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  May 2017 Nat Lipstadt
Left Foot Poet
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 Nat Lipstadt
Left Foot Poet
for Karlotti

~
And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be
anticipation

there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons

La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes
  May 2017 Nat Lipstadt
Poetoftheway
awaiting the diagnosis/I need/selfish motives


yours,
that should have arrived days ago

the email silence - no different than the phone unringing,
like the sad bells of Rhymney,
those bells, asking questions
instead of singing and pealing,
so
in my yeah yeah peculiar accented english which
screams robustly in a whisper

dudewhatgivescluemein*

in a single breath, rushed as if but just one word

believe me,
my motive purely selfish
needy for a celebration
hope from a crisis avoided, originating a new seed modified,
two planted for a future spirit tree available for more than
just two poets regardless of their limited coastal biases

negative that too
a selfishness for me
cause I come willing
to exercise my
heart shoulders and arms to trim our mutualized sails,
keep our mind's eyes focused aside
towards the good bad the great in life's littlest things

I need
you to reassure me
that my own mortality,
which can only thrive,
with your poetry voice alive and
keeping track of the absurdity of the
worlds tomfoolery and lighting fast trickery
so I will be stronger longer


I need
you to make me sweet smile when you regale
with dog licking face moment tales
have to cease here for reasons evidently inexplicable

so in summary
what ere the word be,
the outlook commandeering you,
I need
  May 2017 Nat Lipstadt
Where Shelter
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly

~

light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements

this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here

it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?

through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation

at last I see you clearly

the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity

did you know your eyes are constant singers?

through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,

here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated

through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed

of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,

where is my shelter now?**


5/13/17 6:49am
  May 2017 Nat Lipstadt
onlylovepoetry
native gene to my city scene,
a city where seconds matter in a make haste lives,
in pursuit of the freedom to never rush again

hadron caldron nuclei lives colliding quirky, quarky manner
some pass with no reaction,
some fallout in love when connected,
love being among the debris particles detected
after a collision uncovering our element components

i too cross against the light,
perhaps hoping for said strong interaction,
a wasty way to fall in love,
but the electromagnetic strong forces so powerful,
that not to risk is not fall, falling is succeeding

for I have survived collisions once or twice in lifetimes prior,
the love byproduct was as strong as the force required
to separate it from its leaden shell

but love too has a half life,
a natural countdown to its own consumption consummation,
so to the streets, return, looking for another only
love poem particle

the madman dashing tween truck and car,
coming toward you,
interrogatory, beseeching glance,
why, that's me writing composing us...


5/21/17 8:49
Nat Lipstadt May 2017
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 Nat Lipstadt
Poetoftheway
~

old stars: the roar of no more

pop up phrase precisely previewing the status quo,
logic argues that a crisp immolation poetic appropriate,
no second chance from cosmic to earth dust risk reversal,
no sadness attaches -
the circle line day trip coming to an end

old stars are not cemetery artifacts,
no blaze of glory, no blade of heroic story, no blare of horns,
a last twinkle, a final tinkling and the soundless
roar of no more,
the star records, the citys deeds, the video feeds,
updated, amended, erased,
old star exits the stage, its light shedding nights, eclipsed,
the poet, the writer, the playwright debate the stars obit,
collude and write
a roar no more


*5/23/17 7:23am
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