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~
To: Gods  
From: Only Love Poetry
Subject: Manchester Commencement


~
dedicated to Nat Lipstadt, my better half,
who whispers when life whipsaws beyond belief,
there still will always be,
a new sun come,
a day newly needy for an only love poem



commencement, a lovely,
so human contra-dictional term,
to begin, to end, the meaning meant  
in the ear of beholder,
though this year,
the meaning perhaps, is
in the heart of the true believer

a perfect end of May day, fully unofficially summer
but for the brisk crisp spring sweater weather temp,
informing that the official calendar heated demarcation day,
yet a full month ahead,  
but the news reminding that neither man or nature  
don't necessarily respect
foolish man made conventions of any kind

once again, return to the isle of shelter,
lawns lush, the waves speaking in wave lapping, watery tongues,
which suddenly all humans comprehend,
the sky, a milky blue cappuccino and
I struggle desiring to disbelieve that the
almost summer holiness communing has begun with a  
****** pointless Manchester commencement

the external perfection clashes with the internal revilation,
knowing anger is unprofitable, understanding and resolving
not even close to possible, the waste of why and what for's

thrice, already sent you missive missiles,
that acknowdge did not hit the target,
you must be the the hard hearted pharaoh
who won't let my people, any people, go,
till all of us hold our eldest child in our arms, dead

the is no point in anger, the consoling of souls,
disregarding the vanity of revenge calls,
the Einsteinian repeating insanity of praying each of us,
to different gods to do what we stupidly call the right thing,
expecting different outcomes

so what's the why and the wherefore for just another poem?

to prepare the soul, keep yourself at the steady,
for the next one, never complacent, staying unready,
commencements are either endings or beginning
who can tell for sure, sometimes a bit of both

and in a poem, composed only of love,
written with solemn tears decorating the screen,
finger slipping on the warm sad wet,
a kind of scar tissue, a healing, but differentiated,
returning similar, but forever changed, different,
is still something human I can true believe in, no gods necessary

~
5/27/17 2:21pm
  May 2017 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
~~
The Trial of His Worthiness 2017

for betterdays, explorer of my complaints to the heavens,
and Patty, who asks,
who writes like this...answers from an old man




~~~
the 2017 baptism yesterday, by calendar dictate,
to my park, nature's commune, the poet wills himself to be
forcibly removed from city, greeted in solemn robes of blue/green,
by the triumvirate of bay, animals and flora & trees interlocking,
who stand in judgement of the humans interloping off-islanders
summer internees

to the double entendre dock removed,
so the bay, the Chief Justice, now a bit hard of hearing,
from the thunder and lighting of cymbal and drum crackling of the winter waves clashing, can hear my deposition clearer

the chief prosecutor, the tallest tree, wraps her branches,
around my legs, my feet, my heart, my head, not to restrain,
but to listen to my internals to adjudge the electrocardiogram
veracity of my words, a natural lie detector machine

the animals requested and sequestered to jury service,
large and small, from forest, the beneath-the-deck rabbits,
all learned in the human language, after 5 centuries of
less than social *******

put to me queries only I could answer

why have you returned?

humanity wearing me so, come to nature that knows only natural laws where existence is primary, good and evil are undefined and premeditation of ****** for no purpose of one's own kind is rare

will you write of us as in years as past?

will write of the commingling taffy of your
salt waters and my salt tears,
taking of your oxygen gifts, returning my dioxides,
both of us sharing the munificence of a warm sun goddess,
will plant my irises and kiss your cherry blossom leaves,
will step aside, over the ant mounds, harming nothing living,
for rightful life is not accorded by precedence or size
or your chosen version of a holy book


will you play for us your human music?

contrapuntal canons, adagios of Barber, Adele & Dudamel,
"a song for you"by the master Charles, some by the
poet Cohen, and even of a Rocky Raccoon, and for our kids,
a tale of a Yellow Submarine and the Dr.'s Mississippi Mud,
dash of Joni's pure voice, Eva Cassidy's unreal, none better,
rock to Elvis, Beethoven, Mozart and the Zombies,
**** deer demand Pavarotti (who knew)

all but  a chocolate sauce for a sundae of your own air strings,
waves baying, rabbits madly dashing, and birds texting,
the bellows of trombone honking of the
s-hit and run Canadian geese,
multi colored seagull's violin-like protestation squeaks of
'feed me human,
my survival share of the catch'


the tree limbs released, to now stroke my skin, pat my head,
the ants perform an arabesque, the gossipy fish come to the surface as
his Honor, Justice Bay, pronounces my sentencing term:

come,
stay with us warmed and welcomed,
shaded in our attentive embrace human
and of us
be a witness deposed, testified,
of our true nature

go,
to your unattended, impatiently waiting, Adrionack throne, go,
(once of us, a living tree departed)
observe and record, without distortion and human bias,
as you have so oft in years past,
tho mere eye-blinks to us,
life and death and preservation can coexist in a harmony

perhaps your infant species may learn from nature & beasts,
that bounty well fair shared is what humans call
the worthiness of living
~~~~
5/28/17 11:09
  May 2017 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
Oh Sally,
on the day you "disturb me,"
the messiah will, must have come,
anything else, but a minor inconvenience,
a foolish distraction

Lola! Grandmother!

the things we say with out thinking,
quick retorts that boom an
instantaneous, say hey Willie Mays,
mutual concern cognitive proposition,
and you foresee the child conceived within

"should be a poem in there somewhere"

in the handed pen, drawing heated inspiration,
from the confluent patty platelets of the
shared single river
of heart lungs eyes flowing as one into this
busy subgle poetry pointer finger @ 4:18am

your secret safe well hid within this writ,
you, mother laureate to a thousand at minimum
so many secret lovers and children in your posses,
the eloquence of your kindness world renown
your behind the scenes presence,
I am smiling, stupified, amazed discerning,
and stand awed,
the global Amazon store of only good

so late nite/early morn the clarity rises with sun
so many secrets lay before me in plain sight - prior unrecognized,
what was obvious, delayed, as sometimes I hear,
messiahs are

one more, maybe two, perhaps as many/few as a minyan ten
of grandmother queens raising up the children,
poets all, such as yourself
then, Messiah will be choice-less, compulsed, compelled
to return and bless us all

course, even when that happens
you still won't be disturbing me,
for you will be right-sided beside him

but not to worry for at this continental crossover hour,
most are sleeping, others feeding the babes,
some returning from church or mosque,
no one looking here at ShePo,
a secret of glory disclosed,
revealed,
only you will see,
so as promised Lola,
your key to a certain stairway,
safe tween
just us three

no tears please,
for this but just,
a just confession, an overdue library book,
a poem resting on my night table
awaiting reading, composition, completing,
arrival?
and that's between
just us three
5:11 and the orb majestically rises refreshed
from the East Rivet
and the windows reflect its muted irange presence,
but just one window observatory
winks, sparkles,
musr br loose or eyes tearing
  May 2017 Left Foot Poet
Sally A Bayan
Long before
orange-purple-pink-bluish shades vanish,
......before light evens out upon us,
before billows of clouds scatter and
fill the magnificent powder blue skies,
...fields...and other workplaces, are
already humming with activities.
:::::::
air drowns with a stream of sounds,
human, and otherwise.......voices,
...teaspoons against cups, mixing
a dark waking brew...rushing footfalls,
instructions given..revving up tractor motors,
chairs, tables moving...computers starting,
:::::::
comes  coffee breaks...and day's end
then...we go home to whoever, whatever
meets us at our doorstep...whether
our life is a bed of roses, or a bed of thorns
...or, something in between....or a mix...
:::::::
minor, major changes occur here, there,
everywhere...every second, every minute...
some seasons, dragonflies overpopulate,
wasps and honey bees swarm for their own
different reasons...flower buds turn to blooms,
various birds build nests based on their needs,
cocoons hang hidden...in silence....yet,
when time is right, new butterflies unwrap
....................and emerge...
:::::::
each day consists of old and new patterns
that lead to magical, new beginnings...
new discoveries,often called miracles,
...they happen while we are sleeping
...............when no one is looking
........or, even when we are awake,
.....but, just too busy to notice...
:::::::
from a nearby...or distant river
a sea breeze blows, and cools,
brushes..and touches... then tiptoes,
prancing upon other running currents,
acknowledging...emphatically reminding
that blessings from God are ever flowing
every breath taken, is a miracle...occurring
....while we are awake...or sleeping
whether or not, someone is looking...
:::::::


Sally


Copyright May 21, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Left Foot Poet May 2017
I,
I,
a stranger never to be seen,
a million miles from the scene,
smile and weep,
loving the shallow for its deep,
finding amazement in the complexity
that only humans have
the capacity to commit,
all of us captains of the capital we store,
in the small hallmarks of every day living,
and in an overdue, catchup e-transmission,
a well wish comes true


a poem born,
a kindness to myself,
the best gift of and to,
those who are both,
well,
friends and strangers

who remind us that hope too,
is a
well

3/30/17 8:58
  May 2017 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
~

who knows the definition of a poet?
~
for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question


weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept

so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation  of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be

I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing  him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties

I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"

so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming

from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:


all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly

humans, poets


~
5/14/17 2:05am
all poets are human,
all humans are poems
Happy Birthday Steve!
  May 2017 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
sheesh Eliot,
half the poets miffed at your
unintended deriding,
but sexism in poetry a knife made
from a man's rib dividing, again?
too cruel to contemplate for defending

perhaps the site hijacked by the NSA,
doing the bidding of ten old white men?

as recompense go to thy server,
code in an alternating name starting today,
ShePo somehow springs to mind

Mother's Day an excellent commencement
to begin our regendering

P. S. everybody knows I am a girl, right?

It occurs to me,
perhaps not everybody aware
of the inside joke,
the e-joke,
Nat is short for
Natalie
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