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 Feb 2014 Tien - Tim
Nat Lipstadt
See  please, if you have not yet,
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/594328/this-filled-a-need-i-had-no-name-for/
                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

got myself in trouble,
found me a problem
all of my own making/creating,
all my own to solve,
all by my lonesome

put/found myself
in a room with no exit at all,
only bookshelves upon the wall


with bookshelves full of
great poets who when they wrote,
they filled a need that had no name

said to myself,
how am I going to
get out of here,
or
find a space for me on that bookshelf?
or both?

this new standard, self-imposed,
discovering, exposing, sensing,
filling the aches and hopes
with a new satisfaction

it occurs me this is the precise atomic second
that if, can place the keystone,
then, can build the edifice,
floor by floor,
room by room,
poem by poem

so, trapped in this electronic/platonic youthful room,
a room with too many words,
but none mine,
my problem begins

so I have begun to solve my own one-problem,
alpha bet, word, line, stanza, poem,
one at a time

and never post what never meets the highest
standard of mine own creation,
fulfill
*the need you did not know needs filling
I have drowned in the geyser up, the waterfall down of too many poems.  I have decided to post less, but hopefully better.  I will read more but say less.  
I will be among those anonymous reads,
of whom, oft wondered,
who are you, you, who read and move on
with a nary a moment to comment or like, or dislike?
Look for my messages tho, for via stealth technology, I will be present here.

To write special, and leave special on the table, my goal now.
From here on, I write for me and to the highest standard, expecting to fail, hoping to succeed.
Knowing this:
I define success when I put the pen down,
having left breath ,tears, a poet's and a child's dream, and sweet perfume
as the residue.  Those of you, the readers, who come along, treasured but fewer, share my meal and leave the table satisfied and tell me too,
that you too write to me,
you will fill a need that we did not know needed filling,
One poem at a time.



*“Get yourself in trouble. If you get yourself in trouble, you don't have the answers. And if you don't have the answers, your solution will more likely be personal because no one else's solutions will seem appropriate. You'll have to come up with your own.”

"society is much too problem-solving oriented. It is far more interesting to [participate in] ‘problem creation’ … You know, ask yourself an interesting enough question and your attempt to find a tailor-made solution to that question will push you to a place where, pretty soon, you’ll find yourself all by your lonesome — which I think is a more interesting place to be."*

― Chuck Close*
 Feb 2014 Tien - Tim
Nat Lipstadt
Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...

There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.

A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.

there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices,  and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback  who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.

This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,

“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel *****: one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Not my finest, but you try and write standing up in an overheated bus
on the potholes they call streets in my city. As for King Lear, I still think he was just a verbose, whiny, sore losing Boston fan
 Feb 2014 Tien - Tim
Nat Lipstadt
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind

bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)

in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"

Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...

Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be

do you know why
Silly
has two L's?

Correct.

for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
******* the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions

that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Love is a four letter word, when writ as,
I  love you,
 Feb 2014 Tien - Tim
Austin B
You filthy inadequate loathsome speck of worthless rust.

Sitting there rotting away - your idiotic, incoherent task you call life.

Sipping away respect with each pitiful ounce of liquid waste.

I hold back my aggression.

I hold back my remorse.

I am sad for you,

... Because when you fall, I won't be there,

Be there to witness your progression,

Your progression toward a total downfall.

Get out of your placebo happy world and into the ring of honour.

Listen for my name.

You will hear it.

You will hear it when you hit the canvas and when it echoes throughout your casket.
Sitting here surrounded,
People all around.
Yet never was I more alone,
There's no one, no where to be found.

Standing in a snowstorm,
Snow swirling all about.
Cold, and hurt, and all alone,
There's no one, no where to be found.

I fall, I cry, I hit the ground.
I look for help, I scream out loud.
But there's no one, no where to be found.

I've come to the conclusion,
Although I hate it so.
In this world,
I am all,
but ,
**Alone...
Alone™  By Nadia DeLevea
It's the middle of the Night,
I wake with a great Fright.

I must drive Home,
Then I won't be so Alone.

I pack up a Bag,
For not a moment do I Lag.

I started to Drive,
At sunset I would Arrive.

The snow was coming Down,
It was white out all Around.

Driving faster and Faster,
I'd regret it all After.

Snow had covered the Ice,
Driving was a gamble, and I tossed the Dice,

Sliding along the Road,
My mind a heavy Lode.

Cutting over in front of Me,
The semi I almost did not See.

My foot heavy on the Brake,
My whole body began to Shake.

My life flashing before my Eyes,
No one ever heard my Cries.

Sliding, black ice, holding on with all my Might,
I spun through the air that horrid winter Night

Crashing down in a Ditch,
I cried, I shook, I felt my heart Twitch.

I looked up in front of Me,
A small white cross I could See.
Why God would You save Me?

Not a scratch, or a bruise, at least nothing that was New,
I was so scared, I had no idea what to Do.

There was smoke I could Smell,
At least I thought I could Tell,

I took the key Out,
There was no getting free, of that I had no Doubt.

It seemed like forever I sat in the Dark,
Waiting to see a single Spark.

I turned the engine back On,
The road I attempted to drive back Upon.

I don't know how I drove back Up,
To pull me out I assumed I'd need a Pickup.

Back on the road I began to Cry,
This was so stupid, why did I even Try?

Turning around I began my slow journey Back,
The night was dark, cold, and Black.

Tomorrow again I'd Go,
Perhaps then they will have cleared the Snow.

Then maybe I can make it Home,
With my family I am never Alone.

On this cold winter night I thank you God,
You saved my life, Your strength I Applaud.
AWinter Night's Journey™  By Nadia DeLevea
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