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Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night

a grownup lullaby
You intrigue,
With your unsubtle unsettled intent to decieve,
Breadcrumb clues
Your gender;
(don't care)
Your age
(don't care, but oft
Insightful)
<>
Only two things do I require;
Any name you wish to provide,
(So intriguing, always a poem in & of itself),
And from where you hale/hail,
So my imaginings can fly to you
With full embrace
<>


Sunday
July 20th
2025
Still & Quiet
in the sunroom
S.I.
nat lipstadt
new york city/ shelter island
If I were a month, I’d be September.
If I were a day of the week, I’d be Thursday.
If I were a planet, I’d be Saturn.
If I were a sea animal, I’d be coral.
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be a bookshelf.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be a sapphire.
If I were a flower, I’d be bougainvillea.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be a crisp autumn wind.
If I were a color, I’d be auburn. (much like my hair)
If I were an emotion, I’d be wonderstruck.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a pomegranate.
If I were an element, I’d be air.
If I were a place, I’d be a field of wildflowers in Scandinavia or a bookshop in Northern Italy.
If I were a taste, I’d taste like sweet and bitter black tea.
If I were a scent, I’d be the smell of freshly baked goods.
If I were an object, I’d be a pencil sharpener.
If I were a body part, I’d be freckles.
If I were a song, I’d be Thoughts of Flight by Edmund.
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be **bright purple converse.
me
in low tones
caressingly whispers,
use me,
write yourself

pick me to pick you
up,
only with me,
thru my ink flowing
down

pen thy pen.

pen thy image,
craft is the pen,
pen is thy craft,
craft thy image,
you were, you are,
created by,
created for,
picked by,
picked for,
pen
~
She smiles only in pictures
Her hair is growing long

With eyes closed
Au coucher du soleil
Her voice is dulcet
Her laugh is nexus

"Take me with you," she says.
"We'll make kites, we'll steal land."

The gentle arrival of rain
In the blue hour of
The portrait gallery
Makes her qualified to dream
About a serenade of water
And the blueberry boat

~
  Feb 8 Kitbag of Words
Elle
A different stage, a different story
Yet the same effect that poetry has on me
When the pain gets overwhelming
When I can't tell a soul a single thing
I tell through poetry.

You can't expect everyone to understand
And you can't trust everyone
Because they might judge you,
Leave you,
Or tell you things you don't want to hear
Or what you already know
It's what I fear.

Poetry doesn't judge
It doesn't talk
It only listens.

You don't even have to be afraid
To be your vulnerable self
Poetry is your friend.
I'm back after so many years.
  Feb 8 Kitbag of Words
Hamies
sometimes flowers just bloom to cheer up the ground
&' sometimes stars just shine to keep the moon company
sometimes cigarettes burn so hearts can extinguish
sometimes demons scream so souls can rest in silence
- h;
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