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 Dec 2013 Aya Baker
Nat Lipstadt
68
 Dec 2013 Aya Baker
Nat Lipstadt
68
Sixty Eight years of age
and he texts her puppy love
msgs six time a day,
in between phone calls.

long ago lovers,
high school, I think,
Facebook stumbled upon,
and the inky surprise,
that they have relearned to be,
a new shade of
a true blue tint of
the word,
devoted.

mushy is the heart that goes
soft to hard to soft,
soft by innocence, then
Pharaoh hardened by life, then,
softened by reflection,
mushyed by wisdom,
that came costly.

when relearning
the side effects of
discovering the words
that were left unsaid,
or even better,

spoke this time with
better understanding,
greater appreciation.

Now so better
After Aging Aching
in an oak cask
of finally, filly fully
fermented love.

I don't need inspiration
to clap for you,
but your confidence un-betrayed,
name omitted,
as one grandfather tips his hat to another,
all he can smiling say,

*******,
romantic rediscovery at 68,
I suspect is even better than the
first fumbled go around.
For he who knows that I borrowed his words....shhh...
 Nov 2013 Aya Baker
Nat Lipstadt
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.

my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.

my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.

a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,  
failing to depart,
as time has requested.

these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.

yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.

nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,  
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,  
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.

All our hands.

upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the  
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.

that date,
initialized,  
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.

Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,  
on all
our hands,
all our history.

Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.

Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.

So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.

Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.





-------------------------------------------------------­-----------

* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian

(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Written a long time ago, can't remember when
 Nov 2013 Aya Baker
marina
he said
sorry, i
totally just
spilled my
heart out
to you


don't worry
i told him
**i know the
feeling
sorrythismakesnosense
 Nov 2013 Aya Baker
Nat Lipstadt
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs*

my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.

burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^

she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.

she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.

a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a  e  i  o  u.

you can hear what I heard too.

after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.

I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.

but not so well.

I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.

here is how it comes all together.
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.

oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.

these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:

this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.

I could live without
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.

but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.

So you see this poem is about
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.

In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.*

you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.
Notes:
^ So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell
As her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Sting "Fields Of Gold"

~~
www.youtube.com/watch?v=mYbFJJnJ9Q4

Aug 5, 2009 - Uploaded by roomfulofteeth
Roomful of Teeth premieres Judd Greenstein's "AEIOU"

~~
Indebted to james-bradley-mccallum for the phrase that deserves a poem of its own,
*a wholesome democracy of love.**

Born at midnight, realized at 2:45am,
When my thumbs read the
Declaration of Emancipation.
ha.

Yet and still
Vowels and thumbs
Can live without
As long as we our have
Hearts to point the way...
 Nov 2013 Aya Baker
a m a n d a
i am taking back
    my father's name
and holding on tight

your name
     is a leash around my neck
identifying me
as part of something
that does not exist

it is stamped on paper
and recognized
      by the state

it is seared into the minds
of everyone i know
for the rest of my life

a brand

a mistake.

it must be easier for you
    wrapped in the name
of your father
free
of my presence

of my name.

i cannot thank you
for any of this.
not any of it
because
i was so wrong.
so
so
wrong.

and nothing will ever be the same again.
 Nov 2013 Aya Baker
mal
tired
 Nov 2013 Aya Baker
mal
your eyes
resigned and dark
like they've never seen a minute of sleep
(i mean this in the best way)
sometimes i catch myself staring and look away
because i am afraid that
if i gaze for too long
i'll never be able to stop
(please don't be offended)
and your tired voice
as though you feel you have to speak softly
or it will shatter this fragile thing
between us
sometimes i don't understand your murmurs
but they're beautiful all the same
and i don't ask you to repeat yourself
because i don't want you to think
you should ever speak louder
you are
the kind of sleepy   
i wouldn't mind listening to
(or looking at)
(or kissing)
for the rest of forever
your eyes say 'let me sleep'
and the timbre of your voice
replies 'if only i could'
but your words persist
fueled only by
your unrelenting interest
in
me
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