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Seven trees* she cried
Clutching each other
Seven trees all heading for the sky!


Past the distance I saw her smile
As the drizzle passed us by!

Not all them can grow as tall
Though each would love to go high
But the seven trees tied in one dream
Would one day soar to the sky!

One bore alluring fruits
Another stuck out thorns
One grew maze of entwined roots
Another was bitter born!

One grew without even one care
Yet shades men in all weather
One was dark bark another fair
But all happy to be just there!


I took her hand in mine
Her eyes turned after rain shy
Then drunk in the smell of earthen wine
We took one flight to the sky!
Between my awes at the centuries old sculptures
She was lost from my sight.

Maybe a minute only I thought
But why she should roam alone?
Against my wish I fought
To call her on the cellphone.

Should I go to track her out
Peeping through windows’ iron bars
But spoke in me a voice of doubt
Unnecessary she couldn’t be gone far.

108 dark holy spires
She could be under any of them
Caught in the winter’s desire
For a round of hide-n-seek game.

Sometimes a minute could be eerily long
For the shadows of fear to haunt you
What if the wait’s end never comes along
And she forever remains out of view.

Didn’t know when she quietly stood behind
Her nudge gave me a start

*I know what now occupies your mind
Those displays of the ****** art!
You needn’t so elaborately state
You don’t want to complicate.
10w paradox
Happiness I would let the world know
the griefs would be buried in my mind
when I take the last bow
would love to leave a joyous trail behind.

Smiles I would let the world see
the tears would lie hidden in my eyes
when the earthly bond sets me free
would love to leave a memory of sunrise.

Dark nights they are all mine
rivers of sorrow in my veins
I would tell you only of sunshine
would love to leave no trace of my pains.

Little happiness is all I would expose
my sketchbook of each silver line
when the days for me come to close
the graved sadness would be all mine.
Who else but only the miser knows
Preciousness of attachment!*

He would not easily give up, not easily part
Loss of what he values easily breaks his heart!

He demeans not one object, knows to love not discard
Treasures each possession, each zealously guards!

Nothing for him grows old, with each he’s intimate
His ownership is blind, associations passionate!

Never demean the miser, rather adore his commitment
None else but only he knows true meanings of attachment!
Beckons him the freedom’s verge
Atop's blue ring
Lures him the wings’ urge
To think nothing,

Lies his feet
On window ledge
He sees the writ,

His heartbeat
Says this *******
Is bitter sweet!

He could make the world his home
The span endless

He could wherever freely roam
Stay every place,

Yet his feet on window ledge
Shun the move

Ponders mind on freedom’s edge
The lovely groove!
 Mar 2014 Clem C
Nat Lipstadt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




a little straight slip of a thing,
red, a quartier inch wide,
red, a quartier inch thin,
suggestive, inquisitive,
a political and philosophical,
lovely provocation to conjecture

as if it were a colored arrow,
pointing strangely down,
instead of up,
to the next handhold
on a rock climbing wall,
in this case,
handholds on a
woman's body

this way,
follow me,
to the barricades!
a tourist mapped-path to follow,
visit the glories of the republic,^
and the charming Quartier Latin!

entrap and entice,
the eyes willful blinded,
taken away to thoughtful solitary,
on-one-side-only,
does the
bra strap
conveniently,
consciously,
haphazardly,
(yes, that's it,
a hazard,)
invitingly, speaks to,
looks to me,
inquiring will you vote,
RSVP to red?

as if a line of lipstick on the body drawn,
the directive points,
this way, perhaps,
always, just perhaps,
this way tourist,
to the dome of the pantheon,
where the statutes
are the course,
or perhaps
disguised, well-placed, statuesque, (ha!),
improvised explosive devices,
purposely presented,
needy for a desired
psychological high impact detonation

If
that is its purpose
under heaven,
under sweater,
under halter,
under cutoff gym top,
under liberty,
to tempt and remove
the blindfold from the womanly scales of
under justice
to tilt him favorably one way

If
it, is theater,
I, the audience

then whatever is on stage,
(Ibsen's Doll House, ironie délicieuse)
is a failed distraction, naught to naughty,
to no avail,
his eyes fastened, stapled wide
to the quarter inch thin
red path
from her slender shoulder,
leading, stepping him ****** down to
his I-magination,
for which unknowingly,
he, ticket purchased,
months ago for
two hours and one intermission

He must go again,
the show was
superbly acted,
for so the reviews said,
Ibsen's play,
"an unremitting portrayal of the suffering of a women"





^republic ~ a state in which the power rests in the body,
of those entitled to vote, exercised by their representatives, their eyes, chosen directly by and for them.
A synthesis, a hybrid of recent actual adventures and thoughts in, on and about Ibsen's Doll House, rock climbing, Paris, and the exposed solitary bra strap, not in that order.
 Mar 2014 Clem C
Chuck
She is the Queen of the coffee shop
Watching over her kingdom in triumph
Yet, behold, the empty dais
The star on her crown glimmers little
In the vacuous suffocation of silence
Clink and clang from the servant's quarters
Is the only sound besides the jesting
Of new wave hauntings and jazz renditions
A once vibrant kingdom depressed in
Melancholy achings
Yet the smile on her black lips,
Frozen from a time of prosperity
The coffee shop poet is beguiled
And joins the queen in her silent musing
He wore himself out in her dream.

Saw her from a distance
That made her alluring
Hid what were not,

He crooned to draw her closer.

She remained no more aloof.

Proximity revealed the intricacies
When they started living under same roof.
Had I devoted my lifetime writing on her
I wouldn’t have gone far.

*The loveliest woman she’s calm and quiet
Endures the tantrums of a none-too-good poet
She speaks so little her eyes are oceans
Silent demonstrator of the deepest emotions!

She is hardly heard on her demands are hard
Her secret dreams get no fanciful word
Isn’t a wife a mother she is beyond and more
A balm of burned heart a smile at the door!

She is the evening in the deep summer noon
Quench of soul’s thirst mind’s melodious tune
The rain on parched earth scent of the soil
The priceless fruit best reward of God’s toil!

She is the harbinger of all aspirations’ seeds
The carer the giver the nourisher of needs
She stands where seems the end of the road
Makes a life full a home love’s abode!
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