what is the shortest poem ever written?


There is no single, universally agreed-upon "shortest poem ever written," but some common contenders include Strickland Gillilan's "Fleas" (Adam. Had 'em.), Muhammad Ali's "Me? Whee!!", and Aram Saroyan's single-letter poem (a four-legged "m") which the Guinness Book of World Records once listed as the shortest.


Commonly cited examples:

"Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes" / "Fleas" by Strickland Gillilan: This couplet, "Adam. Had 'em," is often cited as the shortest poem in the English language.

"Me? Whee!!" by Muhammad Ali: After a Harvard commencement speech, Ali responded to a request for the world's shortest poem with this couplet.

Aram Saroyan's "m" poem: This poem consists of a single letter, a specially designed four-legged version of the letter "m", which was recognized by the Guinness Book of World Records at one time.

But without a doubt, the shortest poem ever writ,
will never be by yours so truly,
unless you will consider his rhyming name,
of three syllables a suitable contender

Nat Lip Stadt

( ok forget that)

inspired by Ben Noah Suri
<>

come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise,

in the in~between times, when souls exit and enter.

through microscopic cosmic windows, and there

is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth

and then!

fill our void with words as yet unborn,

and aid all our passages from nether to glory...

for you,

we, await...

for guidance inherited from

all your visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis

<>
upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life,
reading the first poem of the day
6:59am
Sabbath
Sep 13
2025

"if it is not on the calendar,
it cannot be, it exists not!"
nml

yes, my words, oft recited,
in my defense,
when issues and extants of importance,
evade, go unremarked, alas, uncelebrated

this man~made device,
now an essence of essentials,
an app,
before apps were ubiquitous,
mundane, quotidian, prosaic, and banal,
no longer a diary, a journal more a scarf
capable of being wrapped about multiple necks,
a device of connectivity and
the unwelcome public isolation,
(why was I not invited to that event?)

it can be a savory,
used sparingly for the dates that must never be forgot,
anniversaries of birth &  deaths,
of events assumed to be unforgettable
(where & when was I, upon giving birth
to this poem particular),
the why of the words well recalled,
the triggering, less so,
perhaps, deliberately so...

or it can be a chronology of the mundane,
The hour I awoke,
the timeline of my perfunctoriness,
those things that extend life!
but are somehow so oft overlooked,
(did I take my meds?)
the stuff of life,
or the stuffing of living,
and the desired time to enter into the critical
state of restful sleep,
which is provided and reminded solely
for your own 
amusement

due. dates,
to do assignations & assassinations, in date order,
even motivational ticklers
to breathe,

to be mindful of thyself

it will not record the precise time a fly,
buzzed me as I scripted this,
what emotes I spoke when he predeceased me,
if any,

so I give my calendar a salutation most impressive,
My Imperial Calendar,
the only, most royale,
"personage"
we know who never forgets!
who cannot be denied,
and when it tickles me gently at 6:08aM,
with a daily perennial.
'Got any new poem abrewing?"

it cannot be ignored, for imperial
is rooted in the non~impishness of  the
!i m p e r a t i v e!

for your ease,
the links in the Notes section below the ma8n body of the "poem" should take you directly there,
avoiding the cruelty,
of cut n' paste
*

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5157922/for-colby-to-eat-to-excrete-to-laugh-and-to-cry-out-loud/


https://hellopoetry.com/nat-lipstadt/poems/?tab#:~:text=For%20Colby:%20There's%20a%20baby%20in%20the%20house­...

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5158703/for-colby-when-sunlight-cracks-the-babys-room-window/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5159012/for-colby-rest-easy-be-assured/

Airborne Muse #2: Once I wrote: (1)

if it cannot be said
in ten words, it cannot

(but now, older wiser, more intuitive)

I be~leave five is plentiful

and I'm still
working on:
the three of,

thee and me

&
and one day,
I"ll get to maybe, and
reveal a bare skin of brotherly love,
and speak of the trinity of
two;
but I'm open to your suggestions
re that too:

note tho,

above beyond
just merely
we two

11/26/24
12:27pm
updated
10:30am
9/19/25

semiotics ~ relating to signs and symbols

"playful semiotics that makes this digital (poem) feel
weirdly tender"^
(W.A. Gibson)

dear friend,
will always take tender
even weirdly, perhaps especially,
when so rendered,
and so sweetly tendered

but here's the rub,
try the onomatopoeia of
tender

say it slow
the tongue reaches up to touch the roof of the mouth,
twice,
ending in an  smoothly soft exhaling,
(go ahead, divert, try it, then return)
here,
but I do not search for a semiotic,
for there can be none,
(and there is indeed, none)
plain or weirdly,
that captures the incredible elegance
this royalty of word,
so nuanced,
so wildly variegated,
a thousand shades of existential coloration,
far exceeding the rainbow's basic monochromatic monoply,

but I know my.reader,
many of whom at this exact moment
(are taking a pausal break)
are taking forefinger to stroke a sleeping cheek,
a hand to rub and trace a comforting
reassurance to a distempered child,

so I need not supply even one more,
or than to mention in passing
my tenderest adoration to
all of you
who foolishly read my dabbling,
and within them find
nuggets I did not even contemplate,
and bring me,
eyes wetted.
to this moment,
(9:00am Thu Sep 18),

yes, eyes wet,
this silly old man,
whose heart may be yet healed,
with
the
weirdly wildly
tenderest of
gratitude
        

                                                      ­                nml

The  number of days remaining is.
107 days left in 2025.
and I have
161 drafts & 26 hidden
not to mention the interfering spontaneously
combustible pokes in the eye,
those wonderful triggerings,,
that invoke the spark of god in every you~man's soul.
such as this one.

means that I have proximate, using
an ancient skill taught in grade skool,
an obelus^
about 1.5 poems per remaining days,
to offload on you unsuspecting addicts,
and if you throw in the
spontoons,
those that
erupt, like a howling burp,
it would be deceptive,
even
perceptive.
receptive.
inceptive.
preceptive.
acc­eptive.
conceptive.
exceptive.
susceptive.

if i did not in
bad conscience
round that itty bitty number up
to a more rounded
filling
two~a~day
vita
supplemental

                                   ­     nml

~commissioned accidentally by a melody,
a passing glance, a purring perchance,
an idle innocent comment,
to be born as the first poem of this day,
@7:00am
Tue Sep 18 2025,
writ in haste, before
departing over many islands to
another place called "home"~

---~<>~---

sometimes,
not so secret,
anon, ^
sometimes,
so much more,
than that but a glancing of favoring,
a handshake secreted, is actually felt,
actually secreted,
and rare though via~able,
it passes through a longing traveled voyage,
over wire, under sea's cabling, through space,
hoisted from & by satellite over continental divides
just a hop, skip and jumpstart
over this tiny planet,
and though, but, an amorphous 👍 thumb,
a colored 💙 or collared,  
or a pointing 🫵
body part
the like,
bears more than just a passing resemblance
to another

f o u r   l e t t er   w o r d

its often lost & found
dear cuz ^^
full of meanings hidden,
or even
anon,
"I'll be there shortly"^
                                                         magic!                                               ­         
                                                       ­                                                           nml

a birthday poem for S.

perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...

perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,

the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,

burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough

loving kindness

sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five

train myself to write anywhere and at any time...
as commissioned by ms. melan
~'~'~'~'~

so I, being a being,
a poet who carries his mind scheming
with him:
drags along his body and soul,
just in case:

that his hands might feel the touch of
beauty, skin and beyond,
the exteriors of his interiors,
to feel, to feel, to feel
every one of his surfaces,
the reality of his peculiar real

his eyes so one can envision the unimaginable,
and thus, never be satisfied,
for all is
always new,
beyond original

that his ugly, ungainly ears,
may never miss the sound of his tripping & falling
head!over!heels with the realization,
he just might be foolishly
in love

the tastes of life's living that
make his pulse race,
crease his smiling face,
causing his blood pressure so high
he pleads to surrender,
just begging to let his tongue
survive

and smells that arouse,
producing & promising
words proud &  profound,
that have yet to succeed
in capturing
the fullness
of the
special musk odor
that masks
allure of attraction

no, not a lot to ask for…

5:26am
SunSep13
two zero two five

utters is
Ma~Ma;
until,  some day,
you say ok, enough,
and acknowledge and satisfy her
overwhelming craving;

be assured,
the father is no different,
for after Ma~Ma,
they will indoctrinate you
with the concept of equality,
and Da~Da will be pronounced
shortly, thereafter,
probably twice as much when ma-ma is not around

so Colby,
rest easy, be assured,
both your parents were & are
perfectly
normal

to more than I can be...

a sad isolated man,
throes of an agonizing,
stretched by her for painful
revengeful gain,
kissed with pointless avarice, divorce.
children deeming
him alienating, his faulty
insensitive sensitivities,
to easy blame

little do they know of the
piercing lowliness, the looniness of
nights he listened to sad-eyed singers,
and his late-of-mid of night scribbled scripts,
where he
off loaded the agonies of a midlife
disaster, not entirely of his-own
sown making,
but still his to bear and bare alone...

some accidents happens for unintentional,
unintended intentional new seasons appear,
stumbled, tumbled, fumbled his way onto
this H~oly P~lace, where someone might listen
to his explanations, expiations, excoriations
of his all too common tragedy, and said:

this broken human, he's got his reasons,
read his overly long treatises, his entreaties,
to those that prowl, rowing, in this corner
of the silence of the internet, where only the
trolls, the cold, the easier to-be-meaner oft thrive,
and found none of that, but an oasis of sheltering,
embracing comforting, those who actually admitted
his writings could be loved, and perhaps the writer
himself, was
deserving
of a second chance, a verbal embrace. a rereading forgiveness,
a pat
on his natback, a sympathetic sensory intaking,
and perhaps-this debt, eternal, that put the
for and the fore in a new baby born, named -
new forever
came into existence
the very same
e
that begins those conjoined words
e~ternally grateful

"and now  I sleep in peace when the day is done"


but the night time
is still the
write time

and it emits a cry, of sudden surprise,
a howl for the hole in its roundtable tummy,
when it pleads for knowing, for it knows not of
knowledge, why this light comes, who bids it enter,
and why this entity they call mother,
has all the answers required,
and why the father,
moves so
stealthy
to hug
them
both
and
squeeze them together

7:33am
Sat Sep 11
2025

in the babies room,
in the keep

a silent metronome,
we know exactly when,
when sleep pleads us enter,
and when it bids us adieu,
when we growls for sustenance,
or begs for plenty of the mercy
of emptiness to cleanse our void,
when to compose,
when to repose,
when to dispose,
and when tempos dictate
lay down child,
fallow!

but its greater feat,
when sounds the bells of alarm,
when need is greatest,
for arms embraces,
wet lips to refresh,
bodies to synapse,
eyes require delight,
when needs be greatest,
for that very first infant step
to what can only be ever felt,
but is otherwise undefinable,
for another
+to make us complete,
a unity, an,
us+

come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise,
in the in between times, when souls exit and enter.
through microscopic cosmic windows, and there
is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth
and then! fill our void with words as yet unborn,
and aid all our passages from nether to glory...
for you, we, await...for guidance inherited from
visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis
nat


<>
upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life,
reading the first poem of the day
6:59am
Sabbath
Sep 13
2025

aye,
the babies have it right,
them, the essences of life

"you have the power to inundate,
pro-create as you initiate the young
with the magic of your words." ^
<>
awake, askew, at just past midnight,
reread these worded cords with no deliberate haste,
as is not my wont,
no smile and drive~by for these privileged privies,
that unknowingly wrench and divvy my parts

no, theses require forethought,
deliberation,
there will be no outpouring,
there is no need,
this is not a crack to be slow filled with a potter's
artisan gold,
but a cutting that highlights continental divides,
wounded spaces and pain,
for which no glossing over can easy relieve,
each word a chosen well

for you make your own Grand Canyons,
in this life,
chasms that render, sunders with a constant but
invisible echoed thundering,
off /of my soul,
turned my persona, physical and intellectual,
into a walking, though awaking of the deadening
of a personal failure, a fail~you~are,
that cannot be undone, and now, out loud,
alone in the dead of night, in the construct of early mourning,
yes, in the sunroom where there is no sun nor son,
I weep openly at
words that should not have been
so tenderly and sweetly,
tendered to me

inundate,
I know this word,
better than most,
for grief is an old acquaintance
that you want to keep at a good distance,
for when it in-un-dates you,
you, visibly marked,
a cheekbone or two crushed,
a limp with no raison d'etre
and a chest pain, no pill can bring to
heel

for I am a centuries old grief,
and the inundation I speak of,
is the loss of child,
who has divided his living cells from my mine~mind

how oft, what is plainly visible,
is missed, goes dot unconnected,
this pulsing compulsion to lift the chin of the beginners in life,
whose sorrowed demeanor, complected temperament,
incompleted confusions,
can sometimes be so easy swatted,
encouraged away, and sometimes not,
but openly pleads for compassionate leave,
an easy helpful nudge away from
from the riptides of growing up,
& growing lower...

so my wonderful life is not so wonderful,
and my bad posture bent over is not from laziness,
my surgically repaired ventricular machina,
is more than a physical symptom, just a ticking clock
that solves for the quantity of beats of
busted opportunities

outside, an owl,
perched in a nearby acorn growing giant.
whom we have never seen,
for darkness, his/her palatial estate, hiding place,
hoots with no regularity,
a derisive hooting,
thinking I am too, asking for compassionate leave,
'but I am not

some five, nearly six decades ago,
a young songwriter wrote:

"Teach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
Feed them on your dreams
The one they pick's the one you'll know by"^^

this never just passes by,
for its arrow is a permanent implantation in mine,
and the owl just hoot hoot hoots with the stubbornness of
an unhappy chile^^^

so I see now,
how I overcompensate,
and without a knowed thought,
extend a finger, an arm.
an entire tired life,
to
initiate, pro-create
the younger ones, (1)
but this still,
does not,
nor ever will it,
rhyme with
expiate

this, my very own
9/11,
and that other one,
which I experienced,
as well...


2:03am
Thu Sep 11
Twenty Twenty Five
<nml>

now, I rest, for how long?

acacia
"i know that, i know that
what's mine will find me"
(1)


<>
sigh...
(forgive my intrusion)
not necessarily-
for too many, we have to invent, create and
forever to be on the lookout for to
find what we need,
forgive and then, not begrudge the time it may take,
finally
then to make it ours,
for
that's when the work begins,

sometimes it takes a forever
to know how to define, create
find, a forevermore

<nml>
exactly 5:00am
Wed Sep 10
in the dark, dark sunroom

"lie still and let it wash over you, the was and is and soon to be.
How frightening yet effervescent the next 24 hours. The lust, and musts of future days revert to the ancient past..."
patty m.
><
the irony!
when I am stilled,
the effervescence of me
unbounded, unleashed, and the torrential rain
of words fulfilling and departing from my interior

I am
a Grand Central Station
of trains labelled
"the was and is and soon to be''

all moving in an unscheduled mayhem,
but never crashing. never accidenting,
only accenting my racing against time,
my oldest and fiercest Super Villian,
and one just knows, never can you beat time,
time, that old rascally up his sleeve card magician,
who when shuffling the deck,
he knows
what was,
what is,
and here his red eyes gleam with satisfaction,
soon to be...

He and I,
old familiar adversaries
addicted to living.
never leave the table,
never leave a *** or
a poem on the felt,
and having always felt,
firm believed,
there will always be one more,
one more gamble, another day,
to write another poem
and turning my cards over
to reveal, to revel,
in my Royal Flush of creativity,
when time, smiling face,
with his
wild card,
**** time,
who trumps me for
it,
in possess of a Five-of-a-Kind(1)

~'
and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be
so ha!
                         nml
6:30am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five

Agnes de Lods.writes:

"Writing turns our thoughts inside out.
We cut and suddenly join words to touch the essence of both human and non-human existence. I  allow myself not to be too sure
whether what I write is a record of what I have seen,
of my falls, or maybe a hallucination,
trying to wear the veil of mysticism.
I am only following the crumbs left by the undefined"

<AoL>

PREFACE

Perhaps it's me,
perhaps it's you.
but I trip over the inspired insights you so oft
slip in, share, and guilty feel
you have commissioned me to write
a poem for everyone
but especially,
for the poets here,
who peer, preen
and pepper their
inside innards
to find,

"the undefined"

<>

I know well these crumbs,
that once,
tasted
demand a full on British Baking
real life escaping escapade of a unque episode

god how I love the poetry of a glance askance,
the invisible invitation to take a closer look,
the hither in-a-come-closer

god how i love the well hidden but tracing whiff of a smile,
of an 8 year old when she's gifted an
unexpected delight, a simple bracelet,
which alway says please, little one, always,
remember me?

the pretense of irritation of an phony whiny
'I know, I know'
just for her, a savory masking
of the pleasured knowledge that you know her,
so well, of what she'll next speak.
just as well,
hell! even better,
before she knows herself

the shock of a particular poem
when first read, is a stone to temple,
a knife to the breast,
for the only first thought
forever, is my guilty plea of
"I should have written that!"

Need I go on?

perhaps one more,

the very first time you accidentally intentionally
touch each other's skin, hair or breast,
and the shock equivalent is of an electric chair
shared,
that requires stoppage of breathing, allowing for the full on
desire to fall to the ground,
thinking I'm found, I'm found out, I'm revealed, unveiled,
that comes out
of your eyes silently beseeching
if anything could ever be better,
than a joy undefinable.
and a memory memorized forever,
that defines,
that makes one fine,
that comes crossed off that secret list,
one more of the
undefined
of being alive
and changes you
for the entirety, and
the subtlest shade meanings of the phrase.
just
for the
rest
of your life
is immortalized
<>

now, here. I cease.
quite pleased,
that I do indeed!
remember;
begin again to recall
how to breathe
out, then in…
and then,
tho still off kilter,
                                          again,  and a gain
                                                            ­                           <nml>

7:58am Tuesday Sep 9 Twenty 25

(at a time and place, where days are no longer individuated by name, any day, everyday, can be a Saturday)
~~~~
sometimes ya gotta get help,
to see yourself, in the light of
of other's filtered x~ray vision,
to cut through the indecision,
am I this or that, dog or cat,
what the heck, I gave me best,
and no one has ever called me
                                                     poet yet,
cause i'm in a new york city f(r)amed of mined

broadway is just an indian path,
we stole. borrowed & renamed,
the Yankees haven't won a Series
since time in memoriam, forget the mets
no one ever called them a baseball team
                                                        ever, yet,
when i'm in a new york city f(r)amed of mined

guests /(locust pests) have invaded every
crannied nook, sand and rugelach
crumbs, will be spewed, & spend
the rest/best  of their now[Surprise!]
extended 7 day weekend, while the
man~maid/me!made follows close on from
behind with damp cloth & hand hell'd (not a typo)
vacuum till I throw in the towel and get
the big guns, showing my grumpy age of 101,
and I'm just doing my cranky impression
of Lenny Bruce in a Bill Joel fouled up mood
                                                          ca­use, yup,
when i'm in a new york city cranky f(r)amed of mined

been up since 195?, haven't gotten a good night sleep
since the first time they counted my fingers and toes,
god knows, came in yowling. cranky even then,
and here I am on a gorgeous funday sunday on
my hands and knees, not very pleased because a sandy
beach is now in the living room, the geese are back
for a fourth time, to foul the lawn and my mood,
around 10am, the guests will be emerging uncocooned,
stomack growling. for bagel, challah french toast, oat milk (WTFO),
and me listening to Nina S., cause today's a best-to-get-in-an all~in
moody blues haze around my head and all cause
                                                           nothing good occurs
when i'm in a new york city double swanky f(r)amed of mined

ok she's not eavesdropping on my mind or over shoulder
spying on what I'm writing, but she knows where my
head is at because she counts my sighs like I count
her sneezes,  and she's leaving before the cleanup
begins, and some blood may get spilled, cause **** me
when i'm in a new york city f(r)amed of mined

anything can happen, especially
when them they ask if they can "have''
the house for, uh, every September, weekend,
and i just walk to the beech,
and hang myself from with
the ropes from the tree swing,
and whaddya know!
                                                  i'm no longer in
                                  a new york city f(r)amed of mined

"Ideally, I’m at a nice desk in my home office or a library or a cafe somewhere, but I really try to train myself to write anywhere and at any time."
Author Rebecca Kuang (1)

<nml>
bus stops, airplanes,
soaking bathtubs, any couch in every room.
driving, jitney riding, back of taxis,
bed, beds, anywhere I rest my head,
airport lounges, (hotel bars, very har-d)
in backyards by the water,
where serenity and serendipity,
order me motionless, stilled, and yet,
doggedly pursued by the
emissions of the observable,
anytime anyplace,
while making love,
while taking love
giving love,
in motion, at rest,
reading yours, stumbling over fab quotes,
in restaraunts,
or sidewalk concrete streamings,
on either
paper or cloth
napkins,
(but not tablecloths)
soft places, watery places,
(but not pewed hard benches,
unless the sermons are just god~awful)
tears on face
privately and publicly,
Yankee Stadium,
did I mention the subway?
long drives on horrible highways,
upon seeing beautiful people,
little children, streets full of couples
holding hands, arms around shoulders
d r a p i n g
and babies...

theater, where the spoken lines enunciate/incite me,
walking on the street and music earbuds
issue me ten commandments,
lyrics to analyze,
words to satisfy,
provocations that fallow were,
now demanding a dueling satisfaction


'round children, anytime or anyplace,
in fact, in deed,
the most difficult place
is at my desk,
where the pressures of composition,
brings an ill disposition,

watching ballet dancers twist my soul,
by watching the human body unfold,
did I mention the Metropolitan
Museum.
Opera
Transit Authority,
yeah yeah
pretty much anywhere inspirations lay
littered on sidewalks, in the air,
***** underground stations,
in motion, or in emotion,
places and moments of devotion
wherever they are detectable,
in streams of conscious unconsciousness,
walking by river esplanades,
central parks,
overhearing drama spoken on city streets,
where things said, cannot be unheard,
and never forgotten...

that pretty much covers all the places,
most of all the fresh faces,
and the tired old shuffling bodies inclusive

did I mention doctor's waiting rooms?
especially in silent elevator trips of long duration,
trapped within by **** looking human beings,
and you compose witty ditty
opening lines
that die on vines unspoken

or kids with outrageous, flashing lights on sneakers,
inside department stores
not much,
but those Fifth Ave. windows at holiday seasons,
plenty writing inspiration,
bunch of bunches

where the Towers fell,
where blood innocent was felled,
in snow, rain and slush,
over good bad desserts,
near Good Humor and Mr. Softee trucks,
upon openings  of refrigerators
with nothing but moldy cheese,
or freezers overstocked with no room to breathe,
in the dark to a symphony of tiny multi colored electronic dots,
in rooms with tinny roofed ceilings during Florida hurricanes,
walking down unending hallways with no exits signs
for miles and miles

well that about covers it,
if you had a few spare weeks, you would find a poem from
each and every one of these situational places,

so the point well made,
you write in you head,
which you take pretty much
everywhere

>nml<

on the couch,
where else?
6:12am

(from "To: Mimi Romanelli"

~indebted to suggestion of
https://hellopoetry.com/MacGM/
for filling me up one of the trillions of missing datapoints
in my slowly diminishing insights & missing knowledges
<>
"I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms. Finally: happy."

from the poem by Rilke
"To: Mimi Romanelli"
see notes

'~~~'
so worthy of my/our attentions,
his reflections on loss, grief and mortality,
for in the natural course of this poet's story,
the interplay of this shopping list of preoccupations,
foremost on this temporal frontal lobe in these waning days
of my perhaps, last summery summary,
that falls upon your eyes with
my guilt that you have clicked upon
this e~pistle, in and un~
tentionally & tensionally
thus demanding & tendering post-haste
my apology

so be advised, be learned, and query why
an essay on ending mortality should be
be finished with a concluding a
"Finally: happy."
by breaching this poet Rilke essay,
one discovers
this poet see through the storms of his preoccupations,
"the red of his blood,"
because he loves
another human, being,
so many would agree,
yet so few are so certain,
as Rilke,
and yet,

"It is still always that death which continues inside of me, which works in me, which transforms my heart, which deepens the red of my blood, which weighs down the life that had been ours so that it may become a bittersweet drop coursing through my veins and penetrating everything, and which ought to be mine forever.

And while I am completely engulfed in my sadness, I am happy to sense that you exist, Beautiful. I am happy to have flung myself without fear into your beauty just as a bird flings itself into space. I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms.
Finally: happy."


<>
Writ the last week of August,
and the first of September
2025

thanks for your thanks, but your work is always
100% entirely you

but you have to be grateful and greatfull,
first and foremost to yourself for the
ownership of your unique creativity &
courage, first to write, and then for saying,

"Hey! lets post it, and who knows what mighty might
happen?"
.(I will😉)

<>
writ on Labor of Love Day
Sept 1, 2025

those who wash in and wash out with tides of
their lives, peaking into ours
for a poem, a cider & doughnut,
a quick hit of a script,
like a rush of fresh ****,
that comes all the ways from states that end in A,
(ex: newyorkcitaaa baaaaaba)
but  they, don't stick around,
they, in possess and possess
other multi~typical addictions,
than just word flow,
tho artistic in temperament,
but lacking
the concomitant commitment of pleasuring others,
above and themselves.
with the musicality of their owned
alphabetical notes, rhyme, chime,
whipping, driving, yes, even chiming,
to their internal soul's baton,
a familiar friendly conductor,
who bids them greetings,
with a piecemeal peace,
a quick bite, lightly chewed,
sometimes not even swallowed,
with a greeting
of Peace,  
welcoming them and wishing them well
on their no staying way
to the next diversional
entertainment


postscript
~~~
creativity,
tho sometimes fast, even easy,
is never
cheap,
always come at a cost

postscript
~~~
creativity,
tho sometimes fast, even easy,
is never
cheap,
always come at a cost
<>

''Well, I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do for you
And all the times I had the chance to...

These days I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
These days by Jackson Browne
[?]

once again, mess with soulful perfection,
the melancholic mood of music & word
making me aching for the sweet sadness
of loss for when one possessed a curvature of
the smooth straight idyllic perfect love
of friends, family & females,
ascending into crescendo,
then the blood letting of
ego, vanity, incorrect priorities,
the hurrying up to nowhere silly manhood,

and Jackson bemoans
"About the things that I forgot to do for you,"
begging please in a daily prayer,
let me be
confronted with my failures,
my children,
I have not forgotten them,
though, they, I,
nor you,
and you too,
have not forgiven me,
nor I,
myself

and all that is left
is counting time
in quarter tones,
and even smaller, finer
intervals,
to make my punishment for all my
mistakes, go slower, making my time taking
more grievous painful…

I pledge allegiance

to all the stones in the road
that have given me succor,
to every poet-of-anywhere
who greets me
with wetted, parted lips and open heart,
who greets the sun-rays shared, inching,
opening o'er my yet living,
praying body, reminding me
that I am alive,
that I am warm
that I feel poetry in, on,
cells, all over, deep in my extremities

Most  importantly, in my busted heart,
where warmth is stored in a soul restored,
and Life affirmed,

For who knows how
many more times
I will know this,
How many more times
I will able compose this,
Play "measure the future''
in seconds or years and
grimaced smiles over tears,
or just one or the other,
that be willed to supersede;

Will keep you posted
in every realized and many some stillborn poem,
rising with the grand entrance of morn skies,
or perhaps, lies buried neath in each horizon's cemetarial,
and
even those,
that straddle a confusing and confused moon,
of a twenty fours hours existence,
be shoulder-borne,
bathed in
combinatorial equatorial
moon & sun light,
so we can bathe, like Bathsheba (1)
by both,
and delight
at the exact same moment's portent,
no matter,
the disregarded, discarded,
why
we are
who we are
when pledge and plead
allegiance to those eyes that read our scrivenings



nml

"Now I look for her always
I'm lost in this calling
I'm tied to the threads of some prayer
Saying, When will she summon me
When will she come to me
What must I do to prepare
When she bends to my longing
Like a willow, like a fountain
She stands in the luminous air
And the night comes on
And it's very calm
I lie in her arms she says, When I'm gone
I'll be yours, yours for a  song"

Lyric from "Night Comes On"
by Leonard Cohen

<.
the morning comes on,
the blackbirds mark my Coming
with vociferous, unmelodic caw~cawing,
whisper a quick one line prayer
to whom, if anybody, who guardians
my soul & body combo
for one day more restoration

yes, you guessed, sitting before
the water's and landed tableau,
painter's tablet on lap,
wrapped my fav big ugly brown bathrobe,
coffee in my right, left pointer finger doing all the work,
of rat~tat~tap,
shedding my *****'s contents

yes, again, wish you were here, too
especially those who are long past their expiration date,
who I failed in ways inexcusable,
but don't linger for the heart reminders me,
probability states, I-won't have to wait too much shorter,
my due date unspecified, but we all knownow it ain't in the
far distant future
~
all this buys a way of introduction,
please consider yourself fully induction,
get you a pillow, and we both admire the movie
soundtrack of the goodly good of a stiff breeze welcoming us,
the bird empire gone quiet mostly, but the dutiful osprey parent,
wanders, floating, eyes by practice sharpened, for their are babes in
the nest that possess needs that must be attended to, for that is their
calling,

mine?

if it be your will to let me spill,
a moment the same, yet so wonderfully
different, sharing this day in all its specificity
have learned from its predecessors of thousand millions what
combinatory natural excesses it is duty bound to present us with,
for this I suspect, be my calling, waking to be an official greeter of
the miracle we so casually call good morning,
to be burdened in this manner, writing mad hatter style
of all the varied and variegated sensational sensoria overload,
I accept,
the anxious urgency of burning~some need
to capture every detail, without fail, to satisfy our
mutuality of wondrous awe that we have all arrived
in the same place, identical when's and where's here,
but no answer have I as to the Why, nary a clue, but here
I end, this poem dies, its calling  fulfilled,
and I am lesser for it, poorer too,
am disgorged, expunged,
having given, forgiven,
but low on excuses,
all I can, is that my
calling to, calling from, has
both been answered and filled,
leaving me satisfiably
pleasured, satiated

and called,
yours for a poem
.>


silver beach
Sun Aug 24

Just lately, 'learned,' (what a double entendre that is!), a long time resident and story teller in the empire of creatives who coexist with each other in two dimensions, in deep isolation and simultaneously
in a camaraderie of bonded bones of mutuality, of deep, affectionate
camaraderie admiration for another human, who struggles and desires to please the world by putting worthy words before us to
be felt, not just read in our bosoms, but-placed deeper still, in our very souls.

As is my custom, I oft forget what was written by me, and awoke feeling guilty that I never gave him "His" own poem. So I looked him up on the HP site, and lo and behold!
this tribute came up first...but cease not here, seize this man's living testimonies to the beauty of life and family.  

I wrote this, upon refection, for us, a year ago...
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024

For Spygrandson:  A Man
Who Looks in the Mirror, & Sees a Potholder of Simple Design…

~ for spygrandson ~
with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/

<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…


a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
they cannot be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated

ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done

~for immortality~

well,
wow
"busy with academics."
what an annoying nuisance
this living life's growing up
activities, just to keep you busy,
so much nicer to couch and
read 41 of ole natty's poetry,
in one humongous sitting!

now, take a for real break,
go for a walk, pick five words
a shopping list of five of life's
things that make you smile,
make you weep, and intertwine
them or define them separately,

best to spend your time a-writing,
alighting, upon empty pages that
plead for fufillment, that only
you, you, you, you, you, you
can provide, the data original,
the knowledge keen, the internalities
that you secret within, and spill ever
so carefully, what we await, most anxiously...

the truest path to immortality


nml
6:00 am

Every time I'm AI tempted, because the curiosity level quite high,
Turn away, for the caloric risk of a bag of Hershey's kisses is nada
Compared to the heroinic addiction of that 'helping' slippery slop(e)

Finally asked, the nameless Intelligencer within my tablet's purveyor,
The burning question. "Write me a poem in the style of Nat Lipstadt,''
watched the throbber thinge (endless circling icon indicating
the machine is "thinking" about it)

Shocking response!

*Roses are red,
violets are blueish,
copying the style of nat
lipstadt,
is uniquish,
therefore impossible
to do,
to-dooo~
wapa-dooo~
uplicate

"And the older I get, the more I'm sure
That more by itself never was a cure
Some days I've got nothing to show for except
Walking the dog and walking the floor"
Mary Chapin Carpenter
<><><>
it's been twenty years plus
who can remember exact,
the last time I had a full-time four-legged
companion to share my bed, greet my head with
wagging tail, and joy incessantly, overflowing and drowning me
with face lickings and hugs of a topsy turvy twisty body,
and smiles and curdling yowls of deep throated
cries of obvious joy and the
first thing I'll do when the nectar of next
life's staging begins to commence will be me to get
such a dog as heretofore I remember as an unadulterated purest joy,

I'll still walk the floor,
long walks, yup, outdoors, early morn,
and late afternoon day settling setting endings,
dog and me, freshly bathed, settling in to watch
some British crime and ****** mysteries sleuthed and
solved by folks I'll never meet, but whose company enjoyed
over the distance of an atlantic sea and about seven feet,
and maybe dog  curls up next to me, by my pillowed
head, or between my happy to snuggle legs,
don't matter much, dog & me,
will discuss an alternating
rotation satisfying our
mutuality,

and even when I  still walk the floor, which be a task for evermore,
he can walk beside me if he chooses, cause choice is
what's it all about
with a true companion


nml