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  Dec 2024 Nat Lipstadt
Still Crazy
~for maddie~

the inference need not be discerned,
plain clear like a perfected blue sky
that took a millennium to craft so
well that you take it 100% for granted

even God needs trial and error to get it
right, and more to create a perfect anything
and any
body
and any
elephant
  Dec 2024 Nat Lipstadt
Carlo C Gomez
Sixty-three...
Sixty three days
you went missing.

Nine...
Nine weeks
a candle burned in your window.

The same window
you were taken from.

Petaluma, outraged and determined,
became a colony of ants.

Ground searches to mass mailings,
they never gave up hope
and soldiered on.

In a high-tech dragnet
you became the first internet child.

Your anxious mother
fretted over every detail
concerning you:

"I have a daughter out there--without shoes."

You would always be your parents
beloved little girl.

You were laid to rest
the day after the butterflies flew away,
migrating to a warmer climate
where they could play in safety

--the life we wish for all children.

Twenty-five...
Twenty-five years ago
you went away.

A remembrance
that is felt everyday.
For Polly Klaas (1981 - 1993)
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2024
~for you, girl~

words have definitions; shades; moods,
even within the contextual moment,
the coloration sometimes is discolored,

one person frantic is another’s
normal
passing fancy
insanity
quiet
overwrought silliness

frantic is a continuum’s conundrum

and oft the hubbub coverhup lends
a veneer of urgency importance
when knowledge acquisition is iron
irony, best when well chewed, quietly
considered and consumed with the
perspective of addition and subtraction

what we know is more than yesterday,
and less than what we will one day own,

for the only purity of learning is that’s
final refining is never ending
the artifice of deadlines,
gradation vis-a-vis
all the rest, is not a
distinction  worthy of
distinguishing

your human value is beyond compare

exactly!
the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of
ego to one side, and so should we all,
not
be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers

you are quality, and that is the only
qualification you will ever
acquire and require

and in my naïveté
I reflect looking back
and give you here the
free use thereof,
of its worth, you will
determine
but in summary judgement:
always keep thinking
ridicule is ridiculous
but best when applied
by oneself to oneself
with a

“***, did I really think:say that?”
and laugh out loud at our human
foibles, especially our own,
with a wry smile, admitting
some of things we conjure up
in all seriousness are

are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
a bit preachy, but too bad😉
knowledge acquisition
On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2024
“the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.”

<>
            
“Even nowadays, most of us have speeches from plays and films jangling around our heads, alongside things that have actually been said. Both contribute to what Michael Oakeshott called “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.” Whether in verse or prose, there are some fictional speeches that, once heard, cannot be unheard. You find that you live with them.”
~from~
Things Worth Remembering: Nothing Is Lost Forever
By Douglas Murray 9/8/24
<>

the quote grabs the throat, a two handed grip,
but gentling, to ensure it does not go forgot,
or to the bottom the pile, or just another
never truly born, or premature to die,
guised as a drafty passing breeze,
a tickle too fickle, impersistent,
to be a poem unto itself

my thots impure, for I see, I believe,
that poetry is the conversation in all
we do have,
those that lyric wax when
one of the five big guys,
jive, sensory excited, the whiff, taste,
licks the visionary
of the need to be a completed
exegesis, a work to be telling
told

but I am old, my powers weaken daily,
the resistance training recommended,
by brain muscle, fiercer resisted

so reach for the quill,
blue lined sheet,
a cute puppy looking paper,
up for the “surprise” treat
just for extending a paw,
these humans so ease pleased,
you see,
here comes a poem
bout
poetry being bout every any,
even, the great creator struggling
to put out fresh daily,
new &  improved work,
after a six day historic period,
that demanded a poem-alll-day entity,
entitled as a sabbatical day
of rest.

Here I too rest as well,
too many conversations need starting,
fires requiring verbal refueling,
and my own voice hearing a,
“get up, get out of bed,
drag a comb across your head,”
talk, and plant those newly fallen acorns,
and let the conversations produce
giant oak trees,
and
a plenitude of poems


9/9/24
douglas murray voice of poetry lipstadt
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