~~~a Requiem for the DedPoet~~~*



the air we breathe
and its best accompanist,
a good life, well cherished,
that's a symphonic harvest reaped,
knowing the magma of countless blessed times daily

fill it with the glee of children,
raw joy, still unfermented, unpasteurized,
by the sour vinegar candies of life
inevitable to be delivered,
mouth puckering and ill tasting

bring good skills to all you do,
the wisdom to lean forward,
admiring it in a satisfied manner,
best work leads to best content,
now is the time to witness the value all about us

remind me to set aside,
the sidebars of grief, struggle,
pause me in minute minutes,
to grasp the pleasure of the
joys this world provides so easy freely

you come early time to me,
early, as I search for your words,
finding none, to begin this day,
but your gravelly voice intimate initiates,
you remain for me as alive as ever

reminding an old poem writer,
that the best is to come,
if one allows, if one allows,
this is my un-sad requiem~song for you,
hoping that the joy of living and
remembering

is a bond tween us, unbreakable*

~~~

(NOTE: Since posting, the details of this item may have changed due to fluctuating market prices, federal regulations, currency rates, drought, pestilence, bandits, rush hour traffic, filibusters, clowns, zombie apocalypse, punctilious poem~developments, death, and breathing life and lives, well remembered

~~~

set aside
the 31st day of every month,
even if not on Gregory's calendar,
in actuality,
it's an always monthly revelation

this 31st day
of everyones life,
is a set aside,
to

set aside

the regrets that
Halloween haunt,
those overly generous ghosts,
goblins, too eager to remind and provide,
the tainted candy aplenty of
failed past deeds,
and worse,
the misdeeds

- the quantity insufficient
of unuttered "I love you"

- the lost, unrecoverable bidding of farewell finales failures,

- leaving unsaid that which
weakness delayed,
sadly now, a ticket voided
by an eternal expiration moment

the lost boys of opportunities
who live in the endless hell of
isolation in the Never-to-be-Land

- the right course we chose to
unsee

- that person we should never have
let go of

- for the easier, less costly,
charm of the error self-deceptions

- the damnable accursed if-onlys,
visible only in the rearview mirror of dreams
that with nightmare blended,
now can only go
one-direction,
forward

- attempt escaping,
both slow and quick,
from the maximum security prisons
built to be inescapable,
where you offer yourself
daily meals of only the stones of pain,
hopes skin-scratched off
as irretrievable lost,
poisonous diet of radioactivity

you own these regrets and
do not deny,
letting them go to partial freedom
even harder,
even worse,
now, when compared
to the bitterness of the
of original errors past committed

no absolution-complete,
these persistent insanities,
found in our possession,
unable to be defeated

and yet,
the thought,
a passerby muttering,
perhaps
by sharing, ours, yours,
mine,
we will uncover where the yellow brick road
to redemption commences

~~~
have oft confessed

the sadness of the
loss of living children, ex's,
who cannot forgive mutual trespasses

wasted anger that won't cease,
bile-ing and piling up,
like ten pound weights ankle permanently fastened to
the bitter buds of your tongue

the security of every wrong fork
incorrectly chosen,
calculating, over-valuing,
safety over risk

for within the chances untaken
lived the far better possibility
of a life without regrets

struggle everyday to
not allow the days
tween the first and the thirtieth,
to infect
the 31st day

this monthly maker reserved for
confession and atonement
and forgiveness granted by pardon
by you,
the one absolute ruler

for sentences that already deserve release,
if only for time served

all ready for forgiving,
and if yet still deemed unforgivable,
be eased by the the finer quality of
the humanity of
the overlooked blessing
that in the
never forgetting,
are deep buried in the roots of
caring...

~~~

October 31, 2015
7:10 am
NYC

~~~

"is it just me?"
this habitual guest,
nay, by now, alien resident,
this panting ponderous puzzlement,
so habitual, it has founded a room of its own
in a secluded space
upon mine own, contested Temple Mount

oft it strolls about the premises of me,
arm-in-arm with his pernicious cousin,
a fellow imploding interrogatory,
"what if?"
these thigh-slapping cacklers both, living off in the hollows
of the doubtful spaces they create,
cozy, corner-bounded criers, walk-abouters in thine recesses hidden

today, just one more inflection point in this man's life,
of which your are a welcomed observer,
and if but ******,
then let it be of thy own self,
for well imagine we, this pesky pairing,
that never venture far or away from their companionship
of any of us
friends of friends

I have no answer for either torturous query,
this answer, unsurprising and well expected,
for these visitors from a planet pernicious,
are astronomer-logged in your own constellation,
the dimmed light they shed, sheds no light at all,
having arrived light years after they were first posed

how can I counsel thee, that their risky business
should be routine dispatched fast away to another galaxy,
for here I am failing and flailing, well into my ending years,
yet waking once more in bed,
with this uncouth pair today,
haunting mine well worn, well trod paths

have you no guidance, no solvable words to defer
the solvable drip of doubt with which they tint our souls?

the only defense I am aware,
is to answer-deflect them with
yet another half-inquiry, half-commandment
that resides in the wellsprings
of thine best, supplanting them,
a goal to be,
by asking a twice-harder supposition

how can I,
this new morning glory, 
this new clean babe borning,
be a better human?
~~~

A Birthday Poem for Sally B:
what-matters-can-neither-be-created-or-destroyed

~~~

the principal thing about principles,
like the concept of time,
that in time, with time,
they come to reflect our
immutable essence's own best reflection,
come only, round or square
come only, too little too late
come, too much too soon

so the simpler, the better,
so the matter
of what really matters
needs capture in some
capsulated summary form,
a daily vitamin for the soul

so I thank you for
the gift
of your birthday,
the anibersaryo of a day of naissance,
this one solo, kakaiba,
among the many,
a present presented to the world

*so on this particular day,
we must thank you
for the wonder of wonder
that justifies existence,
for what truly matters

cannot be created or destroyed,

and your matter, mass,
your presence's  Grace upon this earth,
graces the hearts of thousands,
today and forevermore

this is what matters and
can never be recreated,
can never be destroyed...

~~~

https://www.facebook.com/isconnectivityahumanright

well done Mr. Zuckerberg,
but just to colorize your noble intent
with a corollary,
a lump of coal,
for you,
from my colliery,
so too,
is my human right to
disconnect, reject,
if my privacy abused,

not yours to take and trash

my human connectivity far greater value on any scale,
than your smart/good/profit intentions
to expand your product's universe

keep in mind that in my version of the small print,
is writ:

what's mine is not yours to mine
with reckless disregard,
though you couch your takings
so nicely and legal

my right to live free,
to disconnect,
ever present, and oft considered,
for the gluten of life is in the voice,
the real touch,
not in the adverts
so cleverly engineered, to insert

regarding Facebook,
I query daily,
is this time spent of true worth,
the wheat, the whole grains of life
too oft lost,
suffocated by the voluminous and volubly trash,
by the unending absorbing waterfall of
"I didn't need to know that"

for now, Mr. Mark,
just
keep this in mind,
one of my social curation skills,
on my settings tab inserted,
is one listed as
nuclear,
a/k/a

**bye-bye

~for James~

the record shows the obvious
is oft
overlooked

endless drench of words excessive,
incessant,
like a rainy day lockup that
irritates

until you reflect

let me search out for
gems and jewels,
new poems still unread,
missed, but not missing

for the quality of
good poetry
has no time limit or expiration date

and waits patient
just for you

for the soul of each poem understands,
eternal,*
far better than we humans

utter

too old for self-help,
mottos and slogan tokens,
fool useless, and come pre-broken

need a goal summary,
a single word capturing
the struggle perpetual,
and a word that is
an only commandment

utter

and when it I

utter

it is a philosophy, a command,
an auto-renewed challenge,  
the only sensible, true definition of love,
simple encompass total permanence

it is first
of the day,
last at night

for in a life of

utter

there are no
gaps, interruption, allowances...

say it utterly

fingers type.....................stay,
tablet writes..................stray

she says..........................stay,
ears hear........................stray

the heavy plodding feet speak..............stay
the weak fear of the Unknown in the chest signals,.............stray
can't stay,
brain refrains, too late

body in motion,
new course heading
new coarse heading,
zig zag away from the destroyers
stray

you write....................................stay
but heart mimes silently...........stray,


always follow your heart
even as the fingers come along weeping,
but even these culprits,
they follow as well,
knowing you, already aching,
have to

~~~

sometimes I type in the search mode a
word unusual, offbeat,
of my own choosing,
let it lead me to the nuggets, the truffles of others
resting waiting knowing that I
will be rooting for them
at the base of their trees deep in their
author's forest

hard poetry
is the best,
for the work of you,
it does request,
works your hardest best,
needing you to lilt each chosen letter
with a slow cooked, thoughtful tenderness

the writer wrote but a single draft,
but lifetime in the making,
it took,
as each word was,
both chewed and vine tasted,
over and over,
avoiding the arrogance of hasty egotism

hard poetry when read
reveals the authored heart
between each word space,
marks of the beats of a thundering mountain,
that upon it's peak,
lives and dies a temple's altar for sacrifice,
from where the odor of burnt,
parse rises and colors each verse
to heaven ascending,
not once,
but thrice
and long long after it is consumed,
its scented smoke returns,
wafted from nostrils as a hit
upon the brain

hard  to write,
hard to read,
more than concentration requisite,
an open mind that mines the text,
laboriously hard,
as was such intended

cheap are the easy-quick rhymes,
that fall like flakes,
an endless sky
that rains upon us like a
plague of "made in" knockoff fakes

looks good, goes down easy,
but gone tasteless like sugared icing on a stale cake,
but
hard poetry lingers for days
or forever,
and it asks you back,
without ever asking

write hard,
read the hard,
for these poems are the real shards
of human hands that sweated while love making,
serving you their best works from deepest within,
torn out and then smooth potter-sculpted

hard poetry
hard to find,
veins in the deep earth
that you, they do not find,
you must drill core shafts to
ascertain their existence

packaged not in gift wrapped clothing,
that is torn off fast,
over the cheap plastic gift it covers,
that the promise of forever disappoints
and does not garner any interest
as fast as the day after Christmas arrives

hard poetry,
rewarded to the seekers
who read it with self same love and care,
the poet employed,
to wrench it from his soul,
it's elimination,
the pains of a labored. childbirth

do not depreciate what you appreciate
by giving up your honor easy,
love only the one you are with,
the you will keep
ever

like what you love,
like but the ones
you must addictively return to,
wait for them with patience eager,
lament but do not tarry over the
discarded chaff,
while you wait for the
hard poetry's loving grasp

roses are violet,
violets are rose,
don't care if you live in states red or blue,
but you drown discouraged
from such nursery poems
proposed and tendered
with a " look at me" gloss
ad nauseum

effort to find the hard ones,
the ones you wish to emulate,
the ones that will justify you
as they grow you up into
being better than your dreams
-~~~
Oct 11, 2015
4:23 am

be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them

My Tango Master

His hair was deep, rich,
the black of unweathered basalt,
slick backed, like his look,
an arrogant dare to stare,
eyes directed at newcomers,
intended to make me,
a novice especially aware,
a bon voyage has begun,
now a worshiper, full of faults,
warning that I sought entry
to a temple where admission was a
sworn affidavit promising
total sacrifice of body

The flat contours of his body
disguised a airy litheness that  
embraced and made me giddy,
pliant to his methodology,
mastering my psychology,  
making the whole of my body breathe,
as if for the first time  

No questions asked or allowed,
he bent me, taught me supple,
the surety of the pleasure of
following a leader unreservedly,
my body straight from within,
but the exterior,
a symmetry of curves,
I am,
his precision human tool

His hands grasped me
with utter certainty,
with a petal light touch
and fingertip precision,
directing me to Rio de la Plata,
where his swivel hips
lift this black robed disciple
upon a golden altar where
I have remained, entranced,
a devotee forever more,
enslaved to our one god

Demanding the perfection
that comes only from rigidity,
irony of ironies,
it was a vocabulary of
spontaneity and fluidity
step by step learned,
this contradiction, soon intuitive

With posture *****,
he taught the history of seduction,
constructing the tale
each time differently,
creating within me
the ravished need for the
surprise of the unknown,
teased me into obediently
accepting the satisfaction of
joined at the hip ecstasy

With boleos that mesmerized ,
but not a one memorized,
he captivates me,
a tandem for a tanda,
until cortina-released

What is your name?

Tango
he whispers,
his name is in his eyes,
never spoke aloud,
I am your new master,
now come and master me

for Alyssa Underwood
~~~

my poems do not trend, go viral,
Fast and Furious!


yet, they do not die


they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered,
smoothed by time,
upon the surface of the
green earth waiting patient, virtuous,
purposed for itinerants bards
to trip over one
one some someday

somehow they accrete a readership,
slow stepping and steady from,
|the seekers and the stumblers,
the droplet drinkers,
meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years,
miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form
beneath the alluvial streaming
of the waterfall crescendo
of words

I like this

when another traveler sends me a like,
a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation,
for a long ago, barely recalled, writ,
allowing them to carve their initials upon the
external, visible roots of my tree trunk,
invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring,
forcing me to look down,
look back,
take measure of myself,
accepting myself as not wanting,
nor lacking in other's acceptance

these statements are neither  boastful or illusory,
yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures,
slow to chew, fast to the taste,
reminding me of old friendships,
well valued,
though no longer fully employed,
their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure,
their discovery is my own re-discovery,
exposing flaws and fallacies,
even fallow,
mostly shallow facts
about me

all of them,
a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh
with and at
me,
when I think to myself,

"crap,, did I write that?"

copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt

For Steve Yocum
~~~

an old marine called me the other night
a poet from the left coast,
a correspondent and a first responder
to my messy essays

we both, vintners of men,
compared notes on our progeny's
full bodied temperament,
and our own full body's aches and miscreants

bemoaning our losses,
of earnest poets,
of friends, even foes,
and favored football teams,
and ne'er forgetting to tally up
our occasional victories

he authors books,
he authors life,
with grainy portraits,
that try to be peepholes
to clarity

me, a periodic poetist,
more confessional blogger shootist,
than artful-words-to-please dodger,
in a vainglorious futile insanely repeating attempts
to better separate
life's wheat from the chafe of its chaff

perhaps,
we shall someday meet,
a twosome of codgers,
walk the saddened-today, blood-reddened Oregon soil,
armed with each other's comforting wisdom,
tasting grapes,
acknowledging
but for the grace of god,
we go

together, to gather,
each other closer,
walk the vineyards and the cellars
to clarify
the wine from the sediment,
getting uproariously drunk
on friendship

A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~

this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching

write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of  the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth

sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?

a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?

let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded

if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment

even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:

Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.

High near 65.

what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?

this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis

there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body

weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...

these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:

for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?

October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,
this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
us

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~

I have copied and posted most of my elecronic conversations of just (!) the last few months here between
Ernesto L. Gonzales and myself.

I have edited out some very few particulars to respect both of our privacy, and yet it is intensely personal.   Respect that please!
He developed a few such intense relationships with others here which
having only learned of recently of the details, make me realize, ever more cognizant what a special, caring human being was the DedPoet.


Represented in a center alignment to better honor this man,
this poet, my brother.
~~~~~

The DedPoet  Jul 4

Taking your suggestion into consideration, I stumbled across the fact that I went from past to present. So instead of
Gangsters dont shed no tears,
I changed it to But gangsters dont cry,
With this and the last two lines,
Which I also changed by eliminating
And as a man I cry,
Simplified to
As a man I remember,
As a man I cry.
Crying being that which I could not do as a youth, with the experience of life learning to cry later brings about realism and evocative feelings toward the reader, tying them with the poem, becoming a not so forgetful piece.
Nat, Your words of I want you to live,
They began a slow change in my life, today
Ibam in full fruition of that. I am alive, living, working, getting better, taking what was given to me, conquest of my demons. Yes Nat, I have arrived, humbly but with much confidence. Your influence had a great deal to do with my personal and poetical growth as a person. I have matured because you gave a ****, because you knew deep down I could beat everything life had thrown at me.

Know this Nat,
Put it in your mind,
Relish it and be proud;

YOU CHANGED MY LIFE
AND I AM ETERNALLY GRATEFUL.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 4

Humbled silence. FYI was fired last week, no surprIse, may "retire" or look for a position, undecided...

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 4
What's the situation with the kids?

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 4
I have my girls right now. She got pregnant and bow she needs me. Go figure. Anyway, im enjoying life drug and alcohol free, getting into working condition at work. All is as it should be, despite the problems I used to let become mountains.
Fired huh? Could you survive on retirement?
And if find anotjer position, do you feel that you would still be willing, able of course, but willing is another matter when you mentioned retirement as an option.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 4
I am soon to be..my youngest son worked with me for...and seeing him re-established is  important to me.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 4
What is your proffesion exactly?

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 5
Bond broker/trader

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 5
It took a day to get this right. A broker!!! Wow!! A poetic bond broker???? Wow. Im still shocked at that. Friend, you roll with the punches in life. Your son matters most, and I see that as well. Your note from yesterday helped me to focus more on my children financially. I got the time thing down, the icecream and food, but they need so much more. Yeah Im still learning, but Im learning exponentially. Anyway, I still plan on shaking your ha.d one day.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 5
Nah, a big freaking hug

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 5
Shhh. Your privacy protected

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1252193/six-**...

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 5
I could give a cheesy poem saying yes Nat changed my life, which was my first idea. Then, to be genuine and give ou some insight to my new journey and outlook I wrote Saffron Son Settling Into Memories and is dedicated to you friend.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 18
Well if your offer is to edit my poems, I respectfully decline. I can spell despite the poems looking otherwise. I post directly to hellopoetry, the words come out so fast that its hard to edit. I have been writing nonstop in progress for a book. They have their own editors, lol.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 18
No prob

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 19
All u need to do is line them up better. Invest in an inexpensive tablet...

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 19
Or *******, I will

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 19
I have a phone, one that I borrow. You know Im **** poor. I haven't posted in the longest while I have ever gone through. Tablets are far from my thoughts. I have pen and paper, bought from the 99 cent store. My daughter's mother, my ex, is in the hospital fighting for her life. And suddenly Im with my girls all day, everyday. Great for me, but I wish it was under better circumstances.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 19
What's your address?

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 19
Im too proud to accept any donations. I thank you from the bottom of my heart Nat. My email is... if you ever want to just correspond. I am taking control of the poverty in my life and when your at the bottom, theres only one way to go.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 19
What donation? ***! Self protection of my aging eyes and brain!

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 19
Ive been offered before. Money to help with kids, sorry if i jumped the gun there Nat. What would u do with the adress?

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 19
Send you a tablet

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 19
I couldn't accept that. I wouldn't know how. Never been offered anything like that.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 19
If you truly believed in my talent, if that was the reason other than mis spelled words, I would take it. I would take it gratefully. I'll tell you one thing, yours is the only that I believe in on this site. Granted there are talented individuals, but none try to better themselves and stay in an anxious state of repeating verses. You try to break them from this, encouragement and all. What do you say Nat?

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 19
I say just this,

brother.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 19
San Antonio, Tx. 78227
Ernesto L. Gonzales Jr.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 21
Nat, I just gave u all my info, could u respond and tell me my identity is ok.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 22
Just saw Not sure what u mean, "idenity ok". Can u explain?

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 22
Lol, not that my identity is worth much, but is was a little dark joke since you had not responded to me. I did get a little worried. Thats all. After all, you and I know bofh well that thsi is a risky thinf, you know, information And all.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 23
Np. Up at 12:48am til now thinking about the future

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 23
1. What type of cell phone?
2. Will your carrier allow u two devices on your number?
3. Just answer and no yada yada noise?

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 23
Its not my cell phone. Its my dad's. A regular three year old lg fone. But we do have wifi here at home for my nephew. Unlimited data.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 23
See if u can add another tablet device, on his plan...should be nominal...like $10/month

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 23
Actually the wifi would be enabled inside the house because of the wifi. I would just need to ask how, but I do know it is at no extra charghe. Nat, as a man in wall street, what is your take on the current situation with the dollar and its basis on petroleum in the world? Is it doomed to fail anytime soon?

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 23
Oil has stabilized around 50 bucks which is very reasonable. U.S. Frackers  can make money there,the Saudis too...and with new supply growing. And demand stable and but will surely increase, I expect price to hold the 50 dlr area and very slowly rise..as for the dollar, it's all about that bass...I mean I test rates! Ours going up everybody else's going down, so dollar will remain the king for the foreseeable future if the global economy just chugs along as it has and more so if the economy actually picks up to grow 3% or better consistently

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 23
Just worried about the alarmist calling for an imminent collapse based on China and Russia leaving the dollar to trade in ruble and chinese currency, if Im not mistaken, the currency war it is called.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 23
What are the advantages of a tablet anyway?

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 24
You can see what you are doing; the layout and formatting is very important. From a phone it never comes out right

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 24
Guess ur right, for and layout are so important to the overall effect of what your tryingg to convey.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 25
I took the initiative and put ten bucks down on a tablet. It will take a few months but I looked into tablets and found it to be a worthwhile investment. Thanks Nat, it will help me alot. You planted the idea, I will make it hsppen. This positive can do atitude is part of my new outlook which has done leaps and bounds for my life.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 25
P.S. Ive begun a study in earnest on Yeats, one of the greats I had not yet truly begun reading. Your lessons go far my friend. Thank you for teaching one who wants and desires to get better at this craft.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 25
we learn from each other. never forget that! the greates lesson in lif to learn is the eloquence of simplicity. now look, u just gave me a new poem to write

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 26
Nice work on the other piece. Dont want to he cliche but "eloquently stated". Yeah I saw that review. Lol. Tell me, what does a New Yorker do on a Sunday?

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 27
Id like to take the opportunity you gave me. I will humbly take you on your offer. Part of my evolution as a person is to swallow my pride and take help where help is offered. I have alot of writing to do Nat but as I get into the lifestyle of everyday working I see poetry fading and I have a need so deep to write as it has helped me along the way so much. If your offer still stands, I would love to take you up on the offer. Either way, a lesson is learned: Take the hands that help you up as opposed to holding hands to that which pulls one down.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Jul 27
I will get it done now that u r committed to the curves of living, yet see around the bend what could be....now the's another poem borning...

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Jul 27
Your wise, you know that? Yeah, it takes alot to learn the stuff. Youth is wasted in the young.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 3
Promises are nice bro, but I really dont care for them if its not something that you can do. I'd rather you tell me no Nat, your word is law as far as Im concerned. Dont worry about the tablet, it was a nice thought, but I dont want to see you in that light as not being able to come through. I want your word to mean something to me.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 4
just been busy with the grandkids for a 5 day vacation. don't u worry about thing baby!

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 4
Yours is the only one I trust here on this site, everyone is going batshit crazy about this or that. Poetry seems to he taking a second seat.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 4
Gotta sat Nat, you probably underestimate how much I look to you for guidance. Though i dont reach out much, your poetry in itself is an example I libve by. No *** kissing, simply take it as respect for your work, I see you amongg the best I have read of all the dead poets.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 6
Well been busy looking for work and arranging a life if that doesn't happen. but ur in the to do list!
P.s. Ain't dead yet but I could be by the time I finish typing thi.....

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 6
Not your greatest work, but if you are dead, you go down as one oc the all time best in my opinion. Gettingg my daughter ready for school. Clothes are expensive, wish tbey had uniforms. Itd be cheaper.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 6
I can't even imagine but in years u will look back and think those were the best of times

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 17
your tablet on the to do list, just got hit with other bills higher priority.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 22
Dont worry about it a tablet. Just be my friend.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 22
that was crossed off my to do list a long long time ago...

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 22
My to do list is short as well. I want to see New York, I want to shake your hand.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 22
I am completely serious. I need to know how much round trip tickets cost, room and board, etc. Ive never flown but its time I do.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 22
whoa. that's a lot of dough, who will watch the kids?

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 22
They will stay behind.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Aug 24
here's one problem. I live with my Gf in her apt...and I won't ask her ...change her mind, it's her place...

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Aug 24
I will pay my way. I have money coming to me on a house I just framed, did u forget Im a master carpenter? When my health permits I make good  money. Lol, which I hapoily distribute back into the economy.

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  Sep 9
So I called a number I saw on television for experimental drug for liver. Second time I do this, but what the hay, gotta fight. Im scared. Terrified, staring at my humanity like this. No words for the fear.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  Sep 9
there are words. you have them in your posses, just need to expel them without any veneer or hesitation

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  5 days ago
talk to me! what's up and give me the cell number asap

The DedPoet
The DedPoet  4 days ago
Its my time, I'm sick and dying, bed ridden and in the final stages of sclerosis of the liver, I want you to know that I have always thought of your poetry as genius, but I only have one request of you. The tablet you wanted to send me, keep it for yourself an begin a new outlook on your surroundings, you write so much about people here or familiar things tat relate to the site. I just wanted to see your perspective fresh with your abundant talent, your rugged and tired, your giving yet honest, brutal writer of understanding, I'm not for talk it now, my concentration is on closing doors and settling old problems with family, I have a rare chance to do this. You take care, God bless and goodbye.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt  4 days ago
I will call you again tomorrow. please answer!

*The DedPoet
The DedPoet  10 hours ago
My brother passed away Sunday night, we cremated him today. He left all copyright of his work to you.I'm sorry for the new. I will be posting a poem a week for him as he wanted. He had many poems that he wanted to save for publishing. Thank you for your time.

for the missed and the missing
~~~
lea - a tract of open ground, especially grassland; meadow; land used for a few years for pasture or for growing hay, then plowed over and replaced by another crop; untilled; fallow
~~~

In the Lea Field*

And again that man
in the fallow fallen field,
grasps his own tiller,
looking ahead, downwind, leeward to plow,
impatient to cut rows of upturned earth
to grow markers,
plant seeded rows of words

and again that man
presumes time,
planting a yearly crop of
hoped for just enough time

but it does not suffice -
enough and sufficient time
will not grow in the lea field
this year

Now a man comes to mind,
living and dying
in a lea field

the man too,
field fallen fallow like the grassy meadow
that once fed his overcast gaze

yet the man believes still,
word seeds of lea poems prior planted
fullsome in their dormancy,
potent with patience,
shall not always remain so...

they are
bridges-in-waiting,
un-til,
ready once more
for the missed to
till
anew

~for Ernesto, with love~

these last days, so recently arrived
to nag/remind, pre-commence,
the celebration
of mine fast approaching,
significant other mileage marker,
the day that is the in-between mid and seniority,
finds me asleep by nine,
only to be turned hard a starboard,
startled and startling,
sharp awoken at midnight,
a headful of dreadful and most colorful dreams,
my ever faithful midnight alarm clock

so I find myself alert and inclined to be
urgently communicative,
answering queries from friends,
catching up on comments and likes
to my poems that once penned,
are then penned by me themselves,
surrounded by fences,
put away to be ignored and enclosed,
my flock of sheep unshorn

that upon occasional re-reading
then become hairless, all pink and white skin,
newly denuding of me
by the reminder of public exposure

this travelogue
through heart and mind
is journey for journey's sake,
I have discarded older outdated notions
(the "outdated" conceptual
begs for a poem all its own)

of commencement, beginnings,
ends, finales, terminals. even periods.

instead I conquistador land upon a new
plateau, familiar but confusing,
where my muddled thoughts
have lain for several days,
cloudy in a accumulating cumulus of realizations,
the "compare and contrast" of
life and death,
their gravitas diminished,
understanding them to be but modest signposts
upon the path of this
stewing, brewing, yearning to be free
poem
~~~
The In-Between

all day, I too,
am penned in a museum auditorium,
listening, hearing, applauding a gorgeous gaggle
of writers, musicians, doctors and dancers,
security guards and comic book authors,
falsely accused death row prisoners,
sons and daughters
and yes,
even a poet laureate

all assembled to contemplate this connective notion
of curator-as-written
with capitals and hyphen (most appropriately) as
The In-Between

of course dear Ernesto,
everyone defines their personal in-between
personally
but all these artists corral my thoughts
onto and against a canvas blank,
awaiting the portrait painting
slow cooking in my oven

of you,
who lays dying in Texas
surrounded by family and
the notions of reconciliation
and thus birthing
in me
these words,
something new ironical,
if only to prove a point

You,
my self-appointed
mentee
ex-drug addict, father,
self-savior of yourself
make

I,
your mentor, cheerleader, steadfast critic armed
with
just encouragement enough to give your self-propelled
poetry an occasional push
of your hand-carpentered, tree swing

but this is a poem about
in-betweens

two words,
separate and equal
but when combinated by a
hyphen,
a dash that leaves no spaces
in-between
making two into one

for you and I
are both

in
and
between

each other

two-in-one

only a few weeks ago we talked about
you coming to my new york city,
and now life deserts you,
and you,
me?

here I pause and smile
for I hear you thinking,
natty, too long, too much,
wrap it up and connect that special and peculiar,
in-between,

-

*but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment
this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
us

the poet laureate talks of spaces,
the poem she reads out loud,
is emitted light from her body's mind
exhaled into the room,
and now designed to be placed
in-between
her and us,
purposed to successfully connect
our in-betweenness

I do not like this notion of
rest in peace,
as if peace was a desirable end in and of itself

prefer rest in pieces,
for what follows and precedes peace,
is pieces of ourselves
torn from the notebook
where we write down our poems unique and
secrete our secrets

rest in pieces!
connected by the in-between
which like
the
s p a c e s between  e a c h letter  here,
are the connective tissues of two parts
one, new
and the other,
created-crested by the transference
of every old reworked

I think of spaces differently

the gap between two fron teeth,
the space between two violin strings,
the V separating divider of the space
between our legs that is the baseline
of our torso entire,
the re-appearing and then disappearing space
between two bodies making love

all now remind that the
in-between
is a place of its own purport,
a parapet to stroll across from
one castle keep to another

so more and more,
mere mortal
are these discards,
I forsake these antiquities:

commencement, finale, terminal, ending,
even new beginnings

and all attention paid now to the recasting of our
happenstances and events
as a series of
in-between's,
the most valuable of our possessions,
connecting the only-seemingly
disparate days

but I must now return once more to the
in-between
of us

we uncovered something of ourselves
in
each other,
creating a causeway
between

for you and I are one big
differential,
so unlike in
life's
temperamental,
that
given the down easy to the shock and awe,
most happily easily,
our so very differing poems bridged the
in-between
us

the in-between us,
seen incorrectly as the timeouts
separating the fifteen rounds we fight

that is the thing,
the rub,
the main event on the fight card,
is not the fight itself,
but the crossing over

come quickly to our in-between,
my brother-in-words,
do not leave me
bereft and bereaved,
disconnected and despairing

let's follow,
both of us,
the trail
of dividing and connecting hyphens
---------------

I, given every advantage,
you, given every ghetto gang disadvantage
yet your voice soars
while mine aches and creaks
and breaks

I am better now
understanding existence as
a series of connected in-betweens,
but the not knowing when we will meet again
for the first time,
stretches me thin,
for without you
in
me,
between
us
the space flickers wider,
and the next in-between far far distanced,
further for farther,
and I worry,
who will love my poetry as you did,
who will be my encouragement now?

your passing shall not come
in-between us,
this I swear
~~~
in your honor of
your cellphone misty typo pings and compulsed hurried style,,
I do not edit this edifice that. I have lain down just now,
it was writ in slow haste and
fast forming eddies of ideas,
full of typographical errors of
omission and commission,
just
put out down as it was born,
just as you and I
we were put out as born,
only to cross and combine
to be a single
in-between

non-authentic self*
~~~
you have
never seen me,
I have never touched you

so ask me
am I
authentic?

am I based on facts,
accurate, reliable,
purposive & emotionally
accurate?

drill a core sample
into my essence

test it for
contamination, nutrients,
purity,
values on a scale measuring
human essentials

then throw all the results
in the garbage

if you want to verify my
authenticity,
drill down deeper
into my
poetry

~~~

as we lay beside each other,

about twelve long inches apart,
both tablet-engrossed,
human flesh coffee cup holders,
I proffered this rejoinder/rejoin her:

"if you were closer,
I'd kiss you hard,"
but for now,

be satisfied with this my darling:

distance makes the heart grow fonder"

then she looked up, up, up,
removed her sound proofing earbuds,
asking the ceiling,

"what's that you said?"

~~~

as we lay beside each other,

the symphonic orchestra struck up
"The Human Cantata"
the sounds we frailties issue,
when thoughts course
throughout our bodies and minds,
sounds of melodic purring,
foot stomping, jumping for joy
drums and timpani,
violins cry soaring and moaning
and this particular vignette
of music never-ending
has never been recorded

till now

~~~


as we lay beside each other,

we lay inside each other,
the vines of new stories shoot
every which way,
and you contemplate
a poem title emendation,
why a mere three,
perhaps,

endless vignettes?


~~~

Love Blahs
~~~

love
blah, blah, blah,
love poems groaning bad,
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah scream

yet they keep on coming
coming on,
for despite the drowning pool,
of silly words
the hurricane burr
of love poems unending

cause
love is never
blah
not the finding
not the winning
not the losing

especially the losing

your poem read,
awoken by lightening flashes of
morning notifications arriving,
postmarked from
"I liked it"

but it does not
end there,
continues,
to a new ending

who and why,
who and why,
did this one find
their own
worthy in it
that was writ unknowingly
just for them

and
you look them up,
guessing
who and why,
rereading your hand's work,
which verse was it,
was it for a blessing or a
curse,
that touched them,
that made them
touch
you

each "like,"
a work in itself

re examined,
re searched,
re imagined
in the
light of
who they are
and
why they are
liking words I wrote

a single poem
bring hours of imagination,
each "like"
individually gift wrapped,
each human liking rapt,
each imagine a rapture,

each "like"
a new poem
about the who and why
each name a disguise to unravel,
each name a title
of a new different,
imagined poem,
who and why,
we
like
each other

~~~
6:53am

for Nana*

they are of mine

but life and love are powers
with out equal,
bolder than blood,

she inhales their joy of life

and grows younger

and I watch in
ataraxic, robust tranquility,
recording miracles

children making someone younger

though not from her body born,
far better,
from her soul,
gifted and given

look closer

see the transfusion

they are not adopted
but adapted

a rhapsody of gleeful shouts,
hula-hoops rolling,
hopscotch hopping
are integrated as
minor universes of the moment

their inarticulate delighted screams are
stars and comets,
newly born
to populate,
the heavens of this very instant

the soon-to-set but
not-quite-yet
sun
wraps them all in
shimmering glistens of
nature's protective custody

and yet

it's warming heat,
cannot compete,
cannot compare,
with the warmth
of life and love
being created before our eyes,
new soul cells,
all hers

"I suspect that the way I feel now, at summer’s end, is about how I’ll feel at the end of my life, assuming I have time and mind enough to reflect: bewildered by how unexpectedly everything turned out, regretful about all the things I didn’t get around to, clutching the handful of friends and funny stories I’ve amassed, and wondering where it all went. And I’ll probably still be evading the same truth I’m evading now:
that the life I ended up with, much as I complain about it, was
pretty much
  the one I chose. And my dissatisfactions with it are really with my own character, with my hesitation and timidity."

Tim Keider^
~~~

just an ordinary Sunday newspaper feature,
on the summer's fast approaching
summing up,
an essay,
that you read and exclaim
***,
what's that you say,
Keider,
who ya kidding?

are our brains cross-wired?
am I so prototypical
that my scheming privates are presented with
better clarity, superior style, and

and you just don't know what's worse

a) that we shared the similarity of dissatisfaction
with our lives,
that a season of unexpected leisure unexpectedly
(an unforced error, I'll call it)
opportunitized
a  soul train review that time accident-afforded and
summer sweet lushness conduced
or

b) is it that you say it so much better

only one diff kid,
entire we deux,
that makes me major league,
and you still, a sorta minor,
with a career ahead

I am at
trend end
of my life,
skiing breakneck at the steepest part of the
downward ***** of time
leading to the flatline gate
knockdown finale

but I still can't let us off the hook,
as I write this
open outcry

did life's press offer us
convergent excuses,
the connivence of convenience
that let us write our own
sad, sneering, almost denying tale
that our lives were
"pretty much"
the one chosen

will that truthfully ever going to be
a genuine smithy's mark
of
a twenty four caratexcellence of
sufficiency satisfactory?

the question cannot be begged off,
when Father Time is breathing down your neck,
accepting one's character flaws,
acknowledging, not even querying,
if I am a failed diamond,
I, the cutter,
could not shape my facets
flawless, or even well enough

point passed,
now why me worry
about hesitating,
timidity,
so no evasion,
instead ****** head-on 
invasion

the life chosen
was oft the product of
wrong fork chosen,
lazy and safe courses that
cuckolded me into a
blindsided acceptance

last verse I swear!

going outside to
come back in
pervaded

let this declining season,
be not
seen as an ending
but a fresh bloom of a flower,
an all-year-long bloom
that opens up every morning
of every day,
readying us both
for the
and to
fall,
open to  
setting the pushed, not pulled,
record straight

"good enough"
is no longer
good enough
when  answering

my life, was it any good?
was it what I desired?

when I took the wrong fork
almost every time,
though purposely chosen,
was it cowardice complete,
laziness course of least resistance?

for if that's the case,

no matter how late we linger at this bad food table,
of inactive actions,
choices taken but not accepted,
I need to change
the diet
that creates
who I am
and eat truth,
raw,
and keep it down

why stick around at HP,
a question asked frequently,
so many dropping like
flies from the summer heat,
reasons varied

me, tired of the excesses
bad poetry, hailed,
good poetry, ignored,
bad taste celebrated,
good taste, craft, hard work,
are,
you know...


so why stick around?

through it, I have found
a troupe, a collective,
of human beings
from all over the world,
for whom
sadly know,
I will never possess
the metaphors, the adjectives,
to properly hail and thank


but I will keep on trying...

gift me,
untwist me,
unasked,
with kindness, caring,
holiday wrapped,
with a grace
that is
reserved for humans,
that is

precisely astounding

that I need thank
whatever deity that breathed life into
this sinking vessel this morning
for the opportunity to state,
untwisted, unasked,
thank you...

Oliver Sacks passed away today, August 30, 2015
He asked the best questions
and never stopped seeking ever better answers.
Perhaps now, richer, he has them,
but this world is surely a poorer place indeed.
~~~

"And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest."

Oliver Sacks


I hope you read the entire essay at the URL below.

~~~
humble humble,
mine own own muse~jester
self-mocking, calling me out,
giving oneself the *******,
who you?

indeed,
you, the greater fool,
utilizing, thriving on self-contemptuous thoughts,
you are no Oliver Sacks,
what are you doing
messing with his essaying?

go back to being
a standardized human,
spilling the detritus of thine mortal coil,
that employs you as a full time slave,
a scab-working seven day affair,
is that not sufficient?

you,
in your sixth
decaying-decades-day,
forsook the ancient Sabbath long ago,
keeping it for ****** rest,
cheaply tired from the liturgy of
straitjacketing of do's and dont's
of excruciating detail,
that put only distance tween
you and your
essential spiritual oils

Sacks invades directly my eye's clouded storage,
now, two brains cross-wired,
histories,
his story, my story,
all too familiar,
almost indecently similar

here I am,
nearer my god than thee,
on this Sabbath day
of my ancestors,
(a hand-me-down gift to the world's conceptual heritage sites)
working hard,
as an everyday day laborer,
looking for work on street corners,
busy busy searching my conscience,
angel wrestling,
sacked
by questions -

when is
one’s work done,
and when,
when may one,
in good conscience,
rest?

this poetry writing, is it not work too?

work,
a violation of the Sabbath commandment,^
even if it is of no great matter,
for by now,
this lifelong dialogue internal
this contradictory poetic dialectic
which has yet to justify the emotive words
final or finished,
is a seven days of the week affair,
undeserving of a day of rest

~~~

as I essay out this Sabbath working poem,
in a place of beauteous, natural calm,
it's so easy to agree with the
passing schooners,
all whispering,
via genteel southern breezes,

later, not sooner,

no need to decide, let it ride,
answers will come,
perhaps, all on their own,
perhaps, all on that day
when you're within
hailing distance,
in a flailing,
failing-voice-recognition way,
of the shores of the
Isle of Surcease

the answers will come
contemporaneously,
when you have leave to
exorcise from your calendar,
Siri's spouting, inexorable,
pop-up perpetual reminder
that today's first thing
on your
to do list is:

"live a life  of
good and worthwhile"**

for then,
you will have all the answers
for the Oliver questions
that need perpetual asking



Finis
~~~

^ "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, or your female servant, or your livestock, or the sojourner who is within your gates."
~~~

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/opinion/sunday/ol­iver-sacks-sabbath.html

~~~
Aug. 15, 2015
Shelter Island

the very same
moon
that friends Facebook photo send
from across the other side of the world?

startled awake at 3am,
the shining path beckons,
highlights my face,
thru sliding door windows

can it be my oldest companion
has returned?

"once more, I beseech,
journey to the beach,
walk upon our water, follow me,
silver warmth, guiding lights,
to the treasures of the night skies,
I am your obedient servant,
for you have mastered me,
come, go, world over,
it's been so long
since we flew, together"

"cannot, reply, I am older,
no longer bolder,
needed here, where,
the so, so many children sleep near,
and the one I promised to outlive,
and they need me, by and by"

"but so far friend,
have I travailed and traveled,
just to be with my sweet adulator,
even tho a celestial orb,
poet, I have, as well, moon needs"

"will rise up, press my eyes to the glass,
oh moon, old friend,
when I think glory and eternity,
you are permanent pressed upon my eyesight

soon enough,
will come looking for thee,
when I need not just think of glory and eternity,
the moment when the time arrives to spend eternity with you
forever patiently walking to greet you,
on the path you provide so gloriously"

I am your moon.
patience, I ken,
eons, meaningless.

I await you.

~~~
August 27 - 28, 2015
~~~~~
a true, continuing story, see below..

~~~
someday soon gonna reread
the many poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what's it about,
assemblage of the themes of me

review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
confessions
~~~

blind all my life,
spent my capital human,
a life entire,
asking how, how does one see, ascertain an image's
veracity

guidance counselors counsel
see like me, but there was no guidance
in seeing whys through others eyes,
here now, creeping closer, and still unlearned
in the ways of vision visionary unique,
now the eyeglass case is closed,
that smack shut noise hearing,
and it occurs to me just now,
hearing my thoughts is a kind of seeing

~~~

for Sjr1000
and his proffered invitation

~~~

delve and dive,
smack lip tasting each line we drop over the side,
as if it each worm is a new word
first time heard
or ever  écrit

explicate and parse
the shape, the portent,
looking for the double mystery,
the wisdom and the plaisir of two minds cojoining

our poems, indeed,
every one a  product of a stainless steal shiny can of worms,
so strikes me when,
that fishing trip day est arrivée

the worms will be of the glo variety,
whom when pole dipped,
will be like chocolate treats for catching poetry fish,
to rapture capture new reciprocity recipes

share and delight,
comparing size,
whose is most luminescent, tumescent,
whose poems will taste most délicieuse

men fishin n' writing male bonding, stainless steel strong, a men friendly completion competition,
you bring the worms in a cancan,
I'll bring the cannes à pêche^

they'll accuse of being heinous poets turned into
collaborateurs,
to which we'll laugh responding in unison,
for sure, bien sûr!

~~~

for the D.P.

~~~

"just be my friend,"
never made it to the list,
don't be ******,
it just happened au naturel

don't have to do nothing
no crossing required,
for upon that Sea of Galilee,
we both walked and
crossed,
long ago,
both of us,
you and me

no resurrection required!

~~~

~~~

someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy  them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me

review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces

particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:

valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living^

don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human

strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,

working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps

the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds

these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms

the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope

the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing

to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights

come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass

believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided

~~~
the light is very early morning poor,
my still eyes crusty from overnight dreams,
but I can make out the individual
geese, browsing, pecking, having an early
breakfast at our AAA 5 star-rated motel by the bay,
on their way to Florida & Mexico,
traveling their own highway,
The Atlantic Flyway,^
stopping over for a few quiet nights and noisy days at
our isle's grassy plain
(ok, our lawn),
a way station where the room rates are low,
free wifi for their GPS systems,
the eats decent, reasonable tolerable too is,
the local variety of  human company,
considered by goose cognoscenti,
as harmless

habitual digresser, I return to
the early morn scene where all quiet,
then the shrieking and the manic running sounds,
like the firehouse alarm but more akin to
rambunctious jazz  music and the hip hop of
"so you think you can dance,"
for the red fox
in this light,
but a grey outline,
amidst the geese,
inattentively grazing just by the bulkhead,
a mere handful of feet
from the water, always an
escape tunnel handy

I know it is a fox
by its
airborne shape distinctive,
four legs and bushy tail clearly outlined
in the blue black grey atmosphere,
flying about a foot above ground,
in the mix of chubby runners at the starting line,
performing emergency takeoff procedures

a dramatic race for life and death,
something few of us ever witnessed,
or worse, experience, but nonetheless,
a daily occurrence mostly far
from our daily humdrum reality shows

this, more tale, than poem,
has its twisty turn,
a poetic trick de rigeur,
starting here...

a human fellow
I happen to know somewhat well,
grasps the concept immediate

his highway personal has brought him here,
to this exact raceway spot, and moment,
over a course of sixty years plus,
unbeknownst this was on his calendar appointments schedule
from the moment of his birth

he, voyageur, ******, witness, non-participant, but
just another airborne passenger, looking to plot, route
his last legs onto the red flag,
race-over signal, globally

the geese by far the wiser,
better planners,
than short sighted, foolish men,
who don't measure well the encroaching, narrowing distance
to their own mortality's terminus finale,
geese smartly keep handy escape hatches,
an alternative route

who will be my fox?

illness sudden swift,
a heart beat skipped,
the silence of cessation,
the unimaginable telephone call of accident,
a terrible swift sword heaven-appearing,
a surprising but ordinary
number early up,
a shocking shortening of actuarial tables,
after all, every fool knows,
poets are
humanity's statistical outliers

so here I am contemplative,
cussing up cursive scripting story endings,
varied new and unexpected,
poetic concepts each one more deserving,
wondering are their any geese,
like me,
who prefer the sudden death of teeth
over the slow molting of checking off
the tedium of passage rings of years of annualized aging,
until one morphs
into the last runner in his own 10k race,
tho at the finishing touch end his is the pace
of a passenger aboard his red flyer wagon,
about to overturn

who when, he,
crosses beneath the finishing banner,
hours after all the rested have
made their way to the
Presumed Safety of Wherever,
he crosses to silent applause of onlookers
all gone away
~~~
as for my lawned, learned friends,
the fox proved to be...
not as good a planner as the geese
~~~
this poem is a favor returned to new friends, poets here,
Jimmy Yetts,
who asks similar questions, and,
mark cleavenger,
a life guarding professional,
who tries to save us from ourselves
and succeeds
~~~

~~~

so few synonyms,
for so many needy

for a place of
shelter
by any name

call it what you may,
proffered here to thee,
but yes, but no,
nothing is ever free

the toll to pay is this...

clarify and prep clean a vision,
do away with the dots and floating swirls
seen beneath closed eyes,
get the senses ready,
Purell sanitize gel
all your sad ways of thinking

then
breathe out so loud,
confirming you're genuine, ready, eager,
for you have been prequalified
to be here
to earn a place of
shelter  

no other way
other than:

read thy fellow poets,
earn their trust,
learn their signatures,
let their phrases of cleansing comfort
be all the
oasis, refuge, sanctuary, haven, asylum, retreat
you ever need...

fear not the tactile voyage arduous,
we have all paid and made it intact,
when you arrive,
prepare for a
welcome stupendous,
from us who have long patient awaited
more than just your first edition arrival,
but our newer combination additional,
bringing us all to a refreshed
state of grace

~~~

Shelter Island
August 9, 2015

~~~
*bathed by breezes of southern gentility,
sun soaped by eye-prickling,
star twinkling glints,
shampooed in delicious waves
of white sno caps,
my crazy wild hair,
conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles

dappled waters transformed into a
Van Gogh glow of
The Sower
sprinkling golden seed
upon fields of summer wheat glorious

my little yellow rubber duckies,
are now blue white snow geese alive,
down from Nova Scotia,
where August is already
emboldened colden,
so they non-stop honk
tho mere passerbys,
everybody is seeking a place in history,
the surety,
that this poem,
by their inclusion herein,
promises posterity

the grass blades wave with
endless swaying applause,
at yet another attempt of poetic tribute,
for once more,
spell bound
by the bounty of the moment,
enslaved happily to the idea
there is no satiation possible
from the earthly satisfaction of this place,
this sheltered isle

the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers,
unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans,
they offer me untold numbers of
likes and reads,
and other candied goodies,
promises endless to root for my winter dream teams,
if their presence is here
prominently included,
until they too
fall silent, grounded,
shed by their rightful owners

every time I think the well is dry,
swept under by a rip tide
of drowning overwhelming gratitude,
for here I come to a place.
a station for repair,
where poems are bandied about,
summer fruits ripe for plucking

sunroom lace, summer curtains,
will hide out here in my absence,
the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline,
by icy waters and gusts,
that will be both
untrodden and unadmired

for when the poet is clad in the
damask drapes of winter's inevitability,
will close his eyes and
will hide out here,
right here,
in this one of his never ending
prior~poem~prayers homages,
until next year's
can't-come- too-early spring arrives,
sparked by tendrils of meeting markers,
noting that
new poems have been fallow fallen,
winter seeded,
awaiting your
watering and writing,
of the appreciation
of the
simple majesty
of this small corner of the earth

~~~
"And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest."

Oliver Sacks


I hope you read the entire essay at the URL below.

~~~
humble humble,
jester self-mocking, calling out, giving oneself the bird,
who me?

indeed,
the greater fool,
utilizing, thriving on self-contemptuous thoughts,
you are no Oliver Sacks,
what are you doing
messing with his essaying,
go back to being a standardized human,
the detritus of thine mortal coil,
that employs you as a full time slave,
a scab-working seven day affair,
is that insufficient?

you,
in your sixth
decaying-decades day,
forsook the ancient Sabbath long ago,
keeping it for ****** rest,
cheaply tired from the liturgy of
straitjacketing of do's and dont's
of excruciating detail,
that put only distance tween you and
your essentials

Sacks invades directly to my eye's clouded storage,
two brains cross wired,
histories, his story, my story,
all too familiar,
indecently similar

here I am
nearer my god than thee,
for on this Sabbath day
of my ancestors,
(a hand-me-down gift to the world's conceptual heritage),
working hard,
as an everyday day laborer,
looking for work on street corners,
busy busy searching my conscience,
angel wrestling,
sacked by questions -

is one’s work done,
and when,
may one,
in good conscience, rest?

this is work,
hopefully, that is not
a violation of the Sabbath commandment,^
even if it is, no matter,
for by now,
this lifelong dialogue
whose contradictory dialectical
does not contain the word
final or finished
~~~
as I essay out this poem,
(this work?)
in a place of beauteous natural calm,
so easy to agree with the passing schooners,
whispering via genteel breezes,
later, not sooner,
no need to decide, let it ride,
answers will come,
perhaps all on their own,
all on that day
when,
you're within hailing distance
of the shores of the Isle of Surcease

the answers will come contemporaneously,
when you have leave to
exorcise from your calendar's,
Siri's spouting, inexorable,
pop-up perpetual reminders,
that today's first thing on your
to do list is

"relearn the meaning of
good and worthwhile"

for then,
you will have all the answers

~~~
^ "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, or your female servant, or your livestock, or the sojourner who is within your gates."
~~~

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/opinion/sunday/oliver-sacks-sabbath.html

~~~

the word well,
nearly empty,
new ones no longer collected in the cistern

sooner, nearer,
I will only be able
to utter gasps of  living color,
*that no pen could ever translate...

~~~

for the anonymous mother whom I value

~~~

Devils ain't so uncommon
we all got one or two,
the unlucky ones,
let them move in

and the line tween and us
and them
damnably blurred past no return

addiction is a cumulative,
sometimes thing

in this usage
sometimes
means merely the occasional
seconds
of remorse self-disgust
tween gut busting need,
incautiously craving constant,
the pleasure of inexcusable overlooking,
permitting yourself
to be the child,
allowing oneself to be
forgetting and forgettable

in this usage
cumulative
means the pleasure of a thousand
pills, drinks, smokes,
so long ago
forgetting and forgettable,
nothing sticks and nothing stays
so that each hit, each drunk
is brand new
and

nothing
accumulates
except just tolerable enough
remorse and intolerable pain
that brings that
devil desire
who always wins the seventh race
riding a horse called
"just this once more"

and you write me:

"I wish I could be the sweet person
I wanted so desperately to be except... I'm not...
sadly, I feel your disappointment :("

Devils ain't so uncommon
we all got one or two,
the unlucky ones,
let them move in

so whom am I to judge,
assuage, forgive and overlook,
and never condemn
cause you do it almost
plenty enough
for yourself and
every addict on this tour bus

so I answer as follows:

*the only words that come to mind -

the children are owed

~~~
dedicated  to the three, who read this first
(S.B, J.A.,  & T.M.R.)
and know it all too well
~~~
more than ever presumed,
more than ever thought realizable,
indescribable attainable,
a modernizing magic powder,
synthesizing my intemperate body
~
at last, all ego falls away,
now but corn husk mulch,
detritus, non-toxic nuclear waste,
for growing better visions,
fruits undiscovered
~
write for me,
my recordings, my blog,
not to differentiate,
to substantiate,

to integrate

your gasps imagined,
mine realized,
exhalations upon lips grazing,
the soil of our rainforest
wetted by
living smiling,
eye droplets,
forming a singular stream
~
write for you,
sharing too close,
are you my first or second skin,
for there are no spaces
~
satisfaction discovered that is insatiable,
this pleasured seeing,
this pleasured sharing,
this poetic reason,
to exist

~~~
dear god, what you demand of me
is inhuman,
which is likely why
you demand it with
gleeful and gorgeous
word-worthy delicacies

walk forward to the small rise
overlooking the water,
the new cloud variation of this day's
particuliar peculiar moment,
a watercolor painting deserving
of the posterity of oil and
yet another poem...

raise my arms
half beseeching,
half grasping,
you color me every day
with your revisionist perfection
every day, nay,
verily each minute,
a new canvas revealed,
each an indie movie shown
but once,
then never again,
as seen from my reclining platform of soil,
kneeling on the crest of my sheltered home's soul

am compulsed, compelled,
addicted to finding new words
praiseworthy of a unique finger painting,
recombinant blue earth, soon turning, light green water,
all ring fenced
in the white ermine of a cloak of sand,
all worshipping alongside me,
the newborn sky of every moment,
majesty so nonpareil
that it chokes my tongue to silence,
hard slams shut my
desperately, deficient dictionary
to praise proper

yet every pore eager to share,
fall upon my naked knees,
as supplicant and mendicant both
to the majesty of this
particular minute's DNA
tasked to me to regift so pathetically

a man destined to fail,
who in advance knowing
unequal to the task,
grandeur impeccable,
in words henpecked,
mortal kernels of awesome and wow,
just don't cut it,
for this late afternoon tapestry of a
summer day's coronation,
it deserves far far better than this

the now multi-blue shaded water
wears tinkling diamond dust,
perhaps a piece of the sun's tiara
has gentle fallen to earth through
the puffs of Mistress Skye's
white, shift-shaping unceasingly changing
etchings

knocked to my knees,
gasping at the greenery on the far shore,
color contrasts from across the ocean,
raising the bar even further,
enfeebled by a chronic-need,
an aching desire
imprisoned in the right brain's stubborn will
to create,
to write down in words,
the glory of this workmanship

begging impolitely,
please oh please keep on testing me
this way,
so that I might
cry aloud my
failure in words,
just once more,
gleefully and gorgeously

for what,
for this,
dear god,
that you demand of me,

I thank you...

~~~

Shelter Island,
this moment,
this Michelangelo ceiling,
this
August 10th,
and days, years, centuries,
yet to come,
et en passant,
2015

~~~

"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"

Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"
~~~

just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here

~~~

when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best

when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered

yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters

no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now

for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout

old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain

this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve

this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing

you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound

~~~

August 9, 2015
Shelter Island

~~~

it as if I am blinded
by the perfection
of the moment

all sensors singly loaded,
yet interacting,
in a buckshot of common cause

my eyes suffused
by sun scattering rays uncovering a day's birth placenta gleaming
amidst the glaring shadows of the refuse of nature's yesterday's
discarded leavings

my eyes reversed,
unsuffused
as it they were a gift,
waiting all this time,
forgoing-opening until
just this moment

my ears suffused
by soft sounds and
swirling ripples of calm waters,
the wind teasing, saying,
move like me, but just so, barely,
the real sounds of the quietude heard
as if for the first time

my tongue tastes you,
wrested from my mind's eye, you are given,
in the everything, skin creme of lapping waves, in the everywhere,
uncovered from within the sun's own departing shadow

my smell
is the smell of life,
nostrils flaring expanding with no limit
to take it all in,
completing, unifying,
a puzzle that never was,
that is now forever solved

my hands fuse
the tingling of life given from wet dewy grass,
shiny and reflecting,
the roughness of the bark,
a natural protective coating,
combining soft caresses and confirming
the necessity of both

perfectly still
I sit amidst
the perfect stillness,
all movement unnecessary,
all my senses reach out and return as one,
bringing me presents of knowledge,
more than suffused, I too,
am trite but true,
dearest god, can it be true,
rebirthed, renewed

this ordinary day
is now extraordinary
solitary figure staring gaze steady,
a perfection ******,
impatient for the
suffusion fix
of this day, and the morrow

~~~

**August 6, 2015
Shelter Island