Nov 2018 onlylovepoetry
Nat Lipstadt
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
lovely
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

11/21/18
Miami
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafez, Iran 1320-1389);      (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)

- Hafez -                                 - Left Foot Poet-

“I have a                                  if only, in my meager posses,
thousand brilliant lies,          but one lie when easy asked
For the question:                    the simplest damning of,
How are you?                          are you generally happy?

I have a                                    what is *** you ask,
thousand brilliant lies.          no lies required,
For the question:                    many answers upon my face visible,
What is ***?                          unsure if any worthy of believing

If you think that the               8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known,              you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe

From words                             in the divinity of words

If you think that the                a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean,                 when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that            each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called                my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth,                                uttering a Cohen's hallelujah

O someone should                 So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing!                         and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start             for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"       
                            
                      
­                            unravel into a thousand laughs
hafez
Walked five miles to the sea today,
light snow falling on my shoulders,
only my footprints in white followed.
The old truck refused to start,
no choice but to walk, so strong
was my resolve, griped by grief.

I reached the shore, crossed the
***** low tide beach to the
waters edge.

No sounds but gulls and the
eternal roar of waves rolling in,
gently lapping around my feet.

It was here I intended an ending,
in the cold deep embrace of the
sea, waiting just steps away.

The sea, the sky, huge shape
shifting clouds, back lit by
a yellow ascending sun,
enduring and compelling,
beauty impossible to ignore.

How long I stood staring
I can not say, before at last
I turned my back on a
premature ending and
slowly walked away.
Depression and grief can cloud common
sense and reason, leading us to the edge
of even our own destruction,. This parable
an example to ponder. Grief can break us
if we let it. The darkness of the mind
overshadowed by the beauty of living.
  Oct 2018 onlylovepoetry
city of flips
he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:

“something he knows for sure,
no is no”

I, (19, f)

replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:

“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”

and he says

“yes, ma’am,”

returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots

I like this guy
I like this man.
  Sep 2018 onlylovepoetry
city of flips
cut it up shredded the letters
broke 'em apart

L

L   slashed it at its
mid-no-point of no return
just lying lines now
    
_
lying about dying nice and slowly

O

pierced the O
slices lying on their dead side
squeezed the juice out of me
returned the ***** my sweet favors
     (    )

V

got my vengeance
cut that loveless *****
smack in her pleasure punt point
no more pleasure for her
her wholey holes cheating me no more

\ /

E

extra special slicing n dicing
bled all over the street
after bleeding me all over me
twisted them into~ ~ twisted ****
just like it twisted me.

you want to say it plain?
pleasure.
the love ***** is dead
_
~
|    --
     ~    '

LOVE

cut that ***** love
up good

cut it out
of my body
now it's dead
just like it
done to me
somewhere between the fourth and fifth
load of laundry
sometime after breakfast~lunch, now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company

the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs refilling
for the fridge has decided not to help by automatically refilling the pitcher,
and I,
besides,
need two hands and teeth
for folding
sheets

my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap

“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able”


with select-led fingers he lays me down,
bids me to slow sleep, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands on my *******,  
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s ****
and her daddy’s eyes and mind

there, is where, they find us, dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 6pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own
nap-ster master

<•>

p.s.  and they call me by my other name
to wake me,
momma
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