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Nat Lipstadt Jan 23
awry, askew,
the poetry comes badly, clawing,
life as well, faring poorly,
the obvious linkage stinkage
allows a milliseconds smile,
a brief fiefdumb accolade of
distress confirmation

DH Lawrence appears in the  inbox,
he too, awry, askew,
tufts of wool clouding life like dust,
rust and must, an old friendship renewed,
the cold ex and in-eternal suggest
frequent naps and hibernation,
so much so that this script was
commenced and committed years ago
and lay forlornly in the ***** snow
fallow and shallow drafts from prior years

To every season there is a turn,
a turning of the *****,
yet the hacking cough from focculent dust on the floor of the world
fills the lungs continuously, knows no respite,
the spittle and the phlegm ejected herein,
a disarming poem of dissatisfaction, alas, alas,
the dust thickens and is not lessened

~for Medusa daughter~
Coldness in Love

D. H. Lawrence
And you remember, in the afternoon
The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk
A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon
Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth,
And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon.

A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime
Of **** that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled
Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time
You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw
Me words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime.

And all day long, that raw and ancient cold
Deadened me through, till the grey downs dulled to sleep.
Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold
Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep
Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold.

But still to me all evening long you were cold,
And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache;
Till old days drew me back into their fold,
And dim hopes crowded me warm with companionship,
And memories clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled.

And I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust,
Like a linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor
Of the unswept sea; a grey pale light like must
That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed
To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust.

And I rose in fear, needing you fearfully.
For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood.
I thought I could plunge in your living hotness, and be
Clean of the cold and the must. With my hand on the latch
I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me.

And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed.
So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea
And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed
With cold, like the shell of the moon; and strange it seems
That my love can dawn in warmth again, unafraid.
Dec 2018 · 1.3k
Her Name is Woman
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2018
Her Name is Woman

~for Woman~

The body replenishes, even the signs of decay
that come for reparation,
Positive confirmation
her organism survives, alive,
tree circles yet measuring time,
Till a devitalizing time comes, when,
this cellular process concedes degeneration

Then the wondering shifts; new facts sifted;
now the reckoning is not a calculation of
Mortality but of her living immortality;
dive to divine neath her black cloaking, reading
Wounded word revelations, her own Bible stories,
giving nomination to Woman-name

The long shadows that her souls excavations cast,
costs of her stories individual,
Highwaymen robbed her with glass knives
but each remaining black hole lights a story, lost, but
Burning icy inviting, pulling us into book boxes inside,
compost of sheets of composed white clarity

Care not that each riddling reference is obliged to be
oblique, inexplicit,
Woman her name, all encompassing,
her views codified in lines of faith,
Woman, is that not
a mining, and a manifest,
of hidden birthing,
comforting us in warm shades of
Human courage

12/26/18  5:51pm
For the poet Woman
Nov 2018 · 1.1k
strike my eyes lovely
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2018
strike my eyes lovely

for S. B.

by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction

so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction

let me explain better

she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored

the poem

                 strikes her eyes lovely

daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged  

for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!

who can own this ability  
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification

to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times

you smile
but not in the chest where
needs to strike you

for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative

Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
~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:



on the autoroute to Firenze

Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
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
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
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,
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

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
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 2018 · 374
the ole 352 Bleecker Blues
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
The 352 Blues

this city treats the poor
with swift unkindness,
but if you peel your eyes,
you don't necessarily have to always
sing the ole 352 Bleecker Blues

the eyetalian storekeeper,
gives us morning java,
when we sing for him on the guitar,
The Star-Spangled Banner,
refills, if we add America the Beautiful

they say that heat rises,
but that don't seem true
in our third floor walk up
on rue 352 Bleecker Street,
the cold companion enters
thru the busted stain glass window

no matter, no cares,
we light the fireplace,
with wood and anything that'll burn,
we scavenged from the street,
pallets and newspapers,
rent bills overdue,
yesterday's 352 truths

at two AM, the cops, in their cars
cooping, fast asleep, only just us,
the johns, the ****** and troubadours,
walking the streets looking for
free stuff to burn

pass the hat for tips
next to the arch,
enough for daily bread
but we get our ***** and ****
for free, just for singing the 352 blues

even when down and out
on the village streets,
bleak on Bleecker street,
you gotta sing the 352 blues,
especially when you're
riding high and living cool,
down on easy Bleecker Street
in 1968
Before you ask me if this true,
save your breath,
the answer is
Which part?
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
"there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth"



my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum,
signed by you, truthfully, forever,
as first viewer,

Sep 2018 · 4.4k
"Please ignore my weirdness"
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
if I got a poem out of every message I receive...ha!...I do...

quite a bit upon to chew,
but a request from her,
to please ignore her weirdness,
too juicy to pass unnoticed,
because it goes to the heart of the mad matter

'tis that weirdness that I do so cherish,
fully reflected in my own poem-children,
my multiple identities, that the FBI is yet tracking

give me your weirdness, yearning to be free,
so my poems can be inscribed upon a crown

and daughter adopted dear,
that one crown,
thy name,
thy madness upon it, etched,
modified to rest
upon thy temples

for Ali
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
~for she who knows whom I mean~

do not beg to differ
just do

she is progressing true,
but the process is foretold
three generations of tracks
the line is map drawn

she and the generations before
and the generations to follow are
a work in process

the process is forever foretold
the genes are in control

do you ken the difference?
do you ken the compliment?
and the complement...clear
mother daughter mother
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“leave at your own chosen speed”

Dylan inserts a phrase that haunts,
indestructible permafrost,
played in slow and ever slower reverb all life long,
for it’s intuitive and you recognize it too well
as the best companion to the sour ending of another love affair

(but! this one differs; called love yourself)

the sad of a dying love, remembering the steady drift away,
capped by a casual remark that doesn’t sting but
cuts a Y on your chest, a lover’s coroner courtesy,
the bad humours permitted to at long last healthy escape

you’re staggered but say nothing for
is a changeable elf, a mischievous devil,
requiring constant monitoring cause you moving,
but the speed limit alway a reflection of the road you’re on

speed is a tag along to show the overall fit still works,
though now far from the obvious and familiar
and the inspiration modifies,
so you retrofit untill the parts are incapable of
bending to new demands, contours unfamiliar, old plans no good

“leave at your own chosen speed”

for I am leaving you as I leave myself,
beaches erode,  lighthouses corrode, the salt cannot be refused,
the earth demands your return as the lease is deemed
non-renewable and the space where the date shall be inserted,
is parcel of the contract and though blank, certain to be fulfilled

the body erodes, the ***** parts corrode,
and this season of the new year^ comes with the usual disclaimer
recited on the tenth day from today

‘who will live, who will die,’^^

taught to you as a young-in, a child who can comprehend
even before manhood arrives, comprehend that life ends,
all good things and it ain’t no use, born compromised, but
“don’t think twice, it’s alright”

the slate you have written overdue for a prudent clean wet erasure,
so you begin to leave at your own chosen speed,
which is kind of nice, even cool, organizing your papers,
write with contented softness that so long eluded,
now come easy heady peasy

after a life of reciting poetry, good bad and always too long,
the pressure is on and off, side by side, even a dimming bulb
sheds some light, revealing what yet needs revealing

that Day of Atonement annual visitor,^^^ he/she of impish humors,
makes Pandora play a new station,
‘dimming of the day,’
reminder that it gave you a piece of an unowned heart to hold,
leased temporarily but the temp is roaring,
who, boo hoo, for you?

life and love is all about leaving,
the pen in penitent gone dry, no refills in this new world,
wish that **** rooster would stop crowing at
the break of sundown,^^^^  when I'll be gone
I'll be travelling on, for when the new day begins,
that’s my own signature personal marker,
the sundown poet

~the first day of the new year on the Jewish calendar
  Mon, 10 September 2018 =  1st of Tishrei, 5779

  Rosh Hashana 5779
^ see

^^ see poem

^^^ see poem

^^^^ jewish law says the day begins at sunset till the next sundown
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”

~for Jean Fisher~

this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility

all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness

do you deserve it?

the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden  
truths and trust

birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more

and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger

this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem

now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits
wrote this title down on May 23rd
whenever I stumbled upon it,
no poem came running

until  this **** September 8th
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
my winter beach,
is no beach at all,
but a man-tended lawn,
mostly always, a man-made
miracle green,
except when snow smothered

it sites sheltered tween
two Manhattan Isle streets,
the surrounding roofs, the balconies,
watchtowers overlooking
are its guardians

this, a private refuge,
more akin to
London's garden squares

it hides invisible from the public's probing glares,
for it is high-wall guarded,
very few ken its existence

at the far north end are
two red benches,
the simplest kind that adorn most parks,
comfortable for an hour of two,
before the body's slowing heart demands
movement now!

it is my
imagined winter beach,
guarded by pine branches and white birch trees
plus the tumultuous sounds of
silent evergreen plantings
and subdued city cacophony

I pluck from this atmosphere
only city poems,
more hustle and bustle scripts,
than the calming summer surf writs,
that are peculiar to
sandy beach breezes

the city winter beach season
too short,
just like its true
summery country companion

soon the latecomers of
lingering warmth and the high coloration of fall
will given in to the
irrefutable and chilling demands of an
insistent I-have-arrived

its super-cooled demands will banish me inward
seeking new poem information
from beaches envisioned from within ,
for now is
the outside inspiration

but not just yet...

October leaches into Thanksgiving,
colder and more forlorn with each ticking day,
falling leaf

for now tho,
rise early to catch the
straggler sun's still-heated rising currents
from the nearby
East River

scribble and peck,
breathing a different season's flavor
and inspirations,
more crisp,
more reddish and deeper hued
than a summer's pale blushed vin rosé,
and fall's yellows, au contraire,
brilliantly softer
than the harsh beach's yellowing sun glare

scribble and peck
drawing new drafts from the serious drafts surrounding,
these, no gentle breezes pretenders,
these, chilled winds of substance,
demand greater and different tastebuds,
cold concentration

from the red benches of my pseudo-summer beach,
my words,
surrounded by cool,
burst forth like the wintry season's breath of
smoking but not summarized as hot,
and far faster to cool,
quicker  to hide,
than the slow, spectacular setting allowance of a
genuine summer sunset

my scribbles and pecking performance
in and of the fall season,
smoke, but do not sizzle,
short blasts from an always,
under dressed
summer man,
foolishly attempting to transform
a green lawn with a dreams re-visualized,
calling it what he wants,

the poet,
felled by the now permanent chill's vital signs,
burns smokey slowly
like fallen leaves piled and burning,
wondering out loud

have the seasonal signals
changed his long term trend,
truly modified the poet's moody perspective,
or this but a transversal changeling,
can he still believe
his summer
will yet return
one more time?
Oct. 7, 2015
Manhattan Island
Aug 2018 · 7.6k
the angle amongst us
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
the angel amongst us

flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns


the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both

two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression

the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?

this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!

little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future

the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer

the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing

but he measures the degree of difference at this
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity

“time to go”

the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,

as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics

"no go now,
now go later^"

though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs

one sees an angle,
the angel see time
folding in on itself^

that is the angle amongst us
^Surprising as it may be to most non-scientists and even to some scientists, Albert Einstein concluded in his later years that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously. In 1952, in his book Relativity, in discussing Minkowski's Space World interpretation of his theory of relativity, Einstein writes:

Since there exists in this four dimensional structure [space-time] no longer any sections which represent "now" objectively, the concepts of happening and becoming are indeed not completely suspended, but yet complicated. It appears therefore more natural to think of physical reality as a four dimensional existence, instead of, as hitherto, the evolution of a three dimensional existence.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
a poem I didn’t plan: but a foot upon my shoulder
gave me no choice

if perfection came along regularly
we would not take note of this August Sunday

the breeze looks steady, blowing a firm few knots
making the waves rulers of the bay
without the necessity of troublesome whitecap shoutouts,
the sailboats muttering thankee

the kids dock jumping into the water so warm they shiver running on a warm summer day, 
 to home, where they do the coverup thing with hoodies and their Great Aunts white haired cozies blankets which appear in untold numbers,
one for everyone and don’t drip the cherry frozen sticks stains
from your tongue and lips

the sun temp modulated and moderate, a summer kiss farewell,
after weekend of thunderstorms and house shakings, it is sad for now
we recount the costly lost days unretrievable and
sky watching
for  naught

the waters inviting again come walk-upon me Island Poet,
to  see my new sea bottom treasures that the heavens, abetted by foolish men and children
have added to my storehouses of grains and pains

decline and recline for
Oh! have I not got one more weekend, to
close out that Melville tale^ and that is something one need not rush to complete

let me clarify - I am a Summer Man^^
and the summers sunsetting
is a ring around my chest that sings ever louder
nearer my god than thee;
now at the age where one only counts down to zero at double time
marching, eye straight

in this place where we - god and me - have sung and battled together
like good friend and peer,^^^
college roommate permanent enemies,
he keeps his teary rains in abeyance to remind that the coming of his schooner is
inevitable and to pack my poems in plastic for the journey

Oh! how can perfect be so saddening but it is

my perfection days are minimizing and should not complain
for wrote many poems to day, unable to refuse my traveling muses
who summer with me, one upon each shoulder until god kicks them off, with a bossy look of
he’s more mine than yours

to make sure his presence acknowledged he
makes Pandora play Billie Holiday singing:
“I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and ***
I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you”

subtle, right?

but who am I to complain
the razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin
sometimes are they not the same thing

ne sont-ils pas les mêmes?

an unplanned poem
part of the plan
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
El reloj es tranquilo, metódico, incluso cuando corre mi mano fuera de control, empujando palabras que se escapan de la ***** de mis cinco dedos de lápiz.

El poema se levanta en el este y se pone en el oeste, los conspiradores están de acuerdo.
La carrera debe seguir este curso.


The clock is calm, methodical, even as it races my out-of-control hand, pushing words leaking from the lead within my five pencil fingers.

The poem rises in the East and sets in the West, the conspirators agree.  
The race must follow this course.

the inspiration:

“poems: the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya
Its not even me that mind is hostage to a pair of hand and it's Muse, the pencil”

please read
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Aug 2018 · 2.8k
3 X 5 index card poems
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
3 X 5 index card poems

3 smallish poems in five minutes

honey can I make you something to eat?

no babe, you know I hate to see you cooking, frying
standing over pots and stirring sauces
trying to brush
wisps of bangs from your eyes
  while wearing kitchen mitts

What I would prefer is something leftover,
reheated served with a smiling grin from my ear
to wayover down under there,
next to you

old words are better than than new ones

hey, hi! how you doing, old friend?

“yo, out of the hospital feeling so much better;
had some kind of ‘itis’ which they cured with an ‘yisis’!”

glad to hear; impressed by all those new big scientific words;
frankly preferred your old ones,  that were rediscovered and
reoriented in new ways in your poems verses;

never better cause to hear from a man
whose optimism has yet to meet a
that he can’t best,

heals all our wounds


if you told me

that I could spend three successive rainy days in almost all silence, perfectly contented by myself,
i’d said you crazy,

isn’t that true babe?
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black “weary weighted,” I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“l


both of you shush;

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there


get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace

the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest

call my poems,
blessedly common
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted*

so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better

for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been

8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Jul 2018 · 5.0k
weary weighted
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~weary weighted~

flummoxed are the sea watchers;
the long rhythms of sea change reveal only minor modesties,
difficult discerned are the tidal subtleties

though repetitive thrashing extracts it toll,
only the weary-weighted see the true meaning of the beating,
knowing full well,
it beats for them

recalling their early day’d fascination with its endless chaining,
now knowing all are similar
and  the ******* churning but a cover up masque,
they need not longer conceal,
an unrevealed confess:

water is heavy-weighted, you cannot forever float,
constancy is of a thing to be wary,
its sadder longevity,
a chipping away erosion of wearing,
‘tis is the knelling noise of  sad respite,
an unlight lighthouse

~for Victoria, a year later~
Jul 2018 · 2.8k
that poem breach
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018

casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph  vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”

then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach

of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided

pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm


The Poem Breach

once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting

a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?

I did not know

but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest

Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

thank you so insufficient
Jul 2018 · 190
Lipstadt vs. Zuckerberg
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018

you think you are done with it.
but the notion potion returns with your stolen free will
taunting and tearing, sealing and then dissolving
the seals

no retirement in this world from where human means pliable
and pliable means capable of being twisted; nay, retwisted...

last we left you weeping on the concrete sidewalk of
Third Avenue, the police, giving you a move on command,
as Jean Valjean earworms one into the incapacity of movement  because of the audacity to request to bring him home

such is the sorrow of the lost child; it comes with irregularity
yet, never failing to return, the child lost, the residual, resides
within like a violin adagio reaching the punishing silence
after a crescendo that  pretense promised momentary relief

we struggle to keep any and all keepsakes,
polished and fed; rust and time, no polish in the five & time dime
that does a good enough job,
but you buy it anyway

well aware that fate will inevitably rob you, it’s so purposed

twist you, retest you and re-will you, to never forget until
you have no need for forgetting but the peace of
constant remembering when all on that day
molecules and nucleotides
collide in the atmosphere,
dog licking, cat weeping purrs, meaning hallelujah home

the endless sadness of the lost lad-ness, dimly grow the recollections of the first word, the first delight, the confidence complete
that your babe is non pareil; the violin sweeps you along and the genteel tide still too string strong to resist

the woman comes into the room;
the reddened eyes no hide
the weeping outside and in the centerpiece of a soul;
why she asks, not surprised for she’s seen it
too many **** poem-times:
my Adam, I answer;
suffices and wisely
leaves me to
compose and decompose simultaneously
weeping weeping forever weeping even when not

furious eddies rock smashing,
curious they splash me with taunts
"you want for naught!"

but naught is the only possess
that owing it makes one impoverished

perhaps he will email me, ewail me,
does he know I am at the
Wailing Wall, Jerusalem,
insert parchment prayers for his safety

oh my Absalom, oh my Adam, my favorite first born,
come sit next to me on the sidewalk so close to where you live,
comfort me as in the days of your youth,
now that we are both
so very much older

sleep well all you lads and children,
never mind these unstoppable tearings,
never mind the heaviness,
for it has passed
as the tears shed
enlighten my embodiment

7/16/18 prone and alone
for my kinship
Jul 2018 · 2.1k
5 pencils for Wendy
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes

  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye
Jul 2018 · 1.1k
my apologies (Dec. 2017)
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
to those who misunderstand my enthusiasm
for poetry and people; I am oft too open
too willing to engage, excited by locating kindred souls,
sometimes causing confusion and misunderstanding;

I will come into the new year,
lower in profile, slower to eagerness
and anticipating life changes next year,
somewhat of an about face; more facing inward,
and examining the mirror'd reflection  
in quiet contemplation

with eager eyes embrace
the lovely poem and the lovely author,
over eager in my enthusiasm,
oft mistook, end result, forsook,
if my embrace was misunderstood,
accept this apology with better grace

ample changes prophesied for the coming year;
so all is well if I look to the within for inspiration,
for tumult aplenty foreseen

laid low? lay low...
Jul 2018 · 136
The Songs of Oregon
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018­-of-the-west/­e-not-around/
some Prequels:

None Invited here,
Only Poets

Even those hardy pioneers,
West Coasters, a proud lot,
they, and my Southern family, drawling,
perhaps lessening the mourning
just a touch, a minute modicum,
all sit quiet in the admixture
of poets come to celebrate
the blessing to have been tasked,
to write from and of places we visit
in the cerebral,
and to imbibe each other's words
June 2018
if they cannot come to the nook,
then I to them, my ship to their shore,
turning "cyber words into flesh moments"
June 2018
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
I spoke to Kissinger this week

~for C. C.   the reluctant poet~

read him your poem,

spoke of your reluctance
to write without the encouragement of others
(see below)

K. said poetry writing
very similar to decision making -
a single letter addition makes it into a wry thing:


but once you’ve published,
  once you have made the policy decision
then and only then begins the incision
that others cut upon your chest,
to fill with infectious assassination or
at the risk taken

K. said: pray and trust that you reluctant fellow
and I
can non-disclose (hide) our internist discordance,
neath a sheen of stolidity that is a
pretense gravitas cover-up certainty,
for we wince when they shoulder tap you with
hindsight queries that you recognize
as retro grade F seeds
of inequitude

if you require recognition as encouragement, K. intoned,
prepare prepayments for your poems,
you have failed before even starting

please your self, lad, no one else,
reluctance is the chief ingredient in failure
do the work and pray for grace to do some
yeoman-well-enough to carry others upon the outgoing tide
of your burdened shoulders

this man who transmits my words
has been kicked off the fence, rejected,
frequent wrong road chooser,
for at least 25 years too,
stiff-necked like me, refuge survivor,
who leaves it all the way out
from no one nothing hiding,
freely acknowledges the policy errors of his wasted life,
can not be but the finest fodder for the retrospective historians
but he reminds us
loving children and animals is one way to say
I am so sorry for
the human judgments one must make when
first you sign your true and honest name
at the end of a
or a war they call yours

reluctance is a luxury one can ill afford,
it seeps and permeates in the guise
of a sleepless temerity
and cracks the reflection served up
in the mornings first judgement,
that is,
if you dare to


~ a message from the Reluctant Poet~

“I'm a reluctant poet myself -
just started getting some
positive responses here recently,
which is ever so heartening.
I have three poems total posted!...
I'm just happy when
I can get deep down and say
what I want to say, and
hopefully give it a little beauty and
poetical magic for good measure.
The rest is up to the dear readers.”*


Apologies for the delay in reaching
inside myself and pulling deep out
with some reluctance the thousand
poems you have intuitively commissioned

indeed,, started this child over and over,
most recently over two slices on East Fifty Second & 3rd,
but in matters of gravity, write in the situ appropriate
and so it came to compo-fruition intuitively reached
in the neo-natal nook where my best ones were birthed
then released to the sea breeze carrier free to roam,
tickle fancies, kiss new brides, release the hiding
reluctant to come forth, joining conjoining words and people,
becoming the hypotenuse of some others lives/

and I had to get ahold of Henry which isn’t easy
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”

“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?

cause be-ing just
is a **** good one

way back in March wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and a good story telling
way of seeing and the secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well  words, I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the first grapes

words welling springing from between the oohs and ahs and the damns - I wish I had wrote that...

so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts? and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?

use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:

“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to ***** the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”

so write with that window light on and wheat fields that
can be reenvisioned as the grey blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...more

Jun 2018 · 18.4k
why I love certain men
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men

it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
and the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say
Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
or write better poetry than me,
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel
which defines them by their self questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
as well, doing it in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted chemical organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient

here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah) acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
by asking of everything living and every act human

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do love that best

what could signal honor even more
6-23-18 11:45am
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the-third-of-three-of-thee queries,
ask this poet anything variety pack,
3 permission-granted non-deniable answers,
though somewhat unsurprisingly,
the demands are the common deeper commonality,
yet finds the poet
flat footed, tongue raveled, searching
repeatedly for le mot juste, answers he doesn’t prefer to task,
by asking himself ever

fingers and tips knotted,
their cooperative sensation severed,
unprepared to answer
deferring, with a weakish,
“it’s buried in plain sight in the
thousand + poem answers resting here
for a someday funeral oratory anticipatory”

all the tired, tried and refried and endless recycled responsa tossed into a barrel of formaldehyde;

in dissolution, perhaps the solution?

numerous are my recorded “dialogues,”
verbal battles with spirit authorities,
plenty of cursing and finger pointing
and not of the Sistine Chapel variety;
mutual forgiveness for human and supreme  errors,
not always, hardly ever,
on the tabula rasa menu

but you think
a principle, responsum est constituta
(from the principal, the answer can be derived)
therefore, yes, he must be...

the poet replies faith in what,
meaning he has the surety of none

the phone rings and the poem begins:
in a voice of heretofore unknown register,


“I am the highest authority
none greater

I am but and only the first creator;
my touch operates at the spiderweb level,
the muse of muses,
present in the first grazing garden of lips,
the cacophony clarity of the avians swapping stories
in the early morn,
my worldwide alarm clock,
the wafted word,
breeze born when any poet stumbles on what comes next,
I am scented cherry blossoms, the breath in the iris newly come, and quickly gone,
the spiders web
where there yesterday there was none,
I am the first poem,
and will be the last

the new skin neath the scab,
the cooing of a grandchild that
sun melts  hardy men grizzly who think
there is nothing new under the sun

the counter of every wave that shushes, requesting global silence,
even when no human present to applaud

I am the smile upon the surgeon exiting
the operating room,
his right hand of confidence,
the arm draped upon a strangers shoulder
who weeps unabashedly for
undisclosed reasons that do not matter

you ask the poet
is he a man of faith
a bewildering query that obtains
diffident daily responsa, for the very question
is an ever changing variable

easy come and easy go
for what is faith but a traveling circus,
a summer day, forgot as it melds with next,
faith in?
me? hardly...

who could sustain a belief in the invisible hand that is the breeze between blades of grasses where the snowflakes will later accumulate as if nesting

even faith in himself
is a passing cloud,
a short term rental

but in that instance
he is faithful personified
for he “discovered”
the next word to close and complete,
the poem that did not exist prior

thus faith stored and restored
he believes once more if but for
a seconds-long knowing a defining of

  thus he is neither solved or dissolved;
yet, is resolved to keep getting
closer to that completion
that affords him, or any poet,
to own the faith that affords belief
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No 5 no general impressions specifically

For the Poets of Oregon, each a unique travel guide

no salt n’ pepper shaker of general impressions for the offering,
for now, ubiquitous generalities means inclusionary which means
likely accidental to be exclusionary,
so specifically,
no ‘all in' clauses

just a few specific eye-sights, hoary words, new birth canals,
to be either eaten, resurrected, van-slaughtered, backyard buried,
all are filed nearby in the seed cabinet or the garage freezer,
or on the C drive of your brain

awaiting ideal planting conditions, and the rest,
a series perhaps,
Songs of Oregon?

someday, when all the big brief poems are fully formed,
earth ripened, mind fomented; oak barrel aged,
green trees shoots busting thrusting through
misleading sandy looking soil,
needy for quenching from
aquifers that are gold geyser plentiful,
a hundred feet deep, needy only for a
“please sir, may I have some more,"
they’l be writ

but for now, these below are,
some easy to be specifics,
reveling and revealed, useful takeaways,
specifics pacifics
for those who might be traversing upon
Lewis and Clark’s Oregon Trail:

them multicolored redneck
full bearded boys
and those of the
vinnie, millennial hipsters and aging ex- hippies, also,
full bearded boys  
are indistinguishable!
many of both wear matching bib jeans,
so be careful who you be calling
a hillbilly in open carry country

the forever refilled coffee mug still exists though the price
is now $2 but the coffee is sustainable (I am evidence)
organic, from a rain forest from Timbuktu,
so it gets planted in your bloodstream and then replaced
in the soil & land,
the loam of the soul
by you

in Milwaukee,
they know how to spell Milwaukee but
not in Portland

don’t be shocked at the town naming,
these borrowers got no  i-magination,
that’s surly lacking in Oregon; mthey’ll steal your
Nor’easter or Indian
town or city’s name
with no shame
or comp-unction,
claiming it’s different cause
they made it organically and
then misspelled it,

think that pointy poem point well made,
god made only one coast (theirs) and
just forgot to put Shelter Island NY  upon it;
threw it up randomly skyward, landed on some
atlantic backwater body

getting there or anywhere in Oregon traffic
about the same as in NYC traffic, thus
the heavens balance the scales of justice with
dramatic automotive irony

in some counties, the school week is a
four day affair, for the children need to repay
their parents birthing labor, by laboring beside them
in the vineyards, on the tractors, learning from
the book and look of their parents
sun aged faces and hands,
life learning
that man must earn his sustenance
with the sweat of ones own brow
and that word;
can be spelt in contradictory ways
but only one is acceptable
out here

do be careful though Oregonians are very willingly to lam it,
(Willamette) if you ask nicely,
pick up normal looking weird hitchhikers
and drive many a mile
in yours, not theirs, but sure,
“going-the-same-way direction”
if you ask polite with just a smile

and the river salmon have hired their own governmental advisors

like I said,
no general impressions
just a private’s brief recollections
from his first tour of duty
where he was purple heart medaled shot
through ‘n through with
Oregon kindness

some juicy real specifics to follow eventually
songs of oregon No.5
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled

get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?

skirt politics cause nobody wants any
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the

absent women

no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating
just  humanism-isms

and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Songs of Oregon  No. 4
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)


familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence

but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy

so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love

what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed

now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...

but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:

late middle English, from self + edge

how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”

the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin

all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head

a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape

all daring you to say

I could
it  here
A Love Song
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a ***** in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”

nuts, crazy peeps

whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped

me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included

the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)

they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline

though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs

so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!

so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 2018 · 402
Denel (Kessler) ma Belle
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
for Denel Kessler

i am a persistent pain in the ***

too many of you lost at sea
big gray dots marking the disappearance last sighted

some in absentia
hiding real absence,
behind a teacher’s X
as someone calls out present,
for you
so still marked “here”

periodically message them to inquire where and why
they’re  keeping their talent warm & selfishly to themselves

should know better than to send selfish
my “just me, checking in” message every more than twice

cause then they reply

with tales that render me into ****** stillness
that cards can deal such bad hands
when you are already
all in

so-passing along a message from
Madame Kessler via a
persistent dude
to you

she, after enduring 11 weeks of hurricanes, followup floods and
other unnamed unnatural events; sequentially called “Job”
she tells you this:

“Feel free to let others in the circle know I think of them often and appreciate all the hands reaching out. It's just all a little much and I'm hanging in the best I can”

so now posted, duty done, perspective slapped
and we who write of pain and life as if
we knew of what we speak
should start over

6/2/18 1:39pm
Jun 2018 · 820
render, tender me, beauty
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
~for Victoria~

this by rights
an easy poem to inscribe

nonetheless the rhythm escapes me,
though the wordy contra-shades of
render and tender,
some incontrovertible, all well understood,
their complexity loved and
betrothing and forevermore
rendering, separating

two subtle words that shape
e v e r y t h i n g
about the this poet, 
tender boy rendered man,
by many lifetimes that fit into no
storage shed(ing)

yet this new effort requires
the verbs ripped wrenched,
the nouns hide underneath profound,
notions needed for a potent potion release;

none, ****,
do not come easy
so put aside for the
though the urgency of the
for release furiously,
the poets
doublin purpose:

created to create seeds

only this
a simplistic surrenders
from self, to self

tender me
the teary essence soup of human weakness
from which
to render

from that brew,
give me beauty,
the keen and the ken
the crook and the hook

to desire the next days creation
render, tender me unto,
its new chance for

6/2/18 11:30am
down by the riverside Peconic
victoria › water and seeds

Beautifully rendered by the one that tenders.
Nat Lipstadt May 2018
“It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!”

“Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.

Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.”

Eugene O'Neill,  Long Day's Journey Into Night
Nat Lipstadt May 2018
for Harlon
who recalled them to me five years later, asking for the all of them...

only on Mother’s Day +1
and for Miriam
My Mother is Dying July 2013
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.

I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.  

Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat,                    
her leading role, creator.      
A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being              
of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty,            
unflagging, for he did not    
forsake her in the time of      
her old age, when                  
her strength failed.
Nat Lipstadt May 2018
for jul**

she asks a-rat-a-tat sensible
peppering of questions;
“why do I give away my poems so easy and so fast, why me”

the answer so readily apparent,
so easy peasy lemon squeezy,
my style is who you are!

every-oft and every-then,
a leader-reader believes my words
so profound so entire so joyful wonderful!
that title passes there and then

a poem without a dedication but a-dressed-up-lovely
without a ^hat,^  missing the zing of panache
that makes its DNA complete, then someone comes along
who loves it so more than enough, placing that rakish angled love with a bejeweled hat pin just so, and that hat makes
the poem so much more, the jewel whispering confirmation
vive la différence!

so a dedication to/is

purest dedication -

and this one
a jewel for the poem
for jul
be a
be cause

Nat Lipstadt May 2018
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~

your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise

so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:

on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late

just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission

around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play

so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:

insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an  impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing

each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed

this particular one for you,

my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored

each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more

“of me, of mine do sing”

so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers


Nat Lipstadt May 2018
the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that, are ya keeping up, rumbling:

you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock
or the delivery guy,  
the one with the towel and the scissors,
who brings ya
a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
I am not the master of my writing

my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Apr 2018 · 1.2k
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018

~for Andrew Garfield~

how they march!

with studied

a riddle:

how many Angels,
in America,
can stand on the
head of a pin?


dressed in wine
stained colored uniforms,
how they advance!

with studied

how many?



this one woke me up,
fully formed,
asking only for a scribe to record it.  
saw Angels in America on 4/21/18.  
Neil Simon Theater , NYC
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
4/10/18 10:55pm ~ 4/22/18 2:02 am


a simpler than plain fact,  
deserving reflection beyond the obvious,
containing obverse emotional mine field sonar arrays
floating on an ocean unhidden,
listening for the ocean's bleeping hid-dens,
before surrendering to its ****-sinking power of time/gravity
the better life elsewhere is always someone’s misery

confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage

someone stood on lower Broadway at 5am
watching the sanitation men sweeping up the aftermath of a super bowl  victor’s celebration, with broom heads borrowed from giants’ moustaches

passage of a single thought,
that the victorious celebrated on the parade should
a posteriori be required to participate
in this flip-side experience as
‘active cleaner uppers,’
re-enacting the famous Persian Sufi adage,

“this is too shall pass”

someone whispers we have blessed lives,
rich in the experiential, free of the dragging boredom
of the daily draining of making it, head well above of the
humanizing periodic regularizing water dunkin’ reminder
of just

“we too shall pass”

so even the confetti honorees must have too someone whose
life to aspire, the top of the heap, in chained food chain world

assaying perfection and the luck thereof,
picture perfect lives cannot withstand tsunamis of
waves eroding their shapes, wearing boundaries down,
do not forget the invisible invitation from the riptide
just beneath the calm surgical surficial surfacing disguises

if you face my book, will find in a later chapter prior
the fine sorry lines, the pierced titanium bulletproof vest,
the divorces of mistakes remade, the haunted envisioning,
the obligatory items that keep you awake, those awesome
responsibilities that take many small bites of a soul’s coverlet
that cannot be removed isolated jailed or desperate destroyed

confetti rained interspersed with droplets of sand grains,
this man of constant tomorrows, hopeful Mondays, bad Fridays,
is a man of constant sorrows,
pictures and poems life celebrating a never allowed to forget
lucky runs out like the string from packages saved
when no more packages arrive

when the packages no longer get delivered
oh that started years ago, when came the bile instead
of the blood’s replacement clotting factors

passing is a sometime thing
sometime is a most imprecisely defined terminus
sometime means that today’s confetti is a day away
as resurrected garbage
but nonetheless,
you are forever responsible for the cleanup

a picture worth a thousand words
but in me lives
tens of ten thousands words,

“this is too shall pass”

finally finished fin
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
think of your brain as the attic

For L.B.

where the keepsakes can be divided as follows:

A. “why the heck did I keep that”
with an inner smile,
knowing all the while,
exactly forsooth  but why never forsaken,
and which commemoration is  
one of your future

B.  “rest here, till your first time return"
is appreciated approved appropriate;
your place at the dining table
is set, and you, a new keepsake
are the guest of honor
both old friend, and newborn

there is no riding rush to gush upwards and out
but perhaps the anti-gravity  slow pull of
upward percolation

lucky are you in this,

for @4:20am.
my "attic" is the basement
and these  wild-eyed creatures come
sparked  and sparkling,
covered in creative juices
that like a nouveau beaujolais
must be drunk immediately
and demanding joie de vivre

this bursting Butz antic was first (ha!)
described as follows in terms
less poetical,
and more

“the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that, are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection  roadblock or the delivery guy,  
the one with the towel and the scissors,
who brings ya
a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?”

alas the pizza store is shuttered
in the wee morning birth borning,
so I choose natural  La-Maze method for
birthing poems,
as my only option,

so says the
poet ****** @ 4:20am on 4/20/18
a good story knows when it is it moment
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
for Jeannie Kristufek Hawrysz who once quoted me Shakespeare -
"Of all the words in the universe, when stated thrice, only one royal above all gleams best, an uncoded mathematical tripartite repetitive stating:
love love love this."


third attempt and just not happening
then recall a Ben Folds hand-me-down
heard on Tuesday, passed onto me by Sara B.
about writer’s block

“Kick the editor out of the room”

the best don’t even flow,
they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that,
are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock
or the delivery guy, the one with the towel and the scissors, who brings ya a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?

another nougat nugget:
when you’re stuck, write about the block,
what’s sticking you; one would have thought
some one thousand five hundred poems later,
this one would have been midwifed a long, long time ago,  
but at 4:32am, it’s all I got

rather than throw false news confetti on myself
from the rafters that don’t exist in a citified apartment,
I’ll reward myself with some
rock n’ pop,
a revisitation to the scene of the crime, and listen quiet like and maybe leak back to prone sleep,
in hopes that the rest of the gang,
hoping the words to a  poem-in-transit,
“confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage”
gets off at my dreamy new subway stop

should the wordy birdies shotgun come sneaking in
thru the correct ear
i.e. not the sunken pillow one,
so I have half a fat chance of
recalling its dimensions in an hour, 
when I wake up-officially,

fat chance

later, like 4:56am
Apr 2018 · 3.5k
one more for t.m.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
one more for t.m.

her given name is not woman
but human of the feminine,
the fem in the human mine,

12:10am 4/16/17
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
~one more for the r man~

almost Monday
and its weighty five day oppressive lead poisoning on the horizon,
is but a thirsty thirty six minutes away from its fortified Sumter, first shot to be fired at midnight, how we love to mark the commencement of hostilities and killing

but I am already wounded, a casualty of having spent evening with pleading, pleasing timer eating, reading of your work,

the sounds of inestimable admiration and infectious jealousy
make this old man eager to discard a lifetimes work and
begin fresh, but only as a copyist of you,

I know you’re thinking "what in the **** is he blubbering about?"

so I willingly will my confessional offering in the dark of the
holy bedroom; for you make me eat my words, and
spit them out as wastage, in dumbfounding humility

god you and yours, make me frail and blessed that I stumbled
upon your abbreviations of the human life,

shut up and accept my three r’s
reading ‘riting and rising
up to sing hymns of praise
for a man with a historical perspective and
whose few occasionals
are carved in the granite bench
of what makes my life
worthy of load bearing;

more than bearable,
all are soul-enlightened by
baring our humility, our admiration

11:24pm 4/15/18
read the poet r;
Apr 2018 · 621
good god a gaggle of girls
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
good god a gaggle of girls

read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine
and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older

(husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and
back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment)

~oh yeah,
for Medusa~

this megillah message team meant for  me to assauge my
mother hubbard accusations  only partial reveals the player’s names:
but if you google a
gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a:

Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball

in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered
under the mental health clause of a health care plan
but only in

too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps

sinewed strength in arms that can
carry three children at once,
age is not a factual issue,
for there is an army of
women soldiers who are a troop contingent,
everyone’s back is covered always-full stop-
they curve like the Earth’s crust,
magma formed strong and mineral rich,
curved to better resist
the comets the heavens cannot resist
to send & test the mettle
of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined


the grandpa must here resist and rest,
lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon,
in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses
and all our shushing noisier than their giggles
just google a gaggle of strong kids,
you’ll see what I mean
in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise

sunday 10:15am
written to the 1812 overture
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