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 Aug 2013 Daisy King
Powers
Sick
 Aug 2013 Daisy King
Powers
You make me queasy
a constant sea sickness
but I'm not ill
People tend to call this "butterflies"
Im just digusted
there are insects hiding in the most secret parts of me
 Aug 2013 Daisy King
Nat Lipstadt
I posted this poem  a few days after I joined HP.  As  is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions.  With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked.  Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week.  So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.



March 2012
 Aug 2013 Daisy King
Nat Lipstadt
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #4:  Judgement Day*

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification,
you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for,
if at all?


Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 100 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for,  
if at all?
 Jul 2013 Daisy King
Nat Lipstadt
Trapped, A Sweet Nothing*

Creaky floor boards reveal my hallways travels,
Squeaky door hinges give my essays away,
Climbing back into bed, rouses you,
You ***, then come back to me,
Swing your leg over mine,
Instantly asleep, I am trapped.

This crumb of a sweet nothing,
Born and freed, another hidden tattoo
Inked, so no longer trapped,
Permanently free floating on the
Internet of us, but I, still plan my body's escape,
By kissing your neck's nape


7:34 am
7/27/13
 Jul 2013 Daisy King
Leila
This house doesn't need ghosts to scare anyone
The walls take sanity for fun
They'll hex you with whispers in tongue
Arrive with confidence - leave with none
The longer you stay, the further undone
The air stifles, it thickens and numbs
It weighs down on you like tons
Constricting every cell, it stuns
Skeletons in these closets tote guns
Heat comes at you like fire from the mouth of dragons
I mean heat like blaze of a million suns
All the while, your mind weakens and maddens
This house kills souls like it's a soul assassin
A suffering only the wicked can fathom
second rewrite
 Jul 2013 Daisy King
Nat Lipstadt
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.

I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.  

Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat,                    
her leading role, creator.      
A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being              
of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty,            
unflagging, for he did not    
forsake her in the time of      
her old age, when                  
her strength failed.
Old cherry tree beams—
Wind shudders through dark branches,
  .  .  .  White petals falling.
 Jul 2013 Daisy King
Chris
I know you said to not let it destroy me,
but you were far too late.
I don’t want to get better.
I don’t want to get better.
I don’t want to get better.
But I can.
I know I can.
Because I can choose.
I can choose to love when it hurts,
when it stings,
when it kills me.
I can choose to feel it all,
even though I’ve buried it beneath
the dirt of muddy memories
and worn out regrets.
I can choose to change the words
that try to claw their way out of holes
I’ve dug for the people I’ve hurt.
I can’t choose that it was you,
I could never choose that it was you.
But I can choose to be okay,
even though I’m not.
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