Huntington, NY

8/3/2019 Huntington, NY

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Huntington, NY

poems

by

Don Schaeffer

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To Hannah Banana and Alex the Palex

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Biography

Don Schaeffer is a phenomenological poet, devoted to exact description of experience. At the age of 70,

he has experienced the institutionalization of his spouse and the re-development of a new life out of theashes of the old one. His poems reflect the transitions in his life. He currently lives in New York after

spending half his adult life in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada.

Don has previously published five volumes of poetry, his first in 1996, not counting the experiments

with self publishing under the name "Enthalpy Press." His poetry has appeared in numerous periodicals

and has been translated into Chinese for distribution abroad. Don is a habitue of the poetry forumnetwork and has received first prize in the Interboard competition.

He holds a Ph.D. in social psychology from the City University of New York.

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Art and poetry. Poetry and art. I do this stuff every day, quietly, alone, nobody interferes even when I

want them to.

Defining Art

When we travelled

to an arty town

we found mostartists

own their

galleries.

What about this?

Art definedas things on

displayin an art gallery

The 1% and Art

A weekend article in the New York Times described an artists who just purchased a 3 million dollar

building to use as a studio and display space. His art is not memorable. I wondered where an artist

could get the resources for such a purchase. The question reminded me that the issue of income

disparity has wider implications than just relative poverty (which is certainly important enough). Thetruth is that in this culture, broad access to media and the arts is passed down from parent to offspring,

dynastically. If the son of a media star writes a book it receives easy access to publication with fullpublicity and prominence. The mediocre photographs taken by a movie star's daughter receive quick

positive review and hailings of greatness. History will remember only those poets and artists who have

received their credentials by right of kings.

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Victory

The future

is a sticky confection

that makes you fatand selfish.

Spend your wealthon the future and

indulge in stingy dreams,

sickening your heart.

When the future

shrinks to a strandfresh air and health

open in your body.

Unclogged,eyes wide,loving,present moments,

slide graceful,

lubricating the sunsets.

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Modern Physics

We oscillate.

Particle and anti-particle

do-si-do in ourgelatinous vacuum.

I orbit my shadoweclipsed and augmented,

shimmering, am

and am-not

hide each other,

do and do-not.

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Simple Social Principles

1.

I concede

the virtues of my enemies

but not gladly.

2.

Conspiratorswithout enemies,

make poor friends.

3.

Can there be a

lonelier place thana world without conspiracy?

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Is God My Audience?

Tonight

I'm feeling most keenly

the pain of being small,

the paltry income

of a casual glance.

Amateur,

living a day

on the protruding edgeof a sixth floor brick,

making an egg,in the sun,

dying unmagnified.

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Systemic Misunderstanding Dream

Now I get it I'm

surrounded by the

frowns of righteousness-addicts,

I sit swivelling on a pike.

When they spin me,

push into my eyesglower after glare,

asking whys.

I wanted to please them,

loved the project;

but can't do it.Resign.

Garden Gate

Hey neighbor,

fire's in your garden,

sun not travelling on human pathsand the stems of dead flowers flowing through it.

Only the trees upright dam the lightbut can't hold it,

brief and precious flameand ordinary shadow green.

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Sentimental Journey: Variation on an Old Song

"Gonna take,"

they crooned,

"a sentimental journey."

The place is habit now

you can say I miss it

and can't bear to feelthe customs fade.

I travel there

on Google Earth

to imagine

the streets,trace where places are

I no longer enter,

goodbyes long said.Electrical memories are

cleaner than real ones.

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Great Pillars of War Movies: What Death Kills

I: aye,eye

moving moment,

fat bundle of

memory, pastedpictures,

a tower of

skulls.

want: the mattering

of the world, greatpointing,

you: the bestowalof birth knighthood,

eyes to meet.

Then boom:flesh cells.

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Episodic and Orgiastic

Once a day

not all the time

I burst the shell

for the ooze of yellow

bio-stuff, innocently made,

not for me. I steal the life

and scoop its substance into my teeth.

The mixture of pleasure and ragelifts me nearly to shouting.

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Jung's Intruder

I awoke in the darkest part of the night

and came into the living room

startling a half naked man

busily unstraighteningpictures on the wall.

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On Seeing "Lust for Life"

(I'm hung up on the word "I."

It has meaning until the last seconds of life. I count down.

Then it is meaningless.)

"Theo," he says at the end.

"I want to go home."

But he's been saying

what he wants all his life.He wants only to illustrate.

Pathos is in his voice

when he wants.

"Theo" he says

and we count down10,9

"to go home"

8, 7. 6"want"

5,4

"I" (aihhhhye, ich, yo)3,2,1,

0

Then He's gone.

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Another Dream Poem

When

deep in the Andes

we found the valley whereNature makes all the giant round roadsigns,

my fathercould really relax.

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Comatose

He goes to visit her, bearing the smells of the garden.

She doesn't speak the whole time,

doesn't look at him. He is frantic

when he realizes what she has chosen.

When she says

the lonely worldis just as good,

we all mourn

another tuft of grass

pulled out into the sea,

a piece of the beacheroded,

the Earth shrivelled,

wires unplugged,propaganda from the enemy

adding to our doubt.

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True Origin of Awe

I watch my cat looking out the windows at the woods. I have a sense of her awe--fascination with life

outside. To the cat it is a pragmattic woods of feeding. So much to watch through her infantile mental

wiring, triggers drawing her to the presence of things not really there, dream things, erroneous theories,

infantile magic.

My glance at the earthis made of tools and fears

impressed by variety

and risk.

I still stalk the woods

hungry and frightenedlooking for tactics,

but understand with imperfect theories.

I wonder,wonder full not from the world

but magic

from my infant eyes.

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Otoscope Micrograph Image of an Olive Pit

Living hoses,the archetype

of earthlife,

eager fingers asking,

have you had your share?

We will give you all you need.

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Siona's Orangepeel Sun #2

Looking for pretty things

and surroundedin the shop and on the walls

put up with joy

as numerous as smilescasual as tea.

All of our busy handsand talkative hearts

buy the pretty things

and make them

like galaxies rising

out of the dark.

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Eight-Thirty AM

I can only put on

the rememberance ring

after the knuckles stop

their daily swelling.

In the room I call my space,

the display of my booksthat only I can really see

has fallen into a heap.

The bathroom floor

may not be as wet as we

first thoughtand maybe we don't need a plumber.

Happiness reigns

in this new place.Peace may run like syrup

over the short years.

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Hope Joked

I remember

when we were

the future

and every stepwe took

into brilliance

was noted by akindly teacher.

We were rising.We became

sweet and soft

with hopefultears of romance

in our words

and the certainty it

would all count.

When the teachers all

wizened and diedand romance turned

hard like flesh,

hope joked.We all

laughed at the joke.

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Twenty-First Century Religion in the USA

My god is

The Economy

and my duty

is studying scienceso we can outpace

the Chinese.I do my duty

in spite of

breaking mypoetic heart.

Hell isfalling

behind and

becoming just

anothernation. Amen

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Musical Bones

I breathe

melodies,

drum tum puffingdiaphragm beats:

"Red River Valley""Mr Tamborine"

"If I were a Rich Man"My singing is long

silenced but notsong.

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Goodbye Note at 75: A Nightmare

She said:

It was a mistake

to find you, even thoughyou were a route to

relief at the time.

And we sat side-by-side

for those quiet years

while I longedto have a body in love.

You are not my deepest love,you know, the mysterious

love of my life. All the

years, passed, wasted with you

and there is this

wish come true

who makes me faint,found late, but found.

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Seeing Out

I don't see why

life is not extraordinary,

seeing out

and re-creating everythingin a mass of circuits that may not close.

I don't seehow we look into the faces

of creatures we don't know

and learn that they can do for themselvesif only we supply fresh water.

Maybe God caresonly for species

and lets my individual eyes

go blank.

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Special

He says, "When you

scoff at my means

I'll say, I'm not exactly stupid."

He nods

at the degree

hanging on the wall.

He says, "I Know how I'm

wasting everyone's timewith my non-stop displays and my questions."

He says, "like a dutifulschoolboy currying

favor from the adults."

He recalls his dreaded violin caseand the big leather

briefcase even in Summer.

He says, "I know

how time

explodes in my head."

He says, "I know

how feeling good

deprives me of my edge."

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Glass Ceiling

All those grownups

standing aroundlooking up at the monitor

as some college graduate

picks the winner

have nothing to do

but wait, no names or titlesand very small chances.

They all resent each other

because of the way

they are bunchedup against the glass

at the top of the cagewhere the sun floods in

so they can see the screen.

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Democracy

Money

is what we are seeing

when we think

we are looking at politics,the arts,

the higher

forms of anything

through rare air

to the palacesof seminar

and fine talk,

those who livecomplete lives

in the sun

with grand pianos,

quiet bargainsover rich drink.

Books are published,interviews arranged

galleries take

and clientele pointand nod

in checkbook

agreement.

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Godless Sleep Prayer

I am ready now

to give up the day.

Won't aspire

any more,

ambition

faded. Dreams,

my only safety net,

guideposts to dawn,sleep blank

and dangerous,I gamble with night,

to win another morning.

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Cemetary Prison

The elders,

buried on the hill

under the time

twisted stones,

surrounded by that

fence with nodiscernable gate,

can't get out,

stay caged above the town

watching the young

parade from restaurantto restaurant.

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A Not True

I write poetry

that has an audience

in my egocentric brain andmake things on paper

I call art that waitlike a beggar for a

passerby's disinterested eye.Self and sincerity

wrestle on the ancientfield of paper.

There are just too many

empty artists.

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Lilly Pond

without making what nature makes,

I install filament clouds

and wire grasses.

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Rolling Down the River

Is it somewhere between

"boyning" and "burning?"

The singer works the ar.

There is a faintsmell of oil.

the timebetween the consonants

and vowels

leaves previously unknownroom for

microscopic lives .

I make this

discovery in a dream,

and understand

where all those eternalsouls can fit.

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Ten AM

Coping is fun

I think as I lounge

in late Spring

while the kitchen

is slowly reborn

and I have made tea

on a slow grill outburner.

We are in a bubbleof Summer.

The insects are kindI have never heard

so many birds.

One of them is singing,"we need ya-we need ya-

we need."

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He Thinks Poetry is Fraud

He is allowed

to sit bundled on the porch

hugging the walker

on the cool June morning

with all the piety of the flowers

swarmed around him.

He feels that

poetry is fraud.But the pretty poets

long fingered, pavane

among the peonies,

gesturing toward

but not quite touching.

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Fresh Wednesday Bread

As if I were a child

as if,

I look up intoageless bedtime story eyes.

The bagel bakerritually chants, "May you

be granted your last bitesbadekt in cream cheese."

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Democratic Markets

Stands at the palace gate

clenched in the fist

pants short

feet ready to stamp

but it won't let him go.

Ready to surrender,suicide even if he

doesn't get the soothing statement.

All is silent though.

History nearly over,

the future drizzles awayand the enemy persists.

There is no

fame for me,born mediocre and

mediocre I remain.

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Poetry

We are so

helplessly absurd.

If we find a morsal of success

it doesn't come with any real smilesand probably represents

a corruption or pretense.

So we needn't try

to say anything sincere

or to publicallyencounter ourselves.

Nobody will receive us.

Nobody readsand only a few

unwillingly listen.

When they opine honestlyit's always with malice.

If there is charity

it is not in their hearts.

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Ultimate Lumps II

Clean the

slate of me

fresh greens

to grow on topbright eyes

unrespectful

swinging open doors.

Neat packages

eighty unitswrapped with costumed passages

earthy and bright

decoratedquanta

plopping through time.

If you imaginetime as space

you will understand

life afloat,the eroded edges

particulating,

drifting away.

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Weak and Silent

If this were clearer

it would be embarrassing like a dream.

The failurewas weak and silent.

I just walked through the sceneamong the un-entitled

while voicessang obvious and

well-known praises.In private I know

I should never

have expected more

on a very large

and quiet planet.

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Ultimate Lumps

Neat packages

eighty units

wrapped with costumed passages

earthy and brightdecorated

quanta

plopping through time.

Clean the

slate of mefresh greens

to grow on top

bright eyesunrespectful

swinging open doors.

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Busker, Troubadour, Beggar, Thief

A poem is not a poem

unless it whines,

mines the shiny

sour candiesfrom the tragic clowns'

pickle underground.

pickle sellers'

word vaudvilledance.

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Chauvet Cave

From a world of

closed loops

where bends and

corners weren'timagined yet,

where animals

mixed and soulsslipped in and out

of bodies. We hold

the line now, coldand fast. We

lock and crimp sharp.

The circle is onlyan ideal we cannot match.

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Brenda the Real Poet

To all the

unheard poets

who want to weep too

in the spirit of weeping

feel the tropical

drizzle gustson just a special day of

music they make,

to all of us

with small and silent audiences,

I call in sympathy,"May your stories

sting."

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What Happens When You Settle Down

I put away my

pretty orange vest

and toss away my

wing-tipped salesman shoes.

Love means

no more parade,poetry over,

the end of the pleas.

The world of aspiration

thins, fantasy assumes

its valid translucent form,all is tame. Days pass.

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Textures

Focused eyes

dots of the world,

filaments streamingwavelets

within the big thingshovering through intermediate space

between the nose pushing insectsand the mountains of the moon.

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The Party

The first course of

outrage was wonderful.

Now, I await the tears.

Lick my lips,

feel the

sea building in my eyes,breath surfs

prayer.

Servers bring dessert.

Yes. It's my birthday.

I so lookedforward to this.

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Love Light

When you say

I love you and

you are faint of heart,

uttering a slight orignorant lie,

you live luke warm,

senses numbing.

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Freud vs Jung

I used to think

something came from

down the great tube of body and brain.I thought I saw a light.

But I'm grown less certain.I now think it all comes

from this tiny Earth,emergent detail. Memory

is all that's leftof mystery.

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Why I like Cop Shows ("Where Id was there shall ego be.")

Police come in

bright like the sun,

cleaning away from the outside

what should be hidden safely within.

So the ordinary hours

dawn from underneath.They are full-sized,

with heavy feet.

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Chauvet Cave

From a world of

closed loops

where kinks and

corners weren'timagined yet,

where animals

mixed and soulsslipped in and out

of bodies. We hold

the line now, coldand fast. We

lock and crimp sharp.

The circle is onlyan ideal we cannot match.

Then something came from

down the great tube of body and brain.

I thought I saw a light.

Now it all comes

from this tiny Earth,

emergent detail. Memoryis all that's left

of mystery.

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You Have Many Moles

When I slipped into the world

it wasn't certain about me.

The lines around my body

are therefore fudged.

It takes more energy

to finish the work of rounding.Rough extrusions remain,

statistical shivers

of half way.

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Mom Returns for a Night

It took

a lot out of her,

returning that kind of smile

and pushing her body intothat angle she learned

in high school. But shebecame my mother again,

briefly, on that anniversary day,

those years ago, a womanof long learned habit in front

of the camera.Unknowns followed her, just

weeks ahead. The effort

showed. I don't know how

she remembered.

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My Comment When The Poet Denied the Rant

He wrote a wonderful rant about

somebody's criticism of his poems.

I never noticed the trouble

somebody said he had.

I told him the one thing

you have to watch when you

write a rant is the glorious high you get.

It makes you selfish.He blushed saying it was

just a spoof. But this was no spoof.I told him how much he enjoyed the bitter juice.

I told him I can tell.

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Daily Visit of the Unforgiving Sun

First sun slipping through the

East window excites the air dust

and highlights the flaws

in the rug.

The sun is

refreshing likean inspector

who visits from

beyond the walls

and tells me I'm ok.

That's why I lovethe morning.

Huntington, NY

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