she writes, someone nameless, but an upright woman,
no false poet she

+=+=+=+=+=
I don't always understand my own poetry,
how could I decipher yours if ever?:

"Yours poetry seeks
to grasp, hide and peek,
strong/weak/out-front/meek.
It charms like a snake
a wake of ideas,
with innuendo, yet it's sublime,
a bell that chimes,
a walk in hell,
a credo a charm,
two-arms to keep one warm"

----

this will be kept
with my important papers,
in envelope marked
tombstone epitaph

the plain meanings
unsubtle, for spoken in one language,
but the inter~facing ganglia are twisted,
contused by a swelling,
of  the inner!contras
of a swirling clash of impossibilities

how can a simple piety poet,
be so faceted, that leaves himself,
so twisted, torn, stillborn, into silence,
trying to resolve these
opposite dictions!

aye,
perhaps,
thst is why he writes,
so often and so rarely,
a thousand attempts to fathom
himself,
only adding more layers to unravel
in his bathtub of gin of
many explanations

then,
lets us travel,
under the arch to meet,
shall we say,
New Year's Day?

the flights will be cheap,
no one presses their divine intuition
and risks flying on the first of the year,
possibly using up,
all of their seven lives,
on one roll of the dice


yes, this, likes he, likes he,
we will need 24 hours to untangle
this two to tango infraction
of why, two should never to meet,
one could be ugly, or foul smelling,
a misrepented
sinner man,
or just another misrepresentative,
a plain vanilla pickle of a unit of human timed
hasty wasted

or

odds are even,

thst he will to the wrong town be going,
many a city,
after all, are notched
for their are magnificent arches everywhere,

but if beneath it,
you spot,
him soapbox spaking,
making ditties while standing
on just one leg, while to sky reaching,
if that should pleasure you,
you will know instinctually
what needs doing!

to unravel him,
will require
twenty fingers,
twenty toes,
a scalpel, many bandaids,
four lips, two noses,
even suturing where
the connection
however improbable,
requires
a deeper connection,
and probably
some unwinding
cosmetic
and cosmic
surgery

but
check first,
he's got a round trip ticket,
in his front left-sided pocket
in. cade he needs
right-away-returning,
though you might just want his
two arms, for sentimental reasons,
for other purposes
to stop him from writing further

it is as if
two different days are aborning;
To the west fog pervades, endures,
Sheets of condensation window adorning,
Make the fog in~penetrable

But to the east the peekaboo rays
Of an early rising yet hidden sun,
Kids us with hints of melliferous rays, shadows
and shades, what might yet be a glorious day

This debate will be one,
this debate will be WON,

Sipping lukewarm coffee, reheated  hot or cold, I watch the battle Royale, and care not which words
here are capitalized
and which words are minimized

It is a struggle for my voice and the voice recognition
of my phone, to sort out the important and the riffraff;
In fact, isn't that always a struggle, for all of us,
All of the time?

just as the sun,
inevitably, and inimitably,
will decide
To accept a decision by a
Higher authority

I r r e s p e c t i v e of my opinion

But I have an opinion,
And that is what matters

IF,
It should be on the morrow,
OR
Two decades more over,
Let me wait for this, just this,

Be dying in a bed,
with four,
no more! eight,
legs
mine, hers,
and our luv dog,
jambalaya'd into each other…
one dish for all,
and all,
for each other…

9/23/25

inspired by
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120189/love-cannot-be-controlled-or-confined/
<>

Love is Meant……

and there, I stop…
<>
nnnnyup; continuing on,

this phrase
a self~sufficiency, is it not?
no conditional clause, dangling particle,
no conjunction peg upon to hang your wintered hat,
no adjacent adjective for summer's ending sadness,
no preposition to lead us to sunny places, where we search more
for nouns and pronouns, or to project/protect, in adjectives to clothe our irrationality in logic-e,
logic to define, logic to confine,
illogically
love permits one to say to another human, you mine, hu-mine,
[an aside: "you mine,' (really?)]
a preposterous prepositional insanity notion, that needs no explication,
love is meant, love is meant, love is mean, dream & yet, meant!
stadium sized. concert hall big, mini pup tent,
love is clean+***** s i m u l t a n e o u s l y

don't you see the self~sufficiency in that?

yet you still seek definition, reasoning, seasoning,
love is meant to-be bent irregular straightaway,
love is meant, to be/not, cold 'n bot, silly hot,
lover is inert, hurt, ert,(1)
love is every point of,
of a sword's length
hilt & blade,
yet ironic,
the tip alone
is a self sufficient *****,
to be full~on damaging enough to ****

to fully comprehend,
that  love is meant
needs no further modifying defying
pointless phrasal modification of explanation…
s u n d a y
(if the week did not commence with a sunday,
hu-mans would have needed to create one,
to understand,
love is meant)

4:39am
Sun Aug 10
Twenty Twenty Fidelio (5)
in a new york city frame of mine

Just lately, 'learned,' (what a double entendre that is!), a long time resident and story teller in the empire of creatives who coexist with each other in two dimensions, in deep isolation and simultaneously
in a camaraderie of bonded bones of mutuality, of deep, affectionate
camaraderie admiration for another human, who struggles and desires to please the world by putting worthy words before us to
be felt, not just read in our bosoms, but-placed deeper still, in our very souls.

As is my custom, I oft forget what was written by me, and awoke feeling guilty that I never gave him "His" own poem. So I looked him up on the HP site, and lo and behold!
this tribute came up first...but cease not here, seize this man's living testimonies to the beauty of life and family.  

I wrote this, upon refection, for us, a year ago...
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024

For Spygrandson:  A Man
Who Looks in the Mirror, & Sees a Potholder of Simple Design…

~ for spygrandson ~
with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/

<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…


a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
they cannot be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated

ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done