betterdays (read the new poets March 2014)
by nat-lipstadt
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well