for Alyssa Underwood
~~~

my poems do not trend, go viral,
Fast and Furious!


yet, they do not die


they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered,
smoothed by time,
upon the surface of the
green earth waiting patient, virtuous,
purposed for itinerants bards
to trip over one
one some someday

somehow they accrete a readership,
slow stepping and steady from,
|the seekers and the stumblers,
the droplet drinkers,
meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years,
miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form
beneath the alluvial streaming
of the waterfall crescendo
of words

I like this

when another traveler sends me a like,
a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation,
for a long ago, barely recalled, writ,
allowing them to carve their initials upon the
external, visible roots of my tree trunk,
invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring,
forcing me to look down,
look back,
take measure of myself,
accepting myself as not wanting,
nor lacking in other's acceptance

these statements are neither  boastful or illusory,
yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures,
slow to chew, fast to the taste,
reminding me of old friendships,
well valued,
though no longer fully employed,
their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure,
their discovery is my own re-discovery,
exposing flaws and fallacies,
even fallow,
mostly shallow facts
about me

all of them,
a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh
with and at
me,
when I think to myself,

"crap,, did I write that?"

copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt

Hands
the first thing I noticed.
A Smith, with the hands of a painter.
Striking me first as someone who would prefer a ball to a pen,
A phone to a book.
But his hands suggest a delicate part of his life.
A part maybe less troubled than mine,
and a little more appreciative than mine.

Dark soft eyes,
a warm entrance into the mind,
but often he looks away from me,
so that I cannot quite fit into that entrance.
The persona, the mask, the cataract,
He hung an old sheet on the window,
a few slits,
maybe a few have even gotten past it.

Sporty Smith on the outside,
He matches no season,
and forgets to decorate himself in life.
A grey cubicle but in the corner I see a blues guitar.
A white picket fence who is secretly a rock climber,
A wife and two kids who likes to drag race.
There is a bulk of normality in him,
and a hint of adventure.

A helicopter movie at the bachelor party.
What a trustworthy guy!
Decent grades, decent life, embarrassed, and mature.
And his words suggest a vocabulary of a well read college student.
His portrayal of himself is confusing.
Like a hipster vegan Lion.
He doesn't make sense.
And yet he is a whole person.

When he spoke to me his words crystallized in his mouth,
his shoulders slump forward,
as if he were dragging through an unfortunate thought,
his tone understanding and enthusiastic.
A decent bedtime I assume,
and the possibility of insomnia is present.
A few friends, and no musical preference.
And once he smiled when we spoke,
and his teeth as white as his words,
The image of a good dentist’s hand
and a smoker's dream.

He moves his head when he talks,
n’ twirling in his chair,
like a blonde girl and a string of her hair,
he twists back and forth.
He does not move his hands when he talks.
His Hands.
Softer hands than mine.
Soft as the new velvet record album cover.
His hands own my attention.
The hands of glove owners, velveteers, cake decorators,
and clearly,
the hands of a writer.