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I’ll be brief (about poetry writing)

giving up:

expelling of textual agitation in my breast,
expulsing supplies no more the longest relief,
its medicinal efficacy, worn down, placebo equal,
run its course, a good grief, displacing tired belief,
loss of poetry, boon companion, not too late, nor
too soon, conceding, everything due a finalization

woman prevented me from walking in the
tropical storms frothiness, opining to my whining
“that’s no way to cleanse a soul, you’ll lose your life,
not that weight that’s moved up inside, up from the gut
into hearts blocked chambers and clogged spokes.”

thinking the vocabulary, needs a thrift store trip,
to give it all away, besides, prove it, a good taxing,
donating  might be quite righteous undertaking, like
flushing of the ewes, needs some new nutrients for the ole
two handed sleight legerdemain.

promised brevity w/o levity, no floating, keeping my feet’s grounded, my animal kingdom, my editorial staff, says a good quitting time is hard to find, addiction, a rolling stone, needs a coldstone fence immovable.

grabbed rucksack, inside Hafiz, Ogden and Walt Whitman, all very good company men, head to the poetry nook, to get my soul brown deep tanned, and enjoy excellent conversations with the Lord,
‘bout childless women, why cancer, and if there be a decent chance we could work out a real substantive cooperative truce between
deity & humans,

one that could hold for longer than a day, a good working relationship ‘tween sky, sun, water and wind, ok, fractious occasional, but on the whole works ok, gotta makes some more notes to keep my new boon above, my new oh lordy buddy well-contented, non-grumpy.

p.s. being an admirer~reader is almost as good as being a writer

9:00 AM
Mon Jul 13
as noted this was written in July of 2020, but never published till Feb. of 2021.
Tired and twisted
broken and listless
another day in prison ****** me off.
Last night was Christmas, and I
miss my kids so much,
it feels like I've been shanked.
I sell my desserts for coffee;
my one luxury in the joint.
The complexion of my day is
gray, and lonely as a
tea bag in the ocean.
Everything is gray:
The sky
the weights
the walls
the blood
the food
the fence
The mood, the soul, the yard, the heart
and the beat of the false dawn.
It's all tombstone gray.
Hate thickens the air.
And the light on the
horizon is a lie--razor wire sharp.
  Dec 2020 Nat Lipstadt
Seranaea Jones

Looking out into the Dawn,
frost is a welcomed viewing,
snows hesitate here once again,
this Day is gentle to us.

through the clear blue, He looks
down and gazes upon the Earth
as i sit here in quiet reflection.

the only sounds are the shudders
of the refrigerator motor as it
kicks on and off,

the warm air blowing
thankfully through
the floor vent,

the pops and crackling
of joints, both of me &
the chair,

and the heartbeats that
He listens to intently-

the thought of this
reminding me—

i am never alone...

s jones
25 Dec 2007

  Dec 2020 Nat Lipstadt
What does God need?
Surely I’m thankful for all I have
Perhaps God needs our obedience
A 10th of all our cash
But what would God
do with all of that?

Does he own our minds and souls
The worldly knowledge that we hold
Does he want his blue skies back
Another big bang it all turns black

God what could you possibly want
A leap of faith into your swamp
People suffering
Battles Cries
Searching for truth in piles of lies
Trust in the invisible
Trust in man
Numbered with the grains of sand
But here I stand
Alone in my folly
Wondering why
What’s up with this God guy?
Traveler Tim
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2020

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.)
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2020
~For Ayesha~

for simply put,
simply taken,
they’re a disguise...

eternal guards on duty,
alphabet soldiers that
grow more vigilant

standing reef,
a barrier,

a thousand years to erosion complete.

this is the right poem, but the wrong words. Mystified me, how
can this be? such a young person, whose words speak to me?

If we are not our words, what will we become?
Sep 10 2020
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