“You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.”

From: Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover
... by Nat Lipstadt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


in memoriam to memories:
for Miriam and Nat


reading each thought numerous ticks of days,
imbibe the silent of the silence
hanging from the rafters this wilderness roof;
grayed heartwood walls that separate
fractals of inseparable distances ― celebrations
the roads taken ― memories of those left behind
at the side of the mile untrodden


Congregated love and sorrow’s spoken words
scribed on paper bark touchstones ―
etched watermarks of perpetual tides
patina the afterglow of life's ebb and flow,
traces of everything and naught can ever fill


Experiencing intimate moments immemorial;
the whispers of living pulse still murmurs
in the gentle breeze between the gathered words of heart
breathing deeply ― a rush of systemic truth
born in the wholly sacred blood bequeathed


A soul outside the lines ponders ―
the sum whole of a life well lived;
coming to understand, although
all might not see the same light shine:


there’s a place one day we’ll return
we found along the way
because one day will come by here …



harlon rivers ... Memorial Day weekend ... May, 2018

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,

the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human

“every one shall sit in safety un­der his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”*

Letter from George Washington, 1790, to the Jewish community of Newport, Rhode Island


  <•>

multiple motifs present poesy alternatives,
but one supremes

safety in your own chosen orchard,
supping on clear water, wine and figs
children of trees, nurtured by one’s own hands,
children of your children, running the grove,
shouting out in sweet safety

the wasps happy shameless pollinate,
dreaming of more generations,
ruefully smiling, thinking of
Adam and Eve, who ashamed of
their apple’d sexuality,
hid their nakedness of course beneath
the safety of
fig leaves

you do not pray for safety
you do not ask for anything,
nothing to fear says the father,
for you already live in our own
George’s garden of eden

“is this the hill I want to die on?”


there are certain questions I ask myself
filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me.

which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying,
fighting over?

the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me.  

always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw

I ask the question twice -
most times
once to them. then to myself

by now my children know,
to ask themselves first,

so once is enough

pale dead moon

them the words heard, cloud covered, make the few streaks visible
look like mocking smiles saying see we got your numbers,  
play pale and dead you’re sure to win and add an over/under
and a trifecta guaranteed

everyone is willing to take and give you thanks
with a nice tap on the head which buys them
a grimace smile of 2 seconds recognition and
further confirms the crumbling internals
and unless you walk away,
into solitude and recall from
high school language class

répète après moi "c'est la vie,” repeat after me, that’s life

no, now,
pale dead moon,
that’s life