Left Foot Poet

Jun 2016

Nat Lipstadt

And The Hungry Ocean Spoke:

sea the human modifier,
each wave,
a dance choreographed,
a fomented friction, a whitecap invitation,
dispelling man made fictions,
repititiously reminding to:

remember, ascertain, fail, try again,
to reckon the imprecise place
you occupy upon this Earth
and be ever wave grateful

you-man, speck sized,
suffer tenderly these unceasingly reminders,
provisions of stiff winds,
soft slaps of gusting humility
coming from a roughened atmosphere

perspective, not selective,
sea how much loss I have
eons stored for you-man

has time's tenure insufficient
to yet teach you-man,
to the one conclusion bring,
kindness towards a living thing,
is the life's solitary methodology
to survive upon our shared principality?

oh desperately,
this hungry ocean, inquires:

what advantage does
your kingdom of the shore provide,
upon both the soft soil and the hard boil water,
doth not life and death mutually coexist
beneath my watery bounds,
yet killing for pleasure
here has no measure,
unlike your cursed you-man
internecine interactions

you, man, every-one, and each
a cornerstone, an etched mark so slight,
footprint in the sand, a shifting, imperfect, yet lasting,
molecular impression for all time

all time,
till the next second, the next air lifting, the next wave,
our creator's begging method of commanding,
surrender your Babel Tower's mortal arrogance

I am not human, yet I am modified.

each wave an accusation.

Oh Orlando!

what have you-men become,
infinitesimal but universal,
sparking containers of miraculous
creation breathing,

what justifications
do your bloodied solutions
that be no answers, provide?

here you-man
come once more to my irregular edges,
to replenish regularly my stores.
with your unwanted salted tears,
the sullied bodies of thy children,
mourning deaths you have fostered

Oh Orlando!

weeping, weeping,
even as your pulse's fury speedth,
every dance must end,
for to time subservient,
even as time ever forwards,
living men must slow weaken...

live by the sea,
die by the sea,
come unto me only as,
unruined mortals,
worn only by happy ending of
molecular disintegration,
the sweetness of time's decay,
a recording completed,
your resolute dancing resolved

come unto me
only from deaths
which one cannot void
but come concluded peaceful

Oh Orlando!*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shakespeare Sonnet LXIV

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wild animals never **** for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.” James Anthony Froude (British historian, 1818-1894)

~~~
June 12 ~ 18, 2016
Shelter Islamd

also inspired by Jessica Lang,
Choreographer

Jun 2016

onlylovepoetry

she reads my poetry just like this...

gently swipes each poem,
tablet formatted, line by line,
upwards, studying it,
thinking on it,
pausing,
then with another swipe, northward,
falls in deeper,
savoring the entirety

she mails me a completion notice,
with a kiss upon the tip of
my
writing forefinger,
the same, the very same forefinger,
that swipes her cheek,
upwards studying,
the poem of her face,
the softness of each line of verse,
thereupon inscribed,
savoring her entirety

Apr 2016

Third Mate Third

Follow no one, not me

lead only,
read only,
craft yourself a better poet,
after you have crafted yourself
a better being

leaders are dragged to the fore

selected and elected,
pushed and pulled

be wary of those who shout
and boast
Follow Me,
for they think not of you,
they think only of the me in us,
their glory in your gore

do not follow me,
I shall not follow you.

let us each lead by example
and upon the shoulders
of our fellows will we be lifted
spontaneously combined, but not combusted

then, especially then,
go quietly inside yourself amidst the haste

for fellowship endures,
but fame fleeting,
and the adorers will soon flee
to the next prince of promises,
and when to the ground you slide,
slipped from their tilting shoulders,
be unsurprised

Apr 2016

ogdiddynash

you are never too young to forget where you put your keys and other witti-schisms

~~~

threw out bottles and bottles
of aged liquor mixes and
some liquor too old
for brain risk taking,
tonic water that could
no longer tonic,
margarita mix that might
mix a stomach story poorly,
spirits that had seen better days,

cranky and worse,
twenty plus such  characters
from bottom shelf pulled
all well gray coated covered,
in twenty plus dusty seasons' complainings...

clanked and clanged the plastique bag
of liquid trash to the curb,
perhaps purposely others to awaken,
perhaps the thought occurred,
that no minute or opportunity must go underutilized,
unlike my glassy expired companions,
in happy contemplation
contemplated,
"whatever will the neighbor's think?"

****, those party animals
didn't invite us!

~

you're never too young to forget
where you left
those critical external ****** appurtenances,
the jangly, yet magically disappearing
into a stony metaled silence when needed,
bunch of keys,
so mission critical to
the sweet savory of
our lives' mission

but!
you think you should write
you're never too  old
but that would be stale bread,
old news, insufficiently poem-worthy,
coated in stale peanut butter and jelly

no, young
is written tight and right,
for in the days of selfies and tinder,
'tis the season of
easily committing grievous
social personal errors
that it almost criminal,
forgetting those keys
and their locking companion's,
who also serve us
daily, dually

unlocking our hearts
open wide
to all things
kind and wonderful,
love long lasting

yet to intently lock us up,
safe secure from
those that who would predate
their own young,
or noise suppress your own best songs

so don't casual place those keys,
in the bowl by the door,
key kept close upon thy person,
for though they may be
pointy pocket causing misery originals,
keep them forever handy
for they are thy keeper of thy sources,
the third hand that
opens up the treasures of
thyself

~

twelve princes had I,
from the sun king's corona
they were born and derived,
with a "hop" and skip
from Mexico,
they, conquistadores came north quick,
seeking the salutations and praise
of our eastern middle states'
summer breezy kisses

I met then at George's
our island supermarket,
to which they came seeking shelter

our island so small,
that all purveyors,
homes too,
are shtetl nominated by
each owner's name,
even if the first to inhabit,
though long from the island rabbited,
so they are deeded and recorded

one prince, the bravest spoke,

"Let me be the first
and  thru my neck,
you poetic thirst to quench"

and as I tippled the long necked Corona
beer
**into the overheated imagination
of my amplifying belly
their parental sun did whisper,
"**** good thing
there are eleven more!'

Left Foot Poet Apr 2016

fallow lain

the left foot,
twisted, unused,
what does it know better
than my feverish brain?

u want eyelid gladden glided,
Pharaoh's acceptance,
scepter raised,
bid you return and enter,
left foot even

parts of you praised,
parts of you fallow lain,
parts of you fellowed pained,

scratching at the ceiling,
licking fallen pain chips
from the floor,
the left foot silent morose,
where the load lies,
it lies on me

you paint eyelids
***** green,
blush, just enough,
come hither,
even that lagging, dragging
left foot
for rent by the
thrown hour

Jan 2016

Nat Lipstadt

every word I write is a tribute

~~~

every word I write is a tribute

now listen here,
let's clarify the inescapable,
what this tribute thing means,
cause what I'm doing here,
ain't exactly clear

everything we write,
is only a watery-encapsulated
reflection of our lives,
which of necessity,
will always be messy

what the heck does
this guy mean.
when enlisting
this shady word,
tribute?

at 3:10 in the AM,
tribute is dressed in its
more defy-nition sinister,
a bad news speaking cultural minister,
who never fails us
by reminding,
tribute originated
as the nasty kind:

"any exacted or enforced payment or contribution"

every **** word
that I've written
is a **** tribute,
an exacted, enforced, wrung from,
payment
of a pound of flesh,
Shylock's variety pack kind

I'm not bitter,
a touch angry, perhaps,
even brave, ok, unafraid,
to admit, overall,
got it pretty ok

but that I still struggle
to get that satisfaction,
in everything minute and daily,
the tiny and the tremendous,
the cost production load only goes
unicycle upward sloping,
this crisis crazy we call being
alive,
and to you,
who keys and ken
my meaning well

herein is my good kind side
my paying
tribute
to you, your courage,
even me, periodically,
for awakening and walking
into the unknown outside,
and giving it up
in our travelogue of
shared poetry

5:48am
Jan. 21, 2016
NYC (aboard the stationary bike,
paying tribute for forty years of sinning)

for Joel, for Lesli

Left Foot Poet Jan 2016

Closing Love Letter Salutations

Closing Love Letter Salutations*

~~~

Hugs, kisses, and broken fingers,
Love you now and forever,
Always and truly,
Forever,
I'll love you always,
Longing to see you again,
Thinking of you, unabashedly,
Missing you every moment,
You are My Best,
My heart belongs to you always,
Patiently yours

Patiently, us,
Remembering, us,
Remembering us the way we were,
Written hopefully,
You have all my love,
You know I love you,
Your darling,
Your devoted lover,
Your endless love,
Your eternal,
Your love always,
Your loving,
Yours always

Yours and only yours,
Always...

~~~

http://www.writeexpress.com/letterclosings.html#Love-Letter-Closings

poetry is wherever you find it, take it,
and then,
make it...

#closing #love #letter #salutations #leftfootpoet