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Nat Lipstadt
~for Lori Jones McCaffery who wrote me of:
“Her hands lay gently joined”

So tenderly put

So sweet and tenderly put this trilateral phrase, a complement,
So sweet and tenderly put this lovely, geometrical compliment,
thus birthing this missive that was delivered in a mere 9 minutes,
a simple re-tribute to a poem scraped from eyelids, leaked from
my heart  
of what
I Witnessed,
of what
I Emoted

as my woman,
rustled besides me in the early morning sheets,
stirring my heart, as she astirring slowly awake.

love this title Lori has gifted me, for so few and far
are the in-betweens of the people, places and things,
that are so tenderly inserted in this banged up humdrum,
football game of daily living, pierced by primary moments,
even secondary seconds, of heart~glows that pierce the noise,
even-in-silence put a suffusion of the chest, kissing of the brain,
colored kernels that dare not go unnoticed, this eloquent, perfect,
thank you is a whispering tremolo note that

wakes me up again, with scents of gratitude, for those
who take care, those who give care, who value tenderness
in soft spoken gestures, brash and bold, smartly wisdomed,
so to honor her, to honor this moment of grateful inspiration,
I insert the exact moment these senses imploded in my chest,
ordering me to give thanks, take care, validate the valuation of words,

so tenderly put

2:10pm Mon Jan 30 2023
rhapsodic pastoralism
as beguilingly bucolic as tempera gardens,
where nature’s wild beauty
is domesticated and made
into a safe space for dream and play,
reverie and revelry.

with the bright dawn
chatter of birdsong
it seems to reach your ear across distance,
like a girl singing happily to herself
while walking down the road
on the other side of your garden wall.
evening remains of morning coffee
a gray day of rain's persistent mission
window's reveal: a diffused, wet world, paws muddy
two crows hunched over a neighbor's chimney
the birch, in distant slumber, 'Tube Man' waves
watching black clouds roll morning till night

a very orange cat drinks its puddle image
it disappears, a rusting red pickup remains
this storm's magic elixir casts a vail of stillness
light entwines on winter's mossy branch
dimming, as darkness erases another calendar square
city sodium vapors aloft steaming like stars glare

"Unzip a cloud..."
wes parham
Slow is her progress and high is her climb,
It's measured in arcs that trace my night sky.
I spoke and she answered, but only in rhyme,
Across space and time, the poetess and I.

In my dream we met, and she told me she'd written,
Something dear to her kind heart- a poetic creation.
For Sara herself, I was utterly smitten,
And I urged her to share it, with awkward elation.

I rambled then, foolish, and shy to be near,
Since her words had already reached me before.
In a future that’s past yet, paradoxically, here,
And knowing, not knowing, just what was in store.

“There's a poem that you wrote...”, I had started to say,
“In the Bradbury story, I think that's the one”,
“There's an automated house that's going through it's day...”,
“It recites your piece aloud...?  but the people have all gone...?”

“ ‘There will come soft rains’,dear friend”, her reply,
And her smile said, “thank you.  I'm glad you recall”,
But this one is shorter”, and her voice was a sigh,
It’s a different theme, but encompasses all”.

Then, as you'd expect, in the midst of a dreaming,
She opened her notebook and the next thing I knew,
Four lines of writing appeared, only seeming,
To arrange themselves magical, universal and true.

"Moon's  Ending"  by Sara Teasdale

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,
In the dawn clouds flying,
How good to go, light into light, and still
Giving light, dying.


Every step of our lives, we are walking the line,
Fail or succeed, illuminated in the trying,
The moon is just as bright when she's on the decline,
Our light, consolation to the living or dying.

Thank you, poets. You gave everything that you could,
When you’d make something holy from the simplest spark.
Thank you, friend, for understanding. I had hoped that you would.
Thank you, Sara, for writing the light and the dark.

This is for another collaboration with a composer in the Netherlands, Dennis Ramler.   He wrote a composition inspired by a poem that he loves called "Moon's Ending" by Sara Teasdale and asked if I could write something to mix in.  This is what I came up with.    I'll post a soundcloud link once Dennis has mixed and mastered his track.   The idea was a dream-memory in which the speaker meets Sara just as she has written "Moon's Ending" and entreats her to share it.  They ramble awkwardly about another poem of hers that was used in a short story by Ray Bradbury.  The poem is followed by, basically, a paraphrasing of how I interpret "Moon's Ending" and the final stanza is gratitude for poetry, poets, friendship, understanding, and for Sara who wrote so lyrically about beauty, love, life, and death, each in equal measure of respect and gratitude.
 Jan 1
Evan Stephens
New Year's Eve dark at 4:30,
a dilation like a pleasured eye:
stray clouds pull themselves
across the clarity

& stars smudge unreasonably
across taffy-thin years of light,
long inviting blears.
I am peeling away from myself,

half-drunk on the absence of grief,
half-drunk on my lovely neighbor's wine:
it's funny how little moments
can pull together the murmuration

into a pattern you can hold:
I feel possibilities, sour morsels
of old dreams going loose
into the frozen nacre of street,

into the cubic alleyways,
rain smiles light as *****.
But moments don't hold,
something turns off -

the clouds are burning alive
in a songbird's oubliette.
The bastille falls
all the prisoners escape.
 Dec 2022
Mystic Ink Plus
If you are entering
The Writer's zone
Bear in mind

They will bound you
By their illustrious words
Highlighting the mysteries
You seek
Framing the immortal soul
Transcending vivid images
Idolizing an abstract
As a metaphor
As a prose
Claused by semicolon
Detailed by comma
A version of reality
And there exists
A you

And you will be
No ordinary
Then after
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Are You Ready?
 Dec 2022
sometimes a river

is swollen--

because it carries

an Ocean as a

foreign object.

growing sideways

with escape--

as it leaves

little spinning

crosses in every

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