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dedicated to all the better poets here...*


don't know much about a quatrain
don't know how to write a refrain,
surely could not compose a
courtyard elegy
maybe after
and still untilled,
I been buried,
'n checked out
the neighborhood competition...

as for limerick,
that is Dr. Seuss
and Ogden Nash's shtick
with whom, eye,
a believed descendant,
cannot compete...

Oh dear me,  
no ode node-ed within,
as for a pastoral,
kinda hard to feat,
where I live,
a pastoral is grass cracks
surviving under,
breaking through to the other side
of concrete and blacktop rulers

Maybe one of you
will haiku,
send us a senryu,
send off, see ya!

the doc once diagnosed
a severe case of inflamed iambic pentametery,
with antibiotics and a diet of Hamletery,
was cured most satisfactorily

this silly pen-man-sinking-ship
ain't capable of dat,
boy how 'bout
an epitaph
for a graveyard stone,
should be plenty of room...
as it will be plenty short...

all eye see and all eye know
is vignettes that birth in me
walking down the street,
that's my bread and butter,
my soul's delicacies...
and moments that recorded
here, for a posteriored posterity,
as noted in my all my living
testaments,
drinking and spilling the vin,
from the uninvented igniting vignettes
that consecrate and connect our
knowing each other though odds are
we will never meet...we can yet
drink together
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Don't know much about the French I took.
But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me, too,
What a wonderful world this would be."
eyes eye eye ** ** ** ha ha ha
~for SPT~
whose poems transform with lovingness

~~

*distinguishing, extinguishing,
the knowledges to retain,
reuse daily, mightily,
pleasures insights beloved,
honored with the stripes of daily use

then there are,
the knowledges to retrain,
non-removable, rising up from your
edges
of the very fine line
tween
pain and experience

they must Main Street remain,
be thankful for that,
for love regained,
needs the benchmark
of having lived love,
the loss of loss when recalled,
when new gets a turn, reinstalled,
is now twice sweeter
8:14 am
Nov. 1, 2015
nyc/nml

~~~
SPTSPT
7 hours ago
Scar
I need something other than food to keep me calm to take my mind off I need something other than drugs to keep me here and free from harm I need something other than people to know I'll be ok I need to know there is a god one at times I'm willing to die for to ask him why for if I fear to be alive why lord can I not die..if live is to remember to what love I had surrendered was only taken to dip my hands in death..why then do you take my breath only to give it back.. Is it to remember as I do to live in shame of fear to nothing but his humbling way... I'll never understand
Nat Lipstadt     3 hours ago

your answer to my caring but simple "checking in with you" inquiry, overwhelmed me and I have required days to fully comprehend the textured life of a man who see everything in color combinations that deserve recording in whatever medium his heart chooses. Time was needed, time to summon up the courage to reply with smithy-crafted, wright-shaped words that honor your honed skill.

my heart is gladdened by your inescapable ability (no, you cannot escape it) to perceive the values of life external and internal, that make your poetry a symbolic representation of all that is fine in the most aweome title that one can award ones self, human.

I am well aware that life has never given you a flush in the cards you were dealt. Nonetheless in e v e r y word you have written you have betrayed yourself as a loving man, appreciative of nature's gifts, and reenforcing them with fresh perspectives.

i make no pretense anymore; all poetry writing is a personal ledger kept, by which we daily, almost constantly, measure ourselves and record the small moments that sum up who we were, are and who we desire yet to be. Thus, indifference by others, no matter why, oft leads to a misleading sense of lesser self worth.

I well recall years ago reading your poetry here and ******* air in gulps as I basked in your lush attentiveness to the world in which we co-exist.
I even praised myself, by keeping your company.

You do not seek praise for self, but our shared gods have made our paths cross, so that like Abraham arguing with God not to destroy the evil cities of ***** and Gemorrah, if he can but find even just ten worthy men, so do I pray to anything, anyone, anywhere, I pray, if almost for selfish reasons, that your urge to write, to share, to see beyond the loveliest surfaces of our world and let others rest upon them, and to gift them to an almost,  undeserving  but needy world, never finds the Isle of Surcease.

If one man presses his claims upon the scales that judge your life, then all the weight of worth I load upon one side, in your favor, to beg you, let this single man's devotion to your cause, living with all the good and the sad that is therein contained, be sufficient to persuade that you must never suffer easily the delusion that your poetry is lacking  in any manner to prevent your sharing.

If not here,
then tell me where we can find each other's "instant messages" of recorded moments, that you uniquely supply.

I cannot ever obtain a good understanding of your perfect storm of the last seven years, but what you shared here and in every word you have ever writ, like my prayer here and the ones I have yet to utter, let them all, letter by letter, rise thru and up like the mists of dawn, travel gently upon the slow currents of our rivers, to reach you well received and by any deity,  willing to let us lend a hand.

Re demons, we defeat them or at least negate them, even temporarily through writing. Another reason to share your work, if even one sole solitary reader, gasps for air when reading you, if but one sheds tears at the human kindness you to continue to disclose in the quilt of quality of your works, to lift one soul's weighted-down heart, you have to, must,
feel obligated to share.

I have no more words to plead, so I will arrogant demand of you to accept this one fan, one devotee, one lover of your skill at capturing and then releasing, your words ever glow in this man's essence, as both necessary and sufficient.

forever yours,

nml
My message to another poet whose work was simply magnificent, but who has ceased to post and woefully, has deleted too many...

October 23, 2015

5:30 am
The Red Queen Believes!



~~~
The Red Queen,
in her youth,
believed in as many as
six impossible things
before breakfast
~~~
The Old Poet,
in his embered tinder, yellowing days,
believed in as many as
six possible poems
before breakfast
~~~
Nov. 5, 2015
Brooklyn, NY
7:25 pm
~~~

the wind of correction

*those invisible currents
for which we create labels
like most everything,
comes in shades of vagaries,
colorations of fierce and gentil

some bear the names of hurricanes,
gale forces, and those, the knotted stiff ones,
welcomed by man's power mills and sailing ships,
and the softest of summer breezes,
caressers of my isle sheltered,
for which I must winter~survive,
that have far too short a half-live,
those summer winds that rejuvenate my sinking soul

but the wind that gets no acclaim,
is the wind behind us that straightens the hunched,
the wind that has no illustrations of its un-famous name,
'tis the wind of correction
that lifts
the wings of the becalmed,
the bewitched, and the downtrodden,
the one that lifts chin from chest,
the one that energizes,
cures the curvature of our spines
to make us sally forth, clear eyed and optimistic,
leaving behind the residue of debris of destruction

when blown off course, be patient,
for a course correction by a kinder kindred force
will set you aright, push you into flight.,
for this wind comes to everyone,
someday, sometime

you do not know the wind of correction?

unfamiliar where and when it blows?

perhaps you call it something else?

I have heard it said,
that its other,
more
correct,
truer name is
love
For TMR
In the deep world of my thoughts.
I think of you by my side.
In the realms of reality,
we are separated by a see full of tide.

How can the distance merge,
and we, together, have a life.
Time to spend,  moments to live,
no more distances to appear alive.

May be we are meant to be abstract,
the intangible form of love.
May be,  we are the ghosts,
ghosts for each other,  always hidden
behind the tangible love.

Is fate to blame?
Or should we blame the God?
So perfect and yet distant,  isn't that odd?
We can cry for a why
or just accept the design.
We could strive against the gap,
and love each other
till we die*.
Tonight the moon  isn't beautiful anyhow.
Tonight the dark has stolen the show.
The bright light is just demorphing the infinite  dark.
Tonight the light is just one ugly mark.
The dark holds the peace in it .
and the light is full of discord.
Darkness holds the beauty tonight.
It is defeating the light without any fight* .
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