Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2015
A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life

this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching

write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
ofΒ Β the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth

sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?

a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true

let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded

if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment

even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:

Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.

High near 65.

what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?

this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis

there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body

weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution

these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:

for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?

October 1, 2015
but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,

this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
Nat Lipstadt
Written by
Nat Lipstadt  M/nyc
Please log in to view and add comments on poems