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 Sep 2013 Sand
Nat Lipstadt
Whitecaps coffee-white, a bay frosty.
Sails, 99% white,
Always, gotta be one, black or blue,
Freaking tradition-breaker

White man with white baby,
In a white onesie,
Astride his daddy's tummy,
Dad, he ain't dressed warm enough.

All these observations recorded,
Taxed and paid for, with dandy words
Floating by the nook, overlooking
The whitish sandy beach mapped
As Silver Beach,

Where I pray.

Whither white led?
A summary of twenty writes
In four labored days,
A poetry *****,
To say anything else,
Too little, too more.

Overstayed my welcome,
But a white cleansing accomplished,
With look-backs submitted, got some debts paid,
Bills marked overdue, resolved.

The children unblemished,
To new schools and new troubles,
I can only inky-dinky-rinky worry.

This fall is the season of produce or die.
Of these things I don't joke.
If I get pasteurized, won't be a good thing.

This my style after all.
Simplest, to the point where
Poetry is a luxury,
I can't always afford.
 Sep 2013 Sand
Ghazal
Today's Song
 Sep 2013 Sand
Ghazal
Well, today's the kind of day
When I can just sit at my doorstep,
My chappals splashing into the
Little puddle of rainwater that's collected.
Today, I can breathe in fresh, pure greenery,
Feast into this inviting scenery,
And break into a little poetry!
About?
Maybe about how loud the clouds were!
In expressing their happiness,
Their love for us thirsty souls?
Maybe about how the cool breeze
Whizzed past our parched skins,
Blowing to us, its cool Hello?
Or about how squealing kids
Shirts thrown away, drenched skins,
Raced along their paper canoes?

Oh I can write on anything I want,
Oh I'll just hum along Mother Nature's song,
Today is the day for poetry,
Today's rhythm can never go wrong.
Weeeeee I love RAINS! =)
 Sep 2013 Sand
Olivia Kent
The Cataclysmic Frog!

Knows he wants to die.
Slip from his lily pad.
No-one knows why.
All he seeks is misery.
He’d sooner end up dead.
A frog of many colours with toxins in his skin.
To tell the truth in this sorry tale
Which is maybe merely a superficial jest.
Secrets told and secrets sold.
Only shows an honoured few.
He is gifted.
Blessed with awesome style.
Offers trips,
Accompany him on his lily pad,
The cataclysmic frog, he’s not bad.
Subtlety strokes.
Most of his gifts he keeps hidden away.
Denies he has them.
He’s crying inside.
Cowering in fears’ depths.
All love concealed.
The frog, he knows these feelings exists.
Finds them hidden under well- worn pebbles.
Eroded by the tide.
Pebbles round and shiny.
Clear and bright, occasionally catch sunlight.
Provoking memories, still fresh.

A fear of fingers snatching him, causing searing pain inside.
In his heart feels wickedness as stabbing needles burn again.
The sky drips with vermilion blood tears.
As in sadness, he denies.
Believes he can’t see her in front of his eyes.
Dries out while he dies.
Just as he expires before he flies.
Such a shame.
He knows this vision was predicted.
Together they shall beat a retreat.
Poor dying frog stuck upon a skewer.
Finding excuses to give to his muses.
The sad cataclysmic frog, once again he’s blinded.
As his true love he denied.
Just see what he loses!
Olivia Kent 2013
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
 Sep 2013 Sand
ASB
Poetry is often associated with
the romantic,
the candle lit,
the girl with flowers in her hair;

And hardly ever with
the silent and passionate,
the mysterious
and brave.

But while it is probably
true
that those who never love
will never write,

Happily ever after
never made that good
of a story.
 Aug 2013 Sand
Nat Lipstadt
All is revealed.

Look at my photo.
You see the solitary Adirondack.
So oft writ, it is almost yours,
From which I ply my craft.

Sentinel, overlooking the bay,
Looking for poem invaders,
Need prisoners to do the hard labor,
For I am on duty, elsewhere, peripatetically,
A new tour of duty to family.

See the coffee mug,
The contents, a warm hug,
For though it sumer still,
The sky and breeze beg to differ.

I think time is nigh,
To close this chapter,
A few itinerant thots yet rumbling,
But the rush is gone, like my contented season.

Wise men do not deny perception,
Grown cold, my warm invitation,
Perhaps, I injusticed you with repetition,
But I left you a motet for comfort.


And hints of an address,
In case some enchanted evening....
Photo removed, if u wish I will send to you.

Some enchanted evening
You may see a stranger,
you may see a stranger
Across a crowded room
And somehow you know,
You know even then
That somewhere you'll see her
Again and again.

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing,
You may hear her laughing
Across a crowded room
And night after night,
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Who can explain it?
Who can tell you why?
Fools give you reasons,
Wise men never try.

Some enchanted evening
When you find your true love,
When you feel her call you
Across a crowded room,
Then fly to her side,
And make her your own
Or all through your life you
May dream all alone.

Once you have found her,
Never let her go.
Once you have found her,
Never let her go!
 Aug 2013 Sand
Àŧùl
You & Me,
Breathing heavy,
In a close hug,
Hearing raindrops,
Kissing each other,
Passionately.

The drops ******,
The tin shed outside,
Bringing relief,
To our ears,
******-******-******,
So romantic.

They echo us,
And our romance,
Becoming one as they fall,
But they can't feel,
The love we do,
Lucky us that we are alive!
My HP Poem #414
©Atul Kaushal
 Aug 2013 Sand
Nat Lipstadt
Always use the best you have...first

That what she says, when she makes us breakfast.
Then the next best, and the next...
Then life will always be curving, on a tangent of the finest line,
Linen before cotton, cotton before paper.

She brings champagne and fresh orange juice to our table,
challah so soft, we could lay and love upon it.
All I have to proffer, tears-of-the-saddest of souls and some
scribblings, and a philosophy of fear, hoarding,
lest the day come of none,
when I have a true zero.

She smiles.

She says:
Nonetheless, I think I got the best of you,
I am-contented, for now,
for each new last poem you surrender up..
will be, the best you have,
and your eyes see poetry continuously,
your poems reveal your courage,
that which I recognize, that you cannot hide.

August 31
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