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 Nov 2016
Nat Lipstadt
~for Bex~*

in the flesh, not really, but I was...

ordered five bone china coffee mugs for you,
from the Artists Gallery, all scenes of nature,
painted by Canada’s Group of 7,
to go with the Lawren Harris mug,
'Lakes and Mountains'
from which I am currently sipping

for when I thought of you up north in Ontario,
I thought of my mom,
who was Toronto born and bred,
and the caramel oranges of fall
that have not yet arrived
in northern Manhattan,
but have already peaked in Ontario,
in late September

I smile,
while voyaging on the curving line of thought perusal,
at all the things that have already peaked,
someplace else,
and that have may yet, be late, arriving in my life

and I dream of:

all the poets who
I will never meet,
the living and the dead,
all the poems,
I will never finish, perhaps, n'ere to start,
never chance to speak, or chance to peak

all of you, sipping, from those real mugs of porcelain,
that are soon to arrive, via an imaginary railroad,
running on creosote stained ties of caramel orange,
built by a namesake, that I can no longer imagine,
but whom I knew
so well in my youth

my mug is sadness filled by
those stillborn verses that will never chance to peak,
but am comforted by the knowing,
as long as there is freedom to write,
that there is hope for one more poem
to be imagined, sourced from deep within,
drawn from the cool well water
of happy wishing
10/30/16

The Message

20 hours ago
You know, whenever I think of you, your name... and that you live in NYC, I think of the great Nat Taggart and the Taggart TransContinental RR. Then I think of Dagny and John Galt, and that makes me happy.

I hope you are well.
~
I read a message, I write a poem.

I
 Nov 2016
The Dedpoet
Autumn comes when my sadness
Arrived like a cold blanket
Of leaves,
The fleeting sun with short days
And rainy sessions of music
Too melancholic to feel
Any ray of sunshine.....

But I like my pain,
It holds firm to memories
That tie it all together,
The glow of a quarter moon
On my drowning lips speaking
The way I used to hold you,
The way you wore me like
A robe folding every curve
Around me:
How much the depths of my soul
Want to see you in a certain
Light, passing me even as air,
Yes,
The pain with final skies
Which calls for anguish in a flowering
Darkness leaving me
Nostalgic and scattered,
Yes,
I like my pain,
That is how I know it was real.
 Nov 2016
Francie Lynch
BeforeTV

Before TV,
When we were together,
Before growing apart
From father and mother,
We entertained ourselves with song;
All the sisters and brothers.

We gambolled in the backyard,
The clothes line was our zip line,
We fell soft, then hard.

We somehow got a hold of skates,
Not knowing what they're for,
So we took turns,
Laced them on,
To skate on cement floors.

We raised a high jump,
Skipped on the driveway,
Double Dutch and Speed;
We strung a line for volleyball,
Nailed a hoop below the roof,
Played soccer in the hall.
We paddled ping-pong on the table;
Our household freedom
Made us as grateful
As animals in a well-kept stable.

Some winters we'd flood the back,
And shoot and slide until the cracks
Turned to puddles,
Then I'd sail popsiclestick boats
Over oceans,
To distant folks.

On the frontwalk we tossed our stones,
Landing on the moon,
And hopscotch til we went for soup
And soda bread and **** milk.

If we had a ball and bat,
Chances are we'd not come back
'til the sun went down;
And then,
When the stars came out,
We'd *Hide and Seek,

Til the last one'd shout,  Home Free.
With dirt and patchwork dungarees,
We went in
For good-night tea.

Weren't we the normal family?

Then we got our first T.V.

After T.V.

We were landed,
Not gentry,
And we started channelling
U.S. T.V.

We weren't polite like Cartwrights,
Nor guaranteed Lil' Joe's birthright.

The sisters locked on Patty Duke,
Then dressed the same
To get the look,
So they ditched their Wellie boots.


We'd lie on the floor,
Stuck like glue,
On Sundays watch Ed's Big Shoe.
We didn't know the sun had left,
Our eyes were on the TV set.

The Cleaver boys still got dessert,
Though leaving green beans on their plate,
Left ice-cream and sweet chocolate cake.
We'd stare confused, yet salivate;
Such treats and food we'd never waste.

The Douglas boys had single beds,
En suites, bathrobes,
Hair on their heads;
Pillows and open windows,
And locks on doors,
They weren't co-ed.
We slept, at least, two to a bed,
Four to a room, two bedspreads.
We slept on mattresses with stinging springs,
Torn and traced with stale *****.
In the hot and humid summer,
In bathing suits
We'd swim in slumber.
Our small window couldn't open,
We roasted in our four walled oven.

We watched Lassie and Gomer Pyle,
Green Acres' Arnold had us beguiled.
We didn't get Father Knows Best,
His gentleness raised our regrets.
Lucy and Ricky, an odd couple,
Were always getting into trouble,
Like Fred and best bud, Barney Rubble.

Were these the models to emulate,
To blend in North of the United States?

These families had open conversations,
Shared their thoughts without hesitation.
Mine were full of consternation,
And alien, like My Favourite Martian.

We grew in a foreign land,
Beached like the cast on Gilligan.

Surely, we were Lost in Space,
Separate from the human race.
No gyroscope to set direction,
To separate fact from fiction.

We weren't stupid,
We were astute;
We weren't the ones on our TV.
We were a singular family.

Post T.V.

We numbered ten at the start,
Then aged and drifted far apart;
We can't gather to watch TV,
As we were once wont to be.
But I remember Ernest T.,
Throwing rocks to win Charlene,
And arrested by Sheriff Andy.
We laughed at all the silly doings
Of Barney, and Thelma Lou's wooings.

I send e-mails and textual banter,
(One brother still likes writing letters),
Reminding me of our early days,
How TV censured our innocent ways.

We never were small screen.
We emigrated to Canada from Ireland in 1957. A brave new world.
 Nov 2016
Joel M Frye
What truths I know
are neither quiet
nor clear.
I listen to
the dull and ignorant
when I too
tell my story.
Vain and bitter, yes;
for I have
a lifetime of
comparisons.
Late in life
my body calls me
to wholesome discipline
and gentility.
The universe unfolds
with and without
the full consent
of this particular child.
Peace with Spirit
will keep peace
with my soul.
In spite of
and because of
my best efforts...
it is still
a beautiful world.
I can choose
to be cheerful
and careful.
Strive to be
human;
happiness follows.
"Desiderata" has been a guiding light for me for many years.  The times I've fumbled in the dark have been when shunning its light.
 Nov 2016
Traveler
It's so hard to say goodbye
Hearts get broken
Tears get cried
It's been that way a billion years
There's just no way
To stop those tears

I'm so tired of letting go
Of all the dreams
We'll never know
I wonder why the hurt lasts so long
It's been years
Since you've been gone

It's not so easy to find new love
That special someone
That fits you like a glove
I guess my heart just won't be tamed
It always pours
Whenever it rains

It feels so good when things are fine
Two people treating
Each other so kind
Drawn like moths into a burning flame
A billion years
   And nothing ever changed...
Traveler Tim
A song I wrote
Slow blues out of d minor.
 Nov 2016
spysgrandson
a sextillion tons of sea above me  
I am watchful sentinel, in the trench
Mariana--what strange creatures visit,
in this world without light  

day or night matters not, here,
where pressures are beyond measure
yet these beings glide by, more drifting
dreams than sluggish flesh  

my neighbors yet belch fire,
steam, and black cream from their bellies
as I did in my youth, but
I am now silent  

and though I have perfect recall
of all that has ever happened, I am crevice  
without the crease of time, and remember
not one sorrowful thing
*The “challenger deep” is the deepest point in the Mariana Trench , 6.8 miles below sea level. I wrote of it only a few days ago, but am drawn back to its depths.
 Nov 2016
beth fwoah dream
blues and stars
love and ink
under an opal moon
darkness unravels
unwinds leaves
that fall from
trees that wander
the rain’s ghosts
sighes and
clouds of grey.
autumn
 Nov 2016
Francie Lynch
There's stuff parents will never know,
The kicks and blows we all endure
To mind, body, spirit and soul.
The run-ins with society,
With the good and the Just for me.
Children should never ever know
Half the stuff they should never know.
The other half I won't tell,
Like the half my kids won't share as well.

Who else knows the stuff I've done,
Alone or with the chosen ones,
Who shared memories with me.
One has died,
One has forgot,
One was always on the spot,
But now stolen from memory's vault:
My recall is true and false,
But the memory now is real,
None here to make appeals.

He knew all of my youth and teens,
Knew my life and all my moves,
My families, old and new;
But his memory is fading too.
It's not forgotten,
It can't be retrieved;
It's lost and can't be found.
These memories now are treasures,
Forever buried underground.
 Nov 2016
Melissa S
The leaves were just at the very peak of their color
and the air was full of change
Seasons have come and gone
and still I cannot forget his name
Sometimes we have to let go
of those godawful memories
In order for our heart
to forget the pain
Darkness will try to ride up on
its darkened horse from behind
Some days I just ride it out
Other days I beat it back down
All that animosity makes us go blind
I have to remind myself that I am not back there
I have to remind myself to just breathe
Some days we all feel sad and I think we just have to ride it out
Feel it, then move on
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