Nat Lipstadt Oct 31
~for Henessy J. Beltre and all the new Observers of the Universe~*



“my goal is to develop a more personalized meaning of beauty, love, and self actualization through my writing.” Henessy J. Beltre


each word, chewed upon,
individually and collectively
as I drive from Roma to Firenze,
long drives in unfamiliar scapes, olive shaded greens,
umbrella trees, and thin thickets of the vineyards planted
in the years notated as B.C.

are life pauses, asking, admission to the clarifying blankness
that commands rifle shots of riflessione (reflection)

your words, goading foaling, are all our goals,
succinctly refined,  for doesn’t every and each poem
asks through our eyes what are the visions of
love and beauty that is the actuality we ceaseless seek

avanti signorina!

unleash the wild words that will make your mission
burst from the ancient to the revitalizing, knowing this,
that the universals you seek to dress yourself within,
to share here, to create, to *actualize,

are products of your truths

be unaffected by stale mores, conventions dictates,
spill truths, soiled and used, cherished and recycled in
new ways, so that each of one of us
blesses you with one word:

exactly!



31/10/18

on the autoroute to Firenze

read https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2793919/universe/
Nat Lipstadt Oct 17
a television interview, Oct. 2018  with Sir Paul McCartney

~for all of us, forever~


<•>

**** you Paul, old man
you trying to make us all look bad?
guess you’re just another
‘miner for a thousand years’
or more,
cause we haven’t seen a reason why the vein should run dry,
for the stolid earth resupplies endless old metal and the liquid veins
supply the need, the urgency of a warm gun of composition,
a drug nonpareil

and the things that provoke,
still provoke once more and again,
love and need, even memories,
petri dish cell regrown,
breathing atmospheric nutrients in the hotheaded hothouse air
of the human farm

‘tis why I paean you at 4:25am understanding full well,
better than most, for once I wrote,
it’s always the next one, that will be,
the flawless poem,
that will permit the laying down of the pen, the guitar

but even flawless is not
“good enough yet”
for all of us, forever


for “yet,”
even more than forever,

is the most unlimited word we share

~

5:02am 10/17/18
he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:

“something he knows for sure,
no is no”

I, (19, f)

replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:

“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”

and he says

“yes, ma’am,”

returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots

I like this guy
I like this man.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 13
WARNING:
don't read this poem if you suffer from ADD, or merely hate long poems

                                                  <>
gave away 3 opportunities to a trusted someone,
a Persian poet carrying on a tradion

ask this poet of his unspeakables,
the open hidden,
received thrice, not nice, searching provocations, (idiot me),
inquiring of the souls interior chambers, where the fear to tread
is politely called in good company,
don’t go over to the dark side

questions of a thousand years, that got that way because
no one wants ever to be truly asked, and especially,
truly answer

but today's surrendering (the last of the three)
What gets you out of bed in the mornings
goes to the deadliest battlefields that millennially nourishes
and beats the blood of life
to feverish flooding that drowns you too close to real
death dangers

step to the step machine, lift the weights,
that cannot be lifted without a prayerful groan,
for surely surly poems cannot be, sleepy eyed ignored,
stepped over,
these muscle builders for the mind, these killing questions,
these ****** answers

Jeez Louise

if you are gonna ask me killer questions like this,
I may have to hide all the mirrors in the apartment,
with  funereal linen cover-ups,^
and/or publish poems that actually
pay the rent (a drag)

to steal a phrase,
what a long story this poem could be,
especially,
for one-me routinely accused of being the
arch super-villain with ***** nails,
fighting the good cherubic angels of
brevity in poetry

delay, deflect, d'ignore the irrefutable,
snap, crackle and pop goes the body's ports and parts,
when first you self-deceive,  
yeah yeah, alive, no jive, means

that still ya gotta get out of bed
by moonlight over Manhattan,
to deal with minute to minute trivia of lamentable suff

oh.
still here?

you actually want me to answer that question?

thought you were enjoying my evasive shadow boxing,
prefacing a smooth operation while escaping to north of the border

but lurking (always lurking) of late in the back of
the front of the left brain foot poetry orb, has been this word, variants thereof, saying
of me, write of me,

bless, (the) blessed, (with) blessings...

shocked? shocked?

yeah, me too.

on my mind when first we rise...

ah! counting your blessings no doubt...
now that's a thot, quite humorous, let's me count the ways

got your health?
well not really, left you hints aplenty...

peaces of mind?
sure, how many pieces you want to buy, we got 'em for sale
slightly used tarnished but organically reusable, from Whole Foods,
don’t be dumb
peace of mind can’t be store bought

No, I am not whining; I know what I got is good, but them **** poems that keep coming at night, like a fire engines flashing lights, a/k/a
them things that keep you up at night, are my habitués
but sometimes it takes months to finish a poem that
was mostly writ in a single flash
but bed born and dying
for there is no reality disclosable answer

get out of bed from

a ritualistic habit pointless

fear of living for nothing

great blessings, right?

to rinse and spit out our words of the
holy dark
for never seen the true light
supposedly that comes with you from the birth canal

(aren’t you sad you asked)

you see
I do not know
what gets
me
out of bed
in the morning
for I have been up all night
wondering why
I should

counting my seven days of mourning counting my blessings is a ******* curse

no more questions
^ look up sitting shiva
if want to see the other two, send me a private message
  Oct 10 Nat Lipstadt
-gabi p-
i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin  
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea

i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"

i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back

i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.
  Oct 5 Nat Lipstadt
Woody
I fall in love with you
in my dreams
like the river comes
to love its journey
waking up wet with fog
trying to put my arms
around you, you
who feels like moonlight
abiding in a dark lake
soft as deep water
the empty pillow
beside me like an ache.
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