for you
put my poems up on a shelf,
summer fruits transmogrified
into winter jelly and jam preserves,
not for now, not for know,
but to be come-backed to in
our latter days of forgotten maybe sainthood
two years.
two years here.
two years composing, decomposing.
many more, from before, lost in sands.
poems came from my mind's ******
most water birthed right here, in this bed,
many water birthed right next to a sleeping her,
delivered in the middle of the night,
jes like this one,
this anthology of me.
these poems, my resting,
living will,
my only bequeath
of valorem value
to two children
the only global survivors left living
to bear their father's father,
and my father's
name.
barely old enough to read,
they are, will be,
my one true audience.
older aging dismisses and diminishes
the poetic urge, like eyesight, hearing
and ****** appetite, it's work and gone
the days of five poem days of
love making, **** bursting
flicker over, over.
saving my letters and pennies and
poems here, caught for now
by a porous net
that so far,
HP has not let any slip through
hopefully
it redefines the word
perpetual
for here they will lie buried,
my summer preserves,
with no use-by,
no expiration date,
long after the one my physic owns,
long time passed,
long time coming...
perhaps two children
will stumble upon
their bequest
and be pleasured
with their inheritance.
Two years ago I entered with
an ineffable amen,
silently marking the confluence of cries,
Oklahoma tornado taking of children,
Bangladeshi factory ****** collapse,
men killing men in the name of God,
and
***the birth of the younger of
those two grandchildren.***
these poems are
my body
my flesh,
the wine-blood,
the ingredients of
all our prior ancestor's resurrection,
kept in the cloud of human cells
mine only by initializing authorship,
they are no longer mine,
the authorship transferred
free of gift and estate tax takings
to the next of kin and all future generations.
Nat Lipstadt
May 18th, 2015
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
for you
put my poems up on a shelf,
summer fruits transmogrified
into winter jelly and jam preserves,
not for now, not for know,
but to be come-backed to in
our latter days of forgotten maybe sainthood
two years.
two years here.
two years composing, decomposing.
many more, from before, lost in sands.
poems came from my mind's ******
most water birthed right here, in this bed,
many water birthed right next to a sleeping her,
delivered in the middle of the night,
jes like this one,
this anthology of me.
these poems, my resting,
living will,
my only bequeath
of valorem value
to two children
the only global survivors left living
to bear their father's father,
and my father's
name.
barely old enough to read,
they are, will be,
my one true audience.
older aging dismisses and diminishes
the poetic urge, like eyesight, hearing
and ****** appetite, it's work and gone
the days of five poem days of
love making, **** bursting
flicker over, over.
saving my letters and pennies and
poems here, caught for now
by a porous net
that so far,
HP has not let any slip through
hopefully
it redefines the word
perpetual
for here they will lie buried,
my summer preserves,
with no use-by,
no expiration date,
long after the one my physic owns,
long time passed,
long time coming...
perhaps two children
will stumble upon
their bequest
and be pleasured
with their inheritance.
Two years ago I entered with
an ineffable amen,
silently marking the confluence of cries,
Oklahoma tornado taking of children,
Bangladeshi factory ****** collapse,
men killing men in the name of God,
and
***the birth of the younger of
those two grandchildren.***
these poems are
my body
my flesh,
the wine-blood,
the ingredients of
all our prior ancestor's resurrection,
kept in the cloud of human cells
mine only by initializing authorship,
they are no longer mine,
the authorship transferred
free of gift and estate tax takings
to the next of kin and all future generations.
Nat Lipstadt
May 18th, 2015
May 18th, 2013
Ineffable (More Tornado Prayers and Such)
Ineffable: Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words; Too sacred to be uttered.
-------------------------–-------—-------------------------------------------------------------
The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent
amen.
The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,
to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.
But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst
to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.
~~~~~
The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...
(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)
to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.
These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,
to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.
Ineffable.
A day, just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.
I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection
On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.
to which we cannot say nor think
anything.
Ineffable.
too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these unuttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.
*Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,
silently.*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/374302/ineffable-more-tornado-prayers-and-such/
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