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 May 2017 Adele
Nat Lipstadt

The Underground of HP

~
I do not joke

underworld, underground,
a subterranean nether-land,
a dark net
of a peculiar type of
wonderful human trafficking

all pathways are Venetian style,
each traveler rides in a tricked out, camouflaged gondola
of their own reckoning and design,
upon "rivers of good company"^

***"dude - ain't no such thing I seen
on o dropdown menu
provided by the House of York***

you are correct and yet, you are
correctable.

the way in
to this far more real world
than the surficial one
where you currently reside,
but only half alive,
is where poets speak
in the pentameter of plain english,
exchanging kindnesses and
magic tricks, tidbits of loveliness,
poems of sheerest nylon delight

their private revelations,
their second skin
home to shared state secrets
that are close guarded,
confided confidences, confident completely,
that nothing can rise exposed to the glare of the casual observer,
the accidental tourist,
who writes but
of and for the occasion
for self-glorification

the way in you ask?

don't make me laugh.

no one will extend an invitation -
memberships do not exist
you must invite yourself.

look to the frescoed, vaulted Vatican ceiling,
see the Creation of Adam,
a single finger-extending,
breathing life
when touching his/your reciprocal,
his/your creator

this is the way, the way in,
to self creation.

make the reach of your life,
stretch your soul across the terra firma of invisible terabytes
with the touch of a single fingertip

down below is where
the super stars reside,
who count not the vanity of quantities of cheap likes,
but who delight in the
rivets of insights,
well hid in the spaces between
line and letter
and dark secret messages,
trafficking in the best of
humanity, kindness

expose yourself, accepting your self
welcomed you will be,
accepted.

down below is where the real work gets done.

the realization, the actualization,
where the top of the tip
points down, the crown,
of the inverted pyramid

where poems are the
blood and stuff,
the kisses and the touches,
the ***** and the
opening into the berm,
the root, the stem, and the blossoming
of the real world of HP


^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1913140/in-the-river-of-good-company/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1915543/how-to-be-a-successful-poet-on-hp-in-two-parts/
 May 2017 Adele
ryn
Foolhardy
 May 2017 Adele
ryn
Endearing is the quest
to sing of the morning sun,
when you know only the words to the song
of night.

Absurd is the notion
that you could saunter across the lake...
Just to touch the moon when it is only a mere reflection.

Foolhardy is the assumption,
that your words could matter enough
to outweigh the consensus of most.
 May 2017 Adele
ryn
The Pierrot
 May 2017 Adele
ryn
Pale-faced and stiff,
he stood...
Unmoving - frozen in time.

His chest no longer heaved,
his limbs dangled dead.
His painted lips were parted
with no spoken words.

We have before seen him breathe.
We have before noticed his wordless actions.
We have before heard his song.

And this is his end -
A space
unaccompanied by his usual
careful and subtle gestures.

He bore no voice now as he did then.
But his story was told loud
through the lyrics and music
of a hauntingly, mournful song...

Showcasing the lone relatable teardrop
that never dries.
Pierrot, the sad clown, with white face and loose white blouse, expressing slowly and subtly and in the absence of and beyond words, emerged in the nineteenth century from his roots in stock comedies and pantomimes to become the embodiment of a certain artistic type, a specific strain of artistic emotion: sensitive, melancholy and solitary, and at once playful and daring in subverting language and suggesting the fraught but still facile and fluctuating nature of gender.
Two in the night isn't the right time
to be watched over by two eyes in silence
occasionally broken by a hushed voice
pack up sir, madam must be waiting sleepless.

Three in the night and he was right beside me
while the weary moon slanted to west
and dead insects lay on the floor
burned out by the joy of light.

Four in the night he was escorting me home
half a mile up the hill
when the stars were shedding light
fading with the dying night.

He died sometime after I left the island.

On sleepless nights he's there to see me off.
He could never be dead in my head.
In memory of my colleague BUK who died young.
He stood by my side all along my stay in the Andaman Nicobar Islands.
All I ever wanted
all I ever found
Clouds of agony
soaking the ground
Rivers of pain
inside insane
Just because you limp
doesn't mean you're lame
 May 2017 Adele
SøułSurvivør
Chickens live
within a coop
Scratch and peck
in their own ****
Their nests are
low down to the earth
They scream and squack
for all they're worth!
Afraid of storms
they have no dreams
Afraid of everything
it seems!
Their young are squabs
Their eggs are beaten

In the end
they are eaten!


Eagles build their
lofty nests
So their chicks
will withstand tests
They are made with
rugged sticks
So in the end
they pinch and *****
They line their nests
like softest cloud
When baby's grown
they pull it OUT!
The center nest
no longer soft
Babe sits on edge...

AND IS KNOCKED OFF!

Should, in flight,
the fledgling lack
Mom will catch it
on her back!
The little eaglet
has to try
So in the end
they learn to fly!

Eagles dream!
They are reborn!
They will fly into a storm!

Eagles wings
are built to soar!
They will fly

FOREVERMORE!


SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/3/2017
I'm taking a break from HP.
I have pressing business.
But I'll be back soon!
 May 2017 Adele
phil roberts
They lie warm together
In the afterglow of torrid love
Her head on his chest, he says
"Sing me to sleep, my love"
So she hums and croons
A tune he does not recognize
With soothing sounding words
In a language he does not recognize
"I love you," he murmurs as his eyes close
"I know," she says smiling
And so, as he sleeps
She lies open-eyed
Imagining a future he will not recognize

                                        By Phil Roberts
 May 2017 Adele
spysgrandson
with moonlight, he travels mostly
at night, past snoring hikers and embers
of fires that cooked their food, kept darkness
at bay, and heard what they had to say

if the coals could only speak, perhaps
he would find the right circle of stones,
a black heap of carbon that once glowed
red and gold, and her tale would be told

at least he would know the last words
she spoke in this wilderness--whether she
chose to vanish into the deep wood, fodder
for the scavengers

or was the prey of evil men,
who lurk at every turn--in bustling city
and quiet forest as well--vipers who strike
without warning, without curse or cause

when the moon's light wanes, he moves yet
in darkness, feeling his way, a nocturnal detective,
hoping to find what the others have given up
for lost and registered among the dead:

sign or scent of her--black coals or white bones,
a piece of tattered clothing, the canvas backpack
with her name, the hiking boots he laced for her
which left tracks he forever yearns to find...
"Inspired" by the brutal ****** of a couple on the Appalachian Trail in the mid '80s. In this case, the forlorn searcher has lost a lover, daughter or someone he wanders in the darkness to find.
 May 2017 Adele
J
A Fool Like Me
 May 2017 Adele
J
Not a hint on how to start
A tad drunk, thoughts fell apart
Not a word from worthless tongue
Even if this brain was wrung

Half-asleep and frozen rain
Caffeine running on my vein
It dawned like the rising sun
I love thee; life has begun

Goddess of great compassion
Such pleasant disposition
Just a question, I prithee;
Can you love a fool like me?

Can you love me, despite my flaws?
Dead sure, I am not a lost cause!
So, when I am healed and made whole,
Will you embrace my longing soul?

Not a hint on how to end,
Or what message I will send
You stole my eyes, and heart, too
I devote myself to you
"WUI" or "Writing Under the Influence"
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