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Nat Lipstadt Feb 13
peak poetry
comes so oft this final quarter of
two thousand twenty four,
and persists into the age of
two thousand twenty five

perhaps the urgency my yet signal
becoming another
fade~a~swaying?

bones sense the jig jog
getting closer to a
closing bow of
denouement,

nothing specific
but my seer,
my godmother fairy,
unsmiling ******,
yet brimming with
inside out insights
delivered
in my face
direct delivery
face slapping

from my
bathroom mirror
Mirror Mirror
On the Wall
Complaint Dept.

advises me with an
opening grimace

that the current is fastest beneath where
the biggest boulders congregate, and
surficial eddies mislead with an artistic
mild on the river top, what hides
beneath is more likely to drown
and swallowing you whole
when you’ve peaked
poetry
Thursday, February 6, 2025
Nat Lipstadt Feb 13
to
elicit the secrets of my senses, never to miss the little miracles, my impoverished ones might not intuit or recognize, though
they, si, very alive, for all have left me
new words

to ***** my existence into high gear emotive,
this, their very motive and together we are
in

in each other’s motion perpetual
whirling whorls
of worldwidewords
212an
2/13/25
Nat Lipstadt Feb 13
a common enough expression,
lightly spoken, easily surrendered,
wishes become hopes or prayers,
depending on the gravity of urgency,
right, know that wishes are
gravity-resistance,
rising up to the atmosphere, where any
cruel, fate-focused, looking to be
amused, lousy lounging-around gods,
always cruising
for some real entertainment, might
snap
into action,
upending plans, ruining futures,
or tickling your fancy
with a run of fabulous luck,
by, due to, their fanciful footwork

in the near future:
I hope to live to serve tomorrow,
feel the
ingenuity of love’s aroma,
as fresh as a new morn born
fragrant croissant

in the near future :
I hope I hear
Rhaposdy in Blue
being played live
through an open window
and be joined by my fellow
sensualists in a spontaneous
street festival

in the near future:
I’m going to go on a slightly
oh so lightly
planned road trip,
domestic and international
to visit friends I have netted
in my butterfly catcher,
the human kind,
whose flowers of words I have
suckled the nectar thereof,
and thank them properly
with hugs, fresh fruit
and gifts that will
tickle their fancy
fanciful wordswork

and make it home,
a safe return
to those called family
and find them
happy healthy
and never complain ever again
about that
stupid grin
on my face
that just seems impossible to
erase
200am 2/13/25
  Feb 12 Nat Lipstadt
Nancy Maine
The Snow Moon rises, soft and bright,
a lantern in the winter night.
She drapes the hills in silver beams,
a quiet world of frozen dreams.

She hums a song the rivers know,
a lullaby of falling snow.
The trees stand still in crystal lace,
bathed in her cool, enchanting grace.

Each flake that drifts upon the air
is moonlight spun with tender care,
a whispered wish, a fleeting spark,
to light the soul within the dark.

Oh, Snow Moon, watch the midnight deep,
while all the world lies fast asleep.
Your gentle glow, so soft, so true,
holds every dream in shimmering blue.
In honor of the snow moon tonight!
Nat Lipstadt Feb 11
musing on memory and all that
re its capabilities, its utilities
and wondrous
abilities, to cover, recover, and
surprise surprise uncover the known
and unknown, what was, what is and
what there is to dis-cover, for memory
is a tricky ole *******, you recall what you never knew at all, forget the address where you lived twenty years ago, and don’t get me
started re telephone numbers
of
old lovers, who get got gone good away
and the combination of a subset of their
digits is likely to be on a discarded lottery
stub, that stubs your shoe too

cannot remember all the women I’ve ever kissed, but I remember the kiss, and that’s
a fair trade off

pretty bad at remembering, birthdays, anniversaries, but that’s because my electronics believe me of this obligation;
Not the obligation to buy a present,
On time, but the kindness keenness of
doing the action, is you an in Nate satisfaction, One gets, when crossing off a line item on your to do list

Sometimes the choices between remembering,
and being dismembering, when is definitely preferable to the other, and though you are not present, I hear your moaning softly
I know I know!

So take a moment to make sure all those critical dates to others, are in your calendar, electronic, and I recommend minimum one week ahead alerts; and one day before as a fail, safe

Do it now or fail to be safe
Nat Lipstadt Feb 9
if you know how to listen…see below


https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1971/11/27/game-plan
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1971/11/27/game-plan

Sent from my iPhone
Hospice room's machines
a healthy noise harmony
song of the Opera queens
perfect pitch is the irony.

The end is always near
morphine drip constants
dreams of lovers so dear
death gets what it wants.

The final absolute end
with her infinity reach.
Flowers mourners send
Hymn a buzzard screech.
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