God took my soul
This morning.
In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.
I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.
All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.
Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.
So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.
*Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,
In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.
You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.
Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.
It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.
Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.
Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.*
~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
God took my soul
This morning.
In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.
I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.
All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.
Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.
So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.
*Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,
In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.
You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.
Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.
It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.
Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.
Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.*
~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013
Nat Lipstadt · Jul 27
Why I Always Carry Tissues (the poem I love the best)
To My Children:
I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.
There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.
When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.
Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.
It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.
Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.
But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.
These days, they, more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back,
Then looking ahead.
No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable, of snatching away your tears.
When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.
These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the archi-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And spills on concrete,
That needed knees to be complete.
That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.
The scheme is clear, even if my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket, keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...
Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.
If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...
2008
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