Art begat Art, Poetry births More (the only true perpetual motion)
by nat-lipstadt
One scrapes germinated seeds from
the odd places, every where words appear,
from a writ of yours, a message piece phrase
provokes, invokes, evokes,
and quick planted in a spare flower pot,
to rest, to blossom, all at their own good time…
those who create, create,
they do not play,
and their internal motion is perpetual,
till natural fuel of consciousness is exhausted
continuous creation never ceases,
only pauses, eyes dim, yet see,
the sturdy legs, carries you for decades,
till they say here, I rest,
no mas, no more, dayenu!
it is/was sufficient,
but art beats,
and you cannot stop
until even the heart surrenders
nearly true perpetual motion,
for the seed is a work, and a work
spits seeds that then need
their own tending
and others
come along,
provoked, evoked and invoke your planting,
and the color of newness populates,
and perpetuity becomes
eternal,
and art, holy in its way
<nml>
this concept was seeded to me
by Steve Reimer 11/23/25;
who creates, and
thus earns his survivorship