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For Thyreez,
because she aspires


<>
most of us, no,
almost all of us,
collectors, of those little things,
real, substantive,
kept in that drawer,
reminders of collected moments,
of places people, successes, tragedies,
lumped together because,
just because
they constitute the pinpricks,
the meddles, safety pins, needles
of our lives, some treasures,
and a few collectibles of
black trimmed saddies

I have such a drawer,
admixture of single cufflinks, spare buttons,
Aaa batteries that might still work,
expired credit cards, charging cords for
devices long ago discarded,
a whole class of items I call
you never know when

some slides, pics from prehistoric times
when we never dreamed of magic phones
as life’s mini storage units

even I had
a lipstick kiss napkin,
just in case, when was required a
need a brevity taste of
a sad time-in-‘n-out
and back again
to feel human

but the mission critical
little things
do not fit in a drawer,
for they are the action’s & visions
we seize and keep in shadowy unseen
but inserted
grey cells

the taste, aroma, of that first cup of coffee
made by whoever was up first,
brought and placed on the nightstand
with a nudge, that failing, a very wet
kiss and a foot-beneath-blanket-squeeze,

the feel~touch of a particular locket,
the never-to be-removed-ever,
till it was
placed perhaps in someone else’s
drawer, shoebox, attic, or lost
in a ‘can’t be foundering place’

we probably have all three;
the drawer, the memory triggers,
the lost items that cannot be
lost, or forgot nor found

and I think and add all these,
I realize that this script
is
one such of the places,
where we put things,
we might need someday,
or maybe never but,

you never know when!
Lightning spit across the alloy face
of the dishwasher I was filling a half moment

before a high black throat unfastened
with a sunken bellow that scattered rain

like sodden hair along a sheer pane scalp.
Hell, a storm? On New Year's? What an insult -

because it's been a long year down
for the lonely and eroded angels, the poets

whose orchestras of synapses decay gently
into fresh stanzas. I don't know about you,

but my inbox was a chorus of No, No,
Not You, Never You. It ate me

inside out, but I pressed on in new poems,
both mine and yours - I stumbled blindly

into rooms full of your renewed voices -
reassuring me that silence is not the way.

These are not poems, you all told me -
they are beacons, telegrams, phone calls,

they are pleas, they are screams, they are alive
like the cursive lightning scrawl that paints

the kitchen and bids me stand up straight.
It's been a long year but I came here to say

my mouth is filled with thank you;
strange friends and colleagues, thank you.

To all of you, and your hard work this year.
Your poems were read, and remembered.
Thank you for all of it. It changed me,
for the better, and was appreciated.

  Dec 2024 Left Foot Poet
Lizzie Bevis
They mistake my softness for weakness,  
Like petals scattered in storms of hurt;  
Not seeing how deep my roots extend  
Through layers of wisdom and lessons learned.  

Each kind word I choose to speak  
Is backed by mountains moved in silence;  
Each tender touch I dare to give  
Springs from battles fought with resilience.  

I've learned that armour weighs down the spirit,
Thorns can wound the hand holding the stem;
While my quiet strength flows like morning light,  
Warming others without consuming them.  

So let them wonder at my gentleness,  
Let them question my peaceful stance;  
Because I have found that mighty rivers  
Flow with grace and not arrogance.  

In a world of sharpened daggers,  
I choose to be the sheltering tree,  
Not because I cannot withstand the storm,  
But because I’ve learned to just simply be.  

My strength lies in understanding  
That my heart does not need to prove,
The power that sustains its caring beat  
And the quiet force that dares to love.  

©️Lizzie Bevis
  Dec 2024 Left Foot Poet
Poetoftheway
“you should watch for what’s good and say so, watch for what’s bad and say that,
and be afraid of neither observation.
If you lose your temper, lose it; if you find yourself unexpectedly moved, admit it.
Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope,
clean, dry and level.”
Peggy Noonan,
columnist, author
<•>

good
Christmas Eve advice
getting harder to find,
wheat from chaff, and all that,
what’s sensible,
what’s defensible,
and what actually feels
A~ok!
as in
perhaps, it actually could be,
pause to think,
correct?
and:or:heck,
even right

so if you read the above ,
take it from a couple of senior geezers,
you just got a holiday freebie!
yeah, yeah, keep your powder dry,
just ain’t the same, sorry…

we talking tools and fools here,
them that keep you
on a course
of your owned free choice,
with an assist,
to  know your position & to
never to lose your balance

when everybody is
instantly
telling you what to think,
take that long pause,
use your tools,
to pick the problem up,
Rubik’s cube it,
twist and shout,
when the
solution emerges

‘tis the season for
preaching and overreaching,
but use this quietime pause,
look internal,
and keep your instinct and
inside tools oiled,
and mind open, clarified

wish you then, clear eyes, open ears & love;
wisdom, that’s up to you,
but, you’re a billionaire for sure,
use the grey cells you were given
thoughtfully & well,
and keep on looking for
‘what’s a good way,’
which is always an
everlasting work


                             nat lipstadt
12/24/24
5:45 pm
NYC
Left Foot Poet Dec 2024
some sounds and guttural expressions,
unique property of individual & groups,
no, won’t explicate this  
too much further
but…

anyhoo, in the realm of naked laughter ,
undisguised, unhooded,
a modest-ly hand-covered giggle,
primarly but not exclusively,
the propety of the feminine wile,
so much so, a ‘girlish giggle’ needs no
hyphenation, or hydration,
just  imagining grinning
eyes and lips, crinkling
and the ability to easy while
through one’s
nose breathing

well understood it is the
la feminine,
this witty twitty
in the provence, of women,
particularly the younger at heart
who titter with the glee
of reckless uninhibited unlimited
gig-gig-gigl-ling-ling
(N.B. young st heart is an ageless concept)

the Frenchies in their
Frenchified (1)
(alt.; frenchfried) ways
call a giggle, a puff of laughter, (2)
which sounds so modestly ladylike,
but in the US of A, a girl giggle,
a really good GG,
needs not be so demure,
and can possibly extend into a raucous cackling infectious,
yet discreet
uncontrollable belly slapping laugh,
given the kerrect circumstances

love me them GG’s
(2)

giggle: pouffer de rire

(1) see “Billy Budd,” Benjamin Britten composed the opera Billy Budd, and E.M. Forster and Eric Crozier wrote the libretto:
  Dec 2024 Left Foot Poet
Lizzie Bevis
Tea flows like the River Thames,
While tutting spreads like wildfire
At queue-jumpers
And umbrella-shirkers,
As passive-aggressive notes flourish
Like ivy on garden walls
A POLITE NOTICE:
Your parking leaves much to be desired.

———

Digestive biscuits dunk and drown
In piping hot Tea at 4 o'clock sharp,
Followed by a national moment of silence,
As Scones wage their silent war
Devon versus Cornwall;
The cream-first heretics
Face jam-first purists,
While the cucumber sandwiches mediate,
Their crusts banished like medieval traitors.

———

The weather forecast foresees
Cloudy with a chance of small talk,
And a 90% probability
Of complaining about the weather.
Shorts and sandals brave December,
While summer coats guard
Against the August sun,
And somewhere, someone
Is wearing socks with sandals.
Ooh, Suits you, Sir!

———

Red buses pass red buses
Followed by a ritual of waiting,
Until the bus arrives
Five minutes late, of course.
While Big Ben counts the moments
As patience is wrapped in politeness,
Where every grumble is a nod,
Until the next apologetic shuffle.

©️Lizzie Bevis
If you know…you know!
  Dec 2024 Left Foot Poet
Terry O'Leary
I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.

I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.

I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten      
the demons of the night.

I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.

I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.

I go to church each Sunday,  
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.

I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.

I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.

I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.

I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.

I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?

I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.

I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.

I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.

I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.

I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.

I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.

I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.

I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.
Spurred on by and inspired by my pal M.G.
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