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 Nov 2013
Chris T
It's there,
Sitting
On the counter,
Waiting for its
Coffee,
Watching
With the corner
Of its blind eyes,
"What is
This place?
What are we doing?"
It asks again,
"You wait
For her.
I know, I can
Tell, you're anxious."
And I,
Nodding,
Accept its words,
They are so true,
I couldn't
Speak with
You before, after
Class was over,
But I
Walked here,
Pretending to
Be hungry and
Buying
Food just
To get a glimpse,
Another look
At you,
It came,
Accompanied me,
This sick monster,
We call
Love has
Followed me and
It sits, coffee
In hand,
Trying hard
To catch a look
At your beauty,
Sorry for
It, It
Can't help itself,
It's not himself,
This is
Something
Else and it wants
To tell you but
Alas,
It is
Very afraid
Of losing this
Feeling,
I am
So sorry, please,
Don't hate me or
Him, we want to
Say it,
But there's
A thing holding
Me back, a fear,
But I
Think of
You every-
Day, hour, second,
I think,
Forgive
Me, i think that
I'm in love with
You.
Just a thing. I hate feelings. Hella old. Not quite, 2012 maybe?
 Nov 2013
Derek Yohn
During our last move we made
sure to pack:
all the paraphernalia, both
toothbrushes, most of our clothes,
old pictures, broken ashtrays,
tools we didn't know how to use,
the computer, both cats, commitments,
all the shot glasses, a bed,
and your unsolved Rubix cube.
It all fit in the car.

We left behind the couch that
one of the cats ****** on,
the shower curtain liner, every
working Bic lighter, your sanity,
the Monopoly game, two new
pens, one old pen (no ink)
and a bag of marshmallows,
plus one hell of a mess.

During the move we misplaced
our sense of direction, a suitcase
full of only my clothes, logic,
and a globe that doubled as a
lamp.

***** given?
Zero.

We still had both cats.
 Nov 2013
Cunning Linguist
I am merely
                       a trapped Rat
                                    But instead of snapping my neck;
                                    You toy with me, mirroring
                       *the enemy Cat


And I'm enamored by your spell
Your poison I've ingested
I expel to no avail

Allow me to run,
             though you've hold of my tail

One
         by
              One

Slyly
        and jest,
Take the shattered,
               broken shards of my Psyche*

And impale them
               Directly into my chest
Don't forget
to grind & twist. ;)
 Nov 2013
haley
it goes like this:

my toes curl over the edge
the stone ledge is warm beneath my feet.
i tense
and leap
and for a fragile second i am hanging, twisting
above the dancing water.
i swear,
i can fly.
the sunlight reflecting off its surface
stains my retinas
as my body plummets.
the ocean reaches up
and swallows me whole
with a splash of chilly water.
i open my eyes
to see millions of tiny
light-filled bubbles
float to the surface,
leaving me alone
in the dark.
i sink slowly,
as though drifting off to sleep
and am only conscious enough
to register the cloud
of sediment
that surrounds me
as my body reaches
the bottom.

and then there is you:

you watch from the shore
smiling
as i leap.
after all,
this only recreational, right?
i have every intention
of resurfacing
a moment after the plunge
of course.
but you
you see that i have
not risen
and you must think
you must
"her lungs,
they must be starved
of air".
and rather than rush to my aid
for i am clearly drowning
you sit back on the shore
and prepare
to yell
and scream
and cause a scene
but not for help
no
you will scream at me
because you
feel betrayed
that i could so easily leave you.

don't you know i wish i wasn't drowning?
don't you know that i could have been saved?
not really sure what happened here, but i kind of like it.
 Nov 2013
haley
i think that even if i
drank all of you in
while i had the chance
i would still fear
death
by dehydration.
idk if this makes sense
sorry
 Nov 2013
haley
i think that
as long as i know you
possibly longer
you will cling to the innermost
recesses of my mind
to the notches in my spine
to the cavities behind my eyes
and the creases of my elbows

but i
i will only leave traces
of myself
on the soles of your shoes.
-hmt
 Nov 2013
b for short
Raised Catholic, she
proposed that ******* count
as valid worship

on Sunday mornings.
See, God is present then— she
screams His name enough.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
 Nov 2013
Nat Lipstadt
I am a man, grandfather to four.
Adherent to the same religion,
Poetry.

Breathing through mine eyes,
Exhaling carbon words,
That with time and pressure become
Poems, verbal musical notes upon life.

Each motion, from tiny to grand,
A capsule of expression,
That if examined under microscope,
Familial DNA, interconnected tissue,
Discovered, tho logic says,  
Time and distance render impossible.

But this is a diamond
This is a writ to be slipped
Upon the finger, the heart, the essence,
Of the only Banyan tree I have hugged.

This poem but a fig,
In the cracks of kindness,
The crevices of caring,
It has slow germinated.

You dear, Sally,
My host,
A building upon I can lean,
When wearied spirits uproot
My surficial composure.

Your seeds carried from east to west,
By a fig wasp, a bird unknown,
An ocean voyager, of indisputable vision, strength.

This seeded messenger, word carrier,
Supplanted in me, and your pupils,
Jose-Bolima-Remillan
Xavier-Paolo-Joshh-Mandrez
Whose very names breathe poems,
in others too, like me and Atu,
Seeds to become new roots, but you,
Our Host official and forever
Planter of trees of loving kindness.

You already know with love and affection,
I call you Grandma Sally,
And when you ask, beseech,
I cannot refuse.

Together we will will banish the sad,
Acknowledge we, that life's ocean,
A mixture of many, even sad, a necessity.

But I promise that will turn it into
Something simple, something good.
For you have asked and I answer you
Right here right now - your wish,
My objective, deep rooted like you,
Like an old banyan tree,
Your roots spread far, spread wide.

So some eve, when to the beach, to the sky
You glance, smile, no matter what, troubles dispersed,
For the reflection of you, seeds, full fledged trees now,
Bending skywards, in search of your rays of expression,
Your maternal wisdom rooted, spread so wide, globally,
All over this Earth, is visible from your
Beloved Philippines.


---------------------------------------
In her own words..

I am a widow,
with five remarkable granddaughters....
all beautiful, intelligent girls.
It is such a waste not to write....
each morning that unfolds is filled
with things to write about....
the people, the birds,
the trees, the wind,
the seas,
everything we set our eyes on,
they are all
poetry in motion.
Life itself is poetry,
I always have pen and paper within reach.
My past experiences are a
never-ending source
of ideas and words for my poems....
I shall write until time permits me,
"til there's breath within me."

-------------------------------------------------
A banyan (also banian) is a fig that starts its life as an epiphyte (a plant growing on another plant) when its seeds germinate in the cracks and crevices on a host tree (or on structures like buildings and bridges). "Banyan" often refers specifically to the Indian banyan or Ficus benghalensis, the national tree of India,[1] though the term has been generalized to include all figs that share a characteristic life cycle...
Like other fig species (which includes the common edible fig Ficus carica), banyans have unique fruit structures and are dependent on fig wasps for reproduction. The seeds of banyans are dispersed by fruit-eating birds. The seeds germinate and send down roots towards the ground.

The leaves of the banyan tree are large, leathery, glossy green and elliptical in shape. Like most fig-trees, the leaf bud is covered by two large scales. As the leaf develops the scales fall. Young leaves have an attractive reddish tinge.[6]

Older banyan trees are characterized by their aerial prop roots that grow into thick woody trunks which, with age, can become indistinguishable from the main trunk. The original support tree can sometimes die, so that the banyan becomes a "columnar tree" with a hollow central core. Old trees can spread out laterally using these prop roots to cover a wide area.
Over 1900+ reads as Nov. 10th.
Sally, That is a lot of friends and admirers you have!
 Nov 2013
Nat Lipstadt
How do you know....
That you've grown old

When you see a luscious
human creation,
And don't think
Hot damnation

How do you know...
That you are an adult

When you see a diving board,
And think holy sht,
As a seven year pushes past you,
Climbing up, screaming with glee

How do you know...
You are married happily

when each of you knows
The other snores,
But neither ever mentions it

How do you know...
it's time to file

To divorce the twit you married
When you were young and so dumb,
When you introduce her as
My Wife but think secretly I'm wasting my life

How do you know...
You will be an ok parent

When you offer to press your  lips
To a child's cut, wounded knee,
Proclaiming confidently your kisses
Will make the boo boo feel all better,
And believe it is the  absolute truth

How do you know...
It is genuine 100% love sickness, heartbreak disease

When you see her at the cafeteria, a conference,
She doesn't glance your way even once,
And you can't take your eyes off her skin,
And the chronic ache in your chest that has been there
For months, suddenly become a full fledged pain,
Again


How do you know...
You-believe -

Is when
The question
No longer occurs

How do you know...
When you have acquired wisdom

When you hold your sobbing daughter of eighteen
In your arms, saying over and over,
It will be ok,
Knowing full well
It will be too

How do you know...
It is time.

I don't know, but when I do,
I will surely tell,
With that titled poem,
**One Last Write, One Last Rite.
5:51am
Market Street
San Francisco
 Nov 2013
Nat Lipstadt
Created June 1st, 2011

I am not gay.
I am not straight.
I am not curved,
or warped or woofed
I am bent, cylindrical,
a burnt human.

but not weak, nah!

tempered stronger than
furnaced scarred,
hard-stained steel,
a fire shaped child of El.

The sum of,
the product of,
the multiple divisions of:

my hard-on
experiential, existential
hand to hand
combat learning,
life's red copper burnishing,
and my very own
genetic, tantric
commanded tablets,
my natural earnings,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


obedient factotum to the
twists and turns of the
curve ***** and spitters
life pitches at my head,
that end up as
body blows.

multiple contusions outside
worn with pride inside,
I award myself a
medal of honor,
and elect myself,
Most Valuable Person,
an All Star of David,
for having survived
one more battle scarred
game day,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


when I awake,
in the raceway courses
of my veins,
the speedways to my
heart and brain,
runs the bitter herbs taste
of fear of how
I shall yet again,
earn this day,
my body's keep and shelter,
earn some table scraps of
peace of mind,
that I may lay
myself down to sleep
if ever so briefly,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


When I prowl the mid of night,
the fever of combat fear,
my skin sears,
and there is no narcotic
that anesthetizes
even surficial  
the anxiety,
the ailment of
melancholia
that hallmarks my soul,
the overflow of which
spills over the ****
of my vocabulary

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul
yet again

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


Once I was a soldier
who wore the
black and white stripes
of the uniform that stretches
to the four corners
of the world.

I used to sway to the R&B;
of someone else's tunes,
prostrate fell to my knees
speaking someone
else's words,
touched my forehead
to the ground.

but the melancholia that
sterling hallmarks my soul
never disappeared and
renewal was a gift
denied and refuted,
by the lack of clarity
to which I was not
part and parcel

and l guess I am just like
{you, man}


Took a new oath,
swore allegiance
to the alliance of
I don't give a ****
and acceptance of
the infection of
flawed humanity
inside of me
lies buried in the
permafrost of my mind,

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul,
yet again

The first new words
daily uttered,
chanted with vehemence
of an out loud prayer
to no one but we two,
me and you, man,
unashamedly clear and enunciated
not mumbled,
not muttered,
seven parts blessing,
three parts curse,
are these words.

l guess,
I am just like
{you, man}


Found and founded a brotherhood of me and
{you, man},
one mantra,
you and I are just alike,
now we have a new
holy romantic empire,
we are human
{you, man}
slaves to
nothing,
no one
but each other.
How I used to write...when I was....
 Nov 2013
Nat Lipstadt
New/Knew/Rebuilding
You

4:18AM

not sure where to start,
so I will begin at the end,
rinsing and repeating,
till it makes a dime's worth of sense,
even if helps for just one minute,
I'll take it happy for
giving you one minute of better,
rinse and repeat,
60times, an hour to which we can only but
try
to build a single day.

You are new to me.

But I knew you a long time.

Don't ask silly whys or how's.

This won't take long.
Less than a minute.

Saw a few Picasso's, Chagall yesterday.
Even a Basquiat.
Estimated to sell for
$15~18 million dollars.

You know he once said,
"I thought I was going to be a *** for the rest of my life."

So here is my art for you, girl,
Whom I will likely never meet,
But is deep inside of me,
Unmasking provoking, couching, courting,
Crouching, springing
me to care.

If one new/knew/rebuilder of you
Is writing words of caring, artful encouragement
At 4:18am,
What is that worth?
I'll tell you cause I won't let
bitter answer for you.
Everything.
So **** art.
But open heart to the art of
Accepting that I just wrote you a poem,
Message on point,
I care.
Your name is hidden within this poem, so our secret open but private.  Accept this please and if but for a minute, tell me you are smiling, or I will never write another poem here. For if I cannot bring to you what I want to,  60 seconds of solace, comfort, than my utility is zero.
 Nov 2013
Nat Lipstadt
Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem


This one knocked me askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
http://youtu.be/xxTF2umRtqY
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled,
wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck
on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days
existence.

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs


Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
suffocating,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on white prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,
*******.

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry so sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

Stop!
Why?
You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so
real.

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat, belt,
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
not a folded twenty,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying,
hey, to the blind,
careful,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity.

All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to
Ethereal.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.
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