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there was no message from yesterday

perhaps you sat out on the sun like me

went down among the fruit trees
with shade and softer breezes

a different aspect

it was good to have the windows
the doors open
air circulating

the feel on my neck as the wind touched
lifted the hair

and a bee flew close .

over there in the hills the cuckoo called

yet I did not see my new little bird
not at all, not all day yesterday
wounded heart

punctured heart, pinhole big,
pain rushes in, as loves leaks out
nature abhors a vacuum

a wounded heart
has both rights and wrongs
our wrongs, were all ill timed,
our rights, never strong enough...

now they want surgery, a transplant,
denial tho my first line of defense, can’t,
because even this imperfect heart is
the only one that loved her, albeit imperfectly,
and that, that is better than a new heart that
never knew the meaning of love for her!
this poem, my first, is my authorship.  Those that follow, the preponderance, will be by others.
Respect Copyright!
 Jul 2021 betterdays
Joel M Frye
vision so vital
to all a poet is;
silent beauty whispers
its miracles only
to those listening.

the poet cursed
with eyes and ears
the clamor of
a living, dying world
their soul

finding refuge
from the deluge
in a quiet stream of stanzas

never realizing the blessing
of the eye of the poet

until all the words have dried
 Jul 2021 betterdays
Nat Lipstadt
~for teach~

tell me, are you ok?

yeah, more or less;
like everybody else,
wires get crossed,
static builds up,
the speakers bleat
when they should blat,
and you try to stop thinking,
cause why hurt yourself
too much?

what’s wrong?

nothing to specific,
that seems to be the problem,
like aches and sharp pains
that come without reason,
on a schedule all their own,
no prior consultation,
permission slip sig forged,
so badly, it’s insulting

it’s 3:14 am, woke up with
headphones on, every tune,
reandomly selected, saying,
only the lonely, solitary man,
miles to go, it’s probably me,
long monday coming,
gonna spend it
looking for the summer

now look at this, me done wrote
another impoverished poem,
just by stringing together
song titles that were selected
just for me by an artificial intelligence,
it’s closing time, in the fields of gold,
prine singing a blues lullaby, just for me,
so I won’t have to think so hard for an answer to

tell me, are you ok?

got no complaints that
ain’t my own fault,
my guilt is plugged in
always charging,
sleep comes in dreams of many colors,
eclectic eclipses, electrifying and elicited,
words come spilling so easy, pre-selected,
elocuted and executed, with madding ease.
two more lines, then calling it quits, but at least
got an answer, why for me it’s so easy,
the being hard


3:32am and the moonlight so bright,
it’s making shadows on earth, left behind
like good graffiti announcing I was here,
maybe I’ll find these words, when I wake up,
wonder who wright these, twasn’t me,
I’m a sound sleeper, can never remember,
dreams, or nightmares, even those in technicolor,
wake up a blank slate, to see,
gotta answer somebody’s question,
if I’m ok?
 Jul 2021 betterdays
Nat Lipstadt
when you accept the ‘I love you’ invite, coolly quietly
understanding this is but a summarizing way of saying,
let’s enter the gated fence to friendship, locking in & out,
the delving reveals to follow are truths more costly than
any fiction, you see only the too real, how much pain can
exist, survive, be survived, quietly thrive, just beneath the
skin’s preternatural strong thinness, holding us in, together
while yet a sieve, separating the granules of our composition,
the coarser fail to penetrate the finer cells, the molecular level
is where the sensory Alice in Wonderland world coexists with
the blunt exhaustion of so much agony, too much, and in the
early morn these words appear of their owned and freed volition,

do what you must do to repair yourself

...and you confess to understanding that to heal oneself,
you must heal others, and that separate and unequal
sorrows can somehow heal each other, praying for ex,
exfoliation, exhumation, excalibur, expelling all the ex’s
so new skin self repairs, a great miracle that, and that
human reparations are a thing you alone initiate, inhale,
fostering a belief that !we! is the solution, the only...

for those who will understand instantly, willingly and gasp at the recognition...
 Jul 2021 betterdays
Path Humble
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”

Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)


in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions

the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage

against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation

my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given

Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Purposeless this idyll, friend,
This void expanse of rhyme
When you and I and all the rest
Vacillate in time,
We vacillate in purpose,
Vacillate in gain
In intermittent vectors
Of vacillation shame.
Wasted in this interlude
of fumbling, bumbling fraud
When once, had we focused,
We could have reached accord?
In  accord with Nat Lipstadt's searching work "We are So Lightly Here"
A drunken ramble through the wilted trees
Of dark decay and windswept pleas
Across the paths of suffocating shadow
Upon the stillness of a sleepy meadow
I slump down like a tired child
Like a clumsy elephant blessed by the wild
My heartbeat races from toe to head
As my brain dreams back to a beautiful bed
Whilst the river is running fast and unrelenting
I am like the lost soul forever lamenting
Why am I here and what do I seek
A release of guilt or a peck on the cheek
Till soon the lights of suburbia will beckon
Where the weights that tangle are sure to reckon
Alone with ones thoughts is a mental gamble
On this late night sojourn to a drunken ramble
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