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 Jun 2020
Logan Robertson
For almost 2 days, now, I have been wondering what has been going on.

I can't upvote and comment on poems, and most poems that I see posted have no view counts.

By now one would have hoped that the fallen would gotten back on their feet.

I just wish there was a voice out there, somewhere, instead of speculating.

Logan Robertson

6/02/20
Update-Today marks the sixth day of being in the dark. The lump in my throat has gotten bigger. I
feel choked and can't swallow the wheels falling off
of this site. Some poem submissions appear to be normal, some not. I just tried reposting Elliot's and Darrel Langstrom's last poems which are very foretelling of where we are today and I hit a snag. My hands, now, are up in the air and I don't like that feeling.
 May 2020
abecedarian
~for r, just because~


put her in my mouth and she became my
mouth.

put myself inside her and she became my
insides out.

spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my 
poetry.


on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above        
          mine.



I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly,
surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first,

the ABCedarian

the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to
thousands

I’m mortal,
your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere,

the ABEcedarian

I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless.

She snorted, said
“sounds like poetic ******* to me”
*
but returned to her sleepy heaven,
mumbling most contentedly.
ABECEDARIAN (noun)
a person who is learning the letters of the alphabet.
a rudimentary beginner in any field of learning.
 May 2020
Edward
Hello Poetry Poets , you are loved and needed.
You truly are special as well as inspiring also.
Hello Poetry Poets, Jesus loves you and so do I.
For your heart is always full of much loved too.
Hello Poetry Poets, thank you for all that you do.
Your heart is always giving to help your fellow Poets.
Hello Poetry Poet may the Good Lord always bless you.
 May 2020
Poetoftheway
~for VB~

<>

“A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition,
out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?”

Song of Myself (1892 version) BY WALT WHITMAN

                                                §§§

­there is special delight for the city dweller,
when the first clean flushing of brightest spring green
disrupts the unending graying city ribs of worn concrete,
the alternating lifelessness of blasé brick, pretending
off-beige, ***** pale blue, a sooty furnace red,
well done,  a good pretense that they are, of color.

I am among thousands whose as a child my breath
gave way, taken by gasp, when first made
entrance to the green diamond sparkle oasis of
Yankee Stadium, hid by the urban dreariness of The Bronx,
near sixty years vision sustained with perfect clarity on
retina-implanted, a shock, an earthly con-trast.

today, an old-timer, a first timer, I’m gifted Whitman’s Song of Myself,
from a friend and poet, who lives hardy by a Port,
another islander like myself, surrounded by wet roads and
pathways to the Northern Pacific, amongst timberlands of
forested and natured grass, a differing kind of stadium,
both of us silently saying, thanks Lord, for lending us yours.

even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.


                                                   §§§§§


Wed. May 13, 2020
Manhattan Island,
by the East River
 May 2020
Yue Wang Yitkbel
Why must the Eternal Dreamer

Seek to sow his golden purpose

In a fickle poem, for a fickle world

Pleading to be a destined grain of late harvest

And not a seed of sand from the desert of abundance

Lost, like every other, in the wind

Drifting, fading, falling

Till only silence, with the lifeless dune

Remains.
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
 Apr 2020
Edward
Especially now, God is always on your side.
Especially now, God shall not give up on you.
Especially now,God is for you then fear not.
Especially now, for God will not  abandon you.
Especially now, allow Christ to use you here.
Especially now, forgive those that crap on you.
Especially now, show this world that God lives today.
 Feb 2020
Nat Lipstadt
love gripped light

~ for r, sleuth of life ~

you sleep with a metal detector,
unearthing dreamed artifacts,
that messenger many fates of many young,
belongings of dead men living again

and

of a living solitary man, a vision of him, envisioning,
dancing on a property line dividing
immortality dreams
and finality schemes

dead men living,
these different men, haunting and roaring, sighing pointlessly,
speaking to you alone, pithy commentaries, they, predecessor poets,
someone’s ancestors inhabiting a soil world familiar, awaiting we too

you whip yourself over life’s lost campaigns,
where strategy proved insufficient,
lost to men and materiel superior in numbers,
the hearts that were captured, imprisoned, stolen,
and worst, lost by grievous bad judgement human weak,
your dreams are you own artifacts, recovered

long after the battle smoke clears, you remain,
questioning not the how, where or when, only
was it worth it? and so sadly,
you answer yes.

you keep a record of your poems, losses,
each battlefield has no victors, only losses,
each poemfield has no victors, only losses,
it tires you so, to be guardian, the promise keeper,
you asked for burdens, you got just desserts awarded,
you share some, the ones under the pillow,
gripped lightly and tightly, simultaneously

with long distance lovers of your soul,
those you barely know, until met in red soil someday,
what matters it, they ken a kinship bond, and
love you oh so lightly

and they are

gripping you so lightly/tightly with the lightness/tightness
of words,
two book bound souls.
one shared spine...

2/10/20
100 Centre St.
NY Criminal Court
1:38
 Jan 2020
Star BG
QUIET
on the HP western front
of my Home feed.
It’s roads are empty.
Its resident poets seasoned
with gifts aren't walking with pen canes.
Or driving cars of visions.

Guess they're all
in a different cyber town
OR INSIDE THEIR OWN HOUSE HEARTS.

PERHAPS
after some clouds in mind
bring rains to community,
a rainbow of words will
come and my home town
will be FULL AGAIN.
Just having a silly thought.
 Jan 2020
Edward
I am so thankful, for all of you Light bearers here.
I am thankful for all of your Awesome Beautiful words.
That are used to encourge and inspire others right here.
You are all Beautiful People with Life saving words too.
I want to say thank you for all of the healing you speak.
Some with Prophetic words , others speaking of their lifes.
Life is tough and God uses all of these poems to heal others.
Some might seem dark but its through your life right here.
That shall lead others back into the Light where we want to be.
To feel Gods Goodness and share it with everyone here.
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