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  Jul 21 Left Foot Poet
lmnsinner
she just shakes her head

she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance,
in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night,
I greet her with words semi-adventurous -

“come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company”

to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve
lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some
kids appear, a surprise omen as they come
trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving


the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer
in his native Bangla

she asks “what’s that he’s saying?”

“Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and
may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune”

she just shakes her head, from side to side

emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”

she asks, “who is that?”

“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’

she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where you buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”

but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side

I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house,
the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop
a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment

a secret elevator which is under the direction of
Bimal from Nepal,
who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor)
I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys

now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging,
she just shakes her head, from side to side

later she says:

“let’s order in, apprise me of  your expertise,
some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue,
known for its aphrodisiacal powers
afterwards,
you must tell me each dishes name,
in its tongue’s nativity,
but much, much later,”

and as she speaks, grinning,
she sticks out her tongue,
while she just shakes her head,
but this time,

up
and
down
11/17/18
nyc
mostly a true story, mostly
  Jul 21 Left Foot Poet
betterdays
Pebble in hand
on waters edge i stand
Memories of you wax and wane with
each wave that laps at my feet
i sink into the soft sand..
Tears on cheek
Smooth pebble and
jagged breathe
As i let you go again. again....again
This time I don't throw the pebble away
I drop it at my feet, and watch it tumble and turn as the waves draw it back into the ocean
I watch the colours gleam and the pebble swing this way and that like a dancer swaying to the music...
I watch this small beautiful thing be subsumed by the much larger beauty of the beach

And I stand tears running freely as I learn another lesson about grief about letting go about being together but apart..
And through my tears I laugh...
  Dec 2020 Left Foot Poet
Traveler
Whether a comma, or colon:
Punctuation slows my rolling
I need no period. When I end
no Capitalization when I begin
Rulelessly I flow my art
  Not a single!
Exclamation mark
Are you not the one
Who'll know?
Where a question mark
No longer goes

Warp the structure
Bend the lines
Put in repeat
Let emotion unwind
Make yourself
Your poetry's the best
Be your own ruler
Pass your own test

Take your own road
Where ever it leads
Lover or hater
It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim
.


Hay
No matter who you are
You have my deepest respect!

Vanity
All is vanity
The meanings of passion
The aesthetic expression
The lines we draw and stay within
Even love is beyond intent
Vanity transcends
Flowing from our pens
And so we breathe again
  Dec 2020 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
<>

11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.

when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,

it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,  
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
     beholden to everyone

how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.

Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard

premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.

The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.

(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are *******, suns of no man.)
  Sep 2020 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
~for teach~

tell me, are you ok?

yeah, more or less;
like everybody else,
wires get crossed,
static builds up,
the speakers bleat
when they should blat,
and you try to stop thinking,
cause why hurt yourself
too much?

what’s wrong?

nothing to specific,
that seems to be the problem,
like aches and sharp pains
that come without reason,
on a schedule all their own,
no prior consultation,
permission slip sig forged,
so badly, it’s insulting

it’s 3:14 am, woke up with
headphones on, every tune,
reandomly selected, saying,
only the lonely, solitary man,
miles to go, it’s probably me,
long monday coming,
gonna spend it
looking for the summer

now look at this, me done wrote
another impoverished poem,
just by stringing together
song titles that were selected
just for me by an artificial intelligence,
it’s closing time, in the fields of gold,
prine singing a blues lullaby, just for me,
so I won’t have to think so hard for an answer to

tell me, are you ok?

me?
got no complaints that
ain’t my own fault,
my guilt is plugged in
always charging,
sleep comes in dreams of many colors,
eclectic eclipses, electrifying and elicited,
words come spilling so easy, pre-selected,
elocuted and executed, with madding ease.
two more lines, then calling it quits, but at least
got an answer, why for me it’s so easy,
the being hard

<>

3:32am and the moonlight so bright,
it’s making shadows on earth, left behind
like good graffiti announcing I was here,
maybe I’ll find these words, when I wake up,
wonder who wright these, twasn’t me,
I’m a sound sleeper, can never remember,
dreams, or nightmares, even those in technicolor,
wake up a blank slate, to see,
gotta answer somebody’s question,
if I’m ok?
  Aug 2020 Left Foot Poet
night unkind
the transitional day


august August practicing her Academy Award speech,
“Best Month of the Summer, 2020,” between you ‘n me,
there wasn’t much in the way of competition, nonetheless,
careful chosen backdrop, sound effects, mood music -
The Zombies playing “Time of the Season,” inter-inter,
mixing in cool weather, blue skies, intermittent cumulative
cumulus, pushed around by a whitecapping 16 MPH wind

the transitional effects, the leaves dropping fast, **** pointy
s.o.b., pointy acorns, under bare feet means a lot of cursing,
nobody likes change and kissing sweet summer goodbye for a
chilly tonguing neath a smirking smile, for the fates, having
a mischievous hot streak going, promising fall_ing fireworks,
(insert hacking, can’t breathe noises, gunshots and last rites)

try to wrap my arms around the summering highlights, never,
to let go, but you can’t successful hold onto, grasp aholt of
sunlight, traveling clouds, tanning oil, when the breeze is already
autumn weight tweed sturdy strong, and your new bathing suit
(so flattering, so long!) got no unsightly pockets (uncool) and
they got motion, and you have no traction and they just ‘adieu’ you

transition from chilled to trepidated, worries change seasonal colors,
green trees gone, green money worries replacements, and brown is
generally an ugly color, what life leaves behind, brown things,when
things die. Even bay waters have got the fall blues, no more robust
blue eyed girls to decorate white beaches, shades of grays tryout to
be the signature of coloration of symbolic, leave-less, denuded trees

frankly,  I’m in a lousy mood and wait and weight mix, a new coffee flavor from Dunkin’ Depressed, gonna be a big seller if there’s any left, don’t wonder why, ain’t gonna be much around, since I’m gonna drown this magnifique summer body in a tub of coffee that came all the way from June and July, it turned bitter soured, ain’t gonna think twice ‘bout it, heck, after this, may not even think of ‘bout it at all, ain’t nothing to, for, or say...’cept

<> <>

“When a man loves a season
Spend his very last dime
Trying to hold on to what he needs
He'd give up all his comforts
And sleep out in the rain
If Mother Nature said that's the way
It ought to be.”


apologies to the songwriters of
“When a Man Loves a Woman”
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