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Nat Lipstadt Sep 2024
Poems
1706 published / 43 drafts / 14 hidden


no matter how much spillage of
inspired words are perspired
into poetic
existence,
new ideas push themselves
to the top of the line,
with every eyelash
flutter to falling,
so there seems
always a restless but consistent cohort of
43 draftees
in my lipstadt persona
(one among so many)
inescapably
demanding,
like a dentist happiest
when commencing to
drill you in to submission
but smiling since
the novocaine
hasn’t fully…


that when
a poem,
even a  new tooth
is c r e a t ed
in the gum of you,
seed~ed but not fully form~ed,
somehow
a new title is
auto~entitled,
whisked into
a never cold cup of
“what’s next.”
a laundry line
of the great
washed
but needy
for drying out,
not yet ready
for prime time

thus this
never endingness
is one more
perpetual eternal,
a cousin to
gravity

a direct order to be
born/resolved/loved/
only to be sent away
with a firm loving
push
with
no word of
farewell

(and not forgetting
to mention the thousand
of half breeds,
started, left
writ incomplete,
in my official
cemetery
a/ka
my actual draft file)
all true

6:17am
9/18/24
  Sep 2024 Nat Lipstadt
Jami Tennille
she stretches out before me
a feast of art and possibility
both wicked and wanting
elegant and evocative

I want to kiss her full on the mouth
my tongue eager for her exquisite
all of me aches to explore
leave nothing uncharted

she rewards my curiosity
begs me to roam
there is no denying
the knowing in my bones
it echoes from my soul
with her

I am home
Still unwritten not quite, filled in
every word has pinned itself to story  
like a sewing machine stitch
down a runway path to somewhere;
Turning points and zig zag threading
let the seams tell of the glory
Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,  
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet, ...

Until a dried rose gets pressed
against the pages of my life,
my eulogy stands told
in this book, of life.
  Sep 2024 Nat Lipstadt
SE Reimer
(a tribute to young courage;
observations of a father)

~

cutting sharply through the water,
her bow approaches the surf;
the zone where ocean's bottom,
rises quickly from the depths;
where pounding waves,
meet churning sands,
blending pebbles, shells, and
grass into a darkened mud.

standing, squatting, silent,
behind her heavy wings of steel;
young boys, not yet men,
await a sign, whether
from heaven or command;
their lips muttering to no one
but the howling wind.

a brisk sea breeze whisks,
away the cigarette smoke,
that rises from their huddled
masses, scatt'ring heavenward,
with their whispered prayers,
for courage, safety, strength.

then the momentary lull,
all of heaven holds their breath
like a bird she slows,
still rocking in the surf,
a hundred feet from shore,
like a calm before the storm,
as her wings that held them tight
now lower to form the bridge
that to the fiery fury now awaits...
and then,

the surf is filled with boys,
alighting from her wings of safety,
those not ground to blood and bone
by knives of steel that ply the air
and waves, aging, with each
passing second of survival,
by the time their soles find sand,
becoming, at the shoreline men;
leaving behind, their mates-
in-arms, who aged far too young.
from boys to watery grave.

now young men, running,
searching on an open shore
seeking shelter, any means of cover
fron the steel that falls like rain
'neath hidden nests, birds of prey
as far below his courage grows
with every dancing inland step
this rite of passage that
no one's son should
ever need to walk, again.
~

post script.

Yesterday marked its 80th anniversary. On June 6, 1944, Allied casualties were documented for at least 10,000, with 4,414 confirmed dead, yet the Allies' forces failed to achieve a single one of their planned objectives on the first day. And still liberation had begun, as their foothold began to break an evil stronghold

https://www.liherald.com/wantagh/stories/boys-became-men-in-crucible-of-world-war-ii,55692?#:~:text=The%20single%2C%20most%20powerful%20realization,an%20average%20age%20of%2024.
"The single, most powerful realization for me is that the soldiers who fought and died at Normandy were an average age of 24. Of the 160,000 who came onshore, many were just 17 and 18 years old." 

Resder's Comment.   "My mom was a young French girl living a few miles inland from Normandy Beach during D-Day.  She said she felt and heard D-Day before she saw it.  A few days later American and Canadian liberated her and her family. Freedom from evil was restored.

That was the beginning of Huguette Chritien's dream of becoming an American.  Her dream was realized.  She passed away in '83 and was laid to rest on June 6 of that year.

Because of the sacrifices made by so many men on D-Day she lived a brilliant life.  I give thanks to God that such men lived."
  Sep 2024 Nat Lipstadt
audrey laura
b and w
all grey hues
it’s supposed to make me
less happy
but i find that it’s different
to what i thought it would be
pictures are all plain now
but they look more calming, less chaotic
black and white photography
makes everything look romantic
now the sky looks dystopian
and flowers are shades of grey
everyone has the same hair colour
it’s something i don’t hate
and i didn’t expect
to like it this much
but now the world’s without colour
and it’s simpler to love
i didn’t expect
it would look this way
all this time
i’ve never known
the world looks pretty pretty
in monochrome.
i turned my phone to greyscale so i would be less inclined to it but it’s actually opening up lots of new perspectives!
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2024
awas amidst
the bits and bobs of my pseudo-sleep,
check my watch oft and habitually,

understand
that the actual time is not what I seek,
no, what I desire is reassurance of
some sort,
that time is present,
that it is yet measured,
in my about, breathable,
that time is there,
for it is the wonderous of wonder,
it’s a
present of and is love itself,

love is time…
(think on it)

it is all possibility,
the future in
slow motion is both
realizable & visible even
as we daily practice realizing it,
as if
time is
snuggling us

as a glove,
asking us each,
place your hand inside,
and waving yours
airy about
into your
new existence,
that we dare not waste,

so
write and right
are no accident, but
equals, friends,
brothers and sisters,
one is both
writ in the dark hours
when the watch
watches over me
9/17/24
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