
You supply the three-piece suit.

I thought you were a magic man.
Spelled senseless, half-blind
heart full of hornets, I jumped.

When you said stop, I did
vertical moves, too square
to get anywhere interesting.

Sticking to the sidewalk
is a function of the weather,
I blow hot and cold, in season.

Shann says:

Four Square


In my mother’s house, we used only salt,

pepper, sugar and cinnamon in food,

discounting what went into pickle jars.



Miracle Whip smoothed out rough edges,
and Velveeta was real as cheese got-
add pimentos and cut crusts for fancy fare.

Names might be exotic but the foods were not-
Heinz, French’s, Star Kist, and Mallomar-
the choice was to eat or go hungry.

Before TV trays, we sat upright, quiet,
in channel back chrome and vinyl chairs,
never told tales, ate what was put down.

All was right with the world at supper,
communists were up north, Cuba’s were cigars,
Ed Sullivan’s dour face kept the world righteous.

The unequal and indefinite angles of family
fell out of plumb in the dark, for daughters
cowered in corners to forget their outrage.

April 3rd

One, Two, Many

Treachery comes in threes,
like celebrity deaths, genie’s wishes,
and broken dishes.

When the other shoe has dropped
there is still the phantom foot left
to reveal the ugly sole, then kick.

Cordelia was no saint, nor victim-
her very show devotion’s lie exquisite-
attractive pain (self-righteous bitch).

Protest too much, deny thrice,
marry as often as you can.

April 2nd

2 Much 2 be-labor

a constellation of pernicious sinners
is better than one privileged son,
full of hyperbolic juices enough 2
render the cheekiest mother numb.

All the promise in the world mopes
on the living room couch- vexes
in judgement asking: What will I be?

I, the eternally put-upon, answer
my sole philosophy: Que sera, sera,
Whatever you will. Be.

April poems - a new poem every day.....

April 1st

April Fools

the days pass over us
like tissue paper layers
lost under irremediable wrappings
we wait impatient for signs

in a gray drizzle of disappointment
we clean out our desks
hoping half-lives will suffice

toil and spin, spin and toil
gravity holds us in place until
the time comes to lighten up

God has laughed out loud
take nothing, leave nothing behind
we bear all we need.

Minding you

I’m trying to remember how
everything fell into place
so easily, like a puzzle for children
as obvious as squares and circles
or green frogs and blue monsters.

Now in my mind your face is scumbled,
edges blurred into the background,
a photograph shot in front of floral curtains
the lamp from IKEA, a door standing open,
your heart shut tight even then.

This can’t be the way only I recall it,
there were too many passing moments
like clarity, jolts of harmony, yes, love,
magnetic and electric whirling sand
around our feet, into our eyes and ears.

I’m looking through the wrong end,
binoculars perverted or perverse,
nothing makes sense and I ache
all over again, not knowing where
to put my hands, not knowing why.

monday is really over and still no poem- a few lame ideas.

Had to send out an update on the calendar, seems the 7pm reading has been moved to 8pm.

It's going to be a nightmare to park. So many cars, so many kids. But that's college these days, the place you go to avoid getting a real job.

I used to have a real job- I taught music, vocal and general, for around twenty-eight years. It was exhausting. I still have half my stuff around "just in case" I need it.

I won't need any of it but I'm so reluctant to throw things away.

I have some very cool stuff.

Materials, not instruments. I was very good at what I did.

I think I was- maybe I wasn't.

Poetry and me.

Sometimes it's so boring. I skipped the reading today, couldn't bear to schlep downtown, didn't have the three bucks for the garage and not enough gas to search for a parking spot close enough.

Turned out to be a good choice, since there was a meeting being held for sponsors of confirmands at my old church. I'm sponsoring the son of my friend, Sue.

Sharing faith- yeah- there's a daunting prospect. I don't know what to tell the kid.

Life amazes me sometimes, blue skies, babies, really good food. But then there's ugliness, mean people, nuts, and all those people who want me to be like them instead of like I am.

Where's God in that? What is God anyway? My 90 year old aunt says I shouldn't write poetry because it's "not from God....and takes me away from my family."

She's one of the true believers who wants everything you do to be to the "glory of God" but who says this isn't?

Maybe if religion weren't so patriarchal...

Well, I bought some things, all on sale-

of course.

Then I took my friend to dinner at (Chili's) and had, oh yes, the baby back ribs.

They were tasty but gave me a headache- do you think they use MSG???

poetry... must write tonight.

shann

October 11, 2003

Poetry is getting better...and worse. Internet poetry is a gift, things are beginning to shake out. I just hope the good poets stay.

I haven't written much lately, but the new calendar is up at
http://groups.msn.com/FlashPaperPoetry.

I'm going shopping with a friend. I have nothing I need to buy, mostly I'm going for company and consult. Maybe a frappachino.

shann