"mccann" poems
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
132k
Nobody Loses All The Time
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
—by ee cummings
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
“Number Two, Derek Jeter, Number two. “said the disembodied voice.
A man on second, one man out, It was Showalter’s choice.
He could walk Derek Jeter, choosing to pitch to McCann.
The choice would be unpopular, not that he gave a ****
With no one warming in the pen, Buck chose to roll the dice.
Derek had two R.B.I., another would be nice.
Antoun danced off second base, Meek delivered fast and low.
Jeter punched it to right field, where else would it go?
Antoun raced around third base and dove headfirst for home.
The crowd roared at the signal “Safe “and they were not alone..
The Captain leapt up in the air, the moment we’ll remember,
our pleasure in an otherwise forgettable September.
He will not take the field again; his time at Short is done.
A handful of at bats remain before his race has run.
Bob Sheppard will go silent now, that voice beyond the grave,
The night that Robertson got the win, and Jeter got the save.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
“The thing about love is that we come alive in bodies not our own”
--Colum McCann (Let The Great World Spin)
How often have we departed,
Only to return for those accomplishments
Yet to be attained
in complete relinquishing of all chains.
Doubt is kicked aside like boxer briefs
Allowing our starkness to trust the ease
Of limber flight its heights
when bodies feel more of heaven
removed from themselves
as if an out of body replacement
in each other’s unexpected ache and deprivation
There is nothing more immense of touch
Than to experience it with/&/in another
To become elation and levitation without wings
Love if only a brief conjuring of taste
is better explained in skins met and kept
oddly artistic - like fetal sleep - its shape :
Two minds, their temples, composed and content
At their waist: **** / umbilical / magic spent.
Hearts between them beat, overcome
by rhythms from heaven, sent…
how often than not, have we left such captions
of shared life / ecstasies
to the halls of unremembered
the ill-equipped journeys by the ignorant
by the newly seeing youth that we were
rushing ahead for bigger sensations to better
the previous fun, without caution, defunct on ***
dizzy inside maelstroms overwhelming, yet freeing...
Behaved as anyone would at losing sight
following no roads displaced eyes not to recognize;
all thoughts scrupulous doors, dreams mapped absurdly
fearless Jenga of a life, a leaf in the wind falling from Sky
naïve belief - its all good, yet lonely numb inside
still the hollow hungers and also hurts
misplaced pathos, uncaring of worth your dirt...
How do we evolve without wellbeing or love
why are we, if not measured for the crown of kings?
How often do we listen before our voice is strong enough to sing?
*Loving through gifts of our intermingled feelings
Bodies we speak wordless into being, one skein of light
From pitch dark and lost reasons, wakes to its pealing
Night is as beautiful in light’s mystic gleaning
Found in another’s succor, two bodies divinely beaming…*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Teresa Green
Stood very still,
In the middle of a field,
Slightly moving with the breeze,
It was time
To turn over a new leaf
Nosmo King
Took his last drag,
Stubbornly stubbing
Annette Curtain
Stood in front of the window,
In her lace dress
Duane Pipe
Drank many pints of water,
His language was straight from the gutter
Phil McCann
Was a corporal,
He'd make sure the lad's
Jerrycan's were full
Please don't get me wrong,
I'm only
Joe King
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 5:33 AM UTC
*A life full of love, a life full of hope,
Never saw you down, never saw you mope,
Never a critic, always a friend,
A person on who, I could always depend,
Strong in will, bold in strength,
Protecting your family at any length,
Funny, dry, but never rude,
Saturday nights and your home cooked food,
In all my years, I never heard you swear,
And in your company, I'd never dare,
I told you my secrets, I shared all my fears,
You held my hand, you wiped my tears,
I never visited as much as I should,
And now it's too late, how I wish I could,
An outlook on life I shall always admire,
But now you are gone to a calling that's higher.
Selfishly I don't want to let you go,
But now reunited with grandad Joe,
The matriarch of the clan McCann,
Goodnight, God bless, I love you Gran.*
© Cinco Espiritus 2016
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
BODIES NOT OUR OWN
*“The thing about love is that we come alive in bodies not our own”
--Colum McCann (Let The Great World Spin)*
How often have we departed,
Only to return for those accomplishments
Yet to be attained
in complete relinquishing of all chains.
Doubt is kicked aside like boxer briefs
Allowing our starkness to trust the ease
Of limber flight its heights
when bodies feel more of heaven
removed from themselves
as if an out of body replacement
in each other’s unexpected ache and deprivation
There is nothing more immense of touch
Than to experience it with/&/in another
To become elation and levitation without wings
Love if only a brief conjuring of taste
is better explained in skins met and kept
oddly artistic - like fetal sleep - its shape :
Two minds, their temples, composed and content
At their waist: **** / umbilical / magic spent.
Hearts between them beat, overcome
by rhythms from heaven, sent…
how often than not, have we left such captions
of shared life / ecstasies
to the halls of unremembered
the ill-equipped journeys by the ignorant
by the newly seeing youth that we were
rushing ahead for bigger sensations to better
the previous fun, without caution, defunct on ***
dizzy inside maelstroms overwhelming, yet freeing...
Behaved as anyone would at losing sight
following no roads displaced eyes not to recognize;
all thoughts scrupulous doors, dreams mapped absurdly
fearless Jenga of a life, a leaf in the wind falling from Sky
naïve belief - its all good, yet lonely numb inside
still the hollow hungers and also hurts
misplaced pathos, uncaring of worth your dirt...
How do we evolve without wellbeing or love
why are we, if not measured for the crown of kings?
How often do we listen before our voice is strong enough to sing?
*Loving through gifts of our intermingled feelings
Bodies we speak wordless into being, one skein of light
From pitch dark and lost reasons, wakes to its pealing
Night is as beautiful in light’s mystic gleaning
Found in one another’s succor, two bodies divinely beaming…*
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC