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  Sep 2024 Poetoftheway
Nat Lipstadt
Poems
1706 published / 43 drafts / 14 hidden


no matter how much spillage of
inspired words are perspired
into poetic
existence,
new ideas push themselves
to the top of the line,
with every eyelash
flutter to falling,
so there seems
always a restless but consistent cohort of
43 draftees
in my lipstadt persona
(one among so many)
inescapably
demanding,
like a dentist happiest
when commencing to
drill you in to submission
but smiling since
the novocaine
hasn’t fully…


that when
a poem,
even a  new tooth
is c r e a t ed
in the gum of you,
seed~ed but not fully form~ed,
somehow
a new title is
auto~entitled,
whisked into
a never cold cup of
“what’s next.”
a laundry line
of the great
washed
but needy
for drying out,
not yet ready
for prime time

thus this
never endingness
is one more
perpetual eternal,
a cousin to
gravity

a direct order to be
born/resolved/loved/
only to be sent away
with a firm loving
push
with
no word of
farewell

(and not forgetting
to mention the thousand
of half breeds,
started, left
writ incomplete,
in my official
cemetery
a/ka
my actual draft file)
all true

6:17am
9/18/24
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
“This world was once a fluid haze of light,
Till toward the centre set the starry tides,
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast
The planets:
”then the monster, then the man”

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Princess”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Princess”
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
Perhaps
you divined
everything, each word,
is musically inserted
in the bonds tween us

Them
those
poems that untie with
shoelace knots so quick
reveling, seeing her bare back,
is but a bridge over waters
that demands crossing,
for a mid-way joining

When the night is dark,
trembling, each, we stand
by each other, tumble &
fall where we stand

Anyone can see, our unique
trinity, the admixture of
she-me-us, as we untwine
rolling downwards
on a staircase to Heaven,

Nothing makes me wonder
  more; she is east, smoothie~polished,
  me rough hewn from cacti
  and dusty dirt, the only thing
  polished is the tune, sung to her,
  much practiced, strummed upon
  her cheeks, hummed into her soul

If
I had a box of wishes,
  they would each be a
  song that we sing, that
   made angels cry
you should be able to divine
exactly which songs were heard
while scribbling this
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
“Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,  
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet”
~~~
from
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4871833/sewn-to-the-pages-of-my-life/
by

Vienna's Bombardieri

~~~~~

it is not a total rarity,
but not an impossiblty,
that one of yours
scripts feels
that it has been ripped
from mine eyes,
necessitating a gasping grasping of me as
if her Vienna words,
like stout hands,
squeeze my already
constricted throat to close in entirety

near ceasing my breathing

<>
for the writing comes easy,
add a page daily, sewing neat stitches,
smooth connecting linear designs
but the book
never finishes, and Wonder
if this unending is
a knelling death mark of Cain,
that my mythology resonates,
boasts of no resolution

this possibility previous unconsidered
now seen as a likely vision
and do not comprehend how to
feel
becoming
a page in a book,
to attic directed,
boxed for the
eventuality of removal by the
1-800-GOT-JUNK
a very busy institution
and put my shriveled fingertips down
in contemplation of
my erasure
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
this,  their-poem, emitting their call-sign,
those who once checked the box
of in love..a status of joyful revelation,
for all to see, all passerby’s, all witnesses
to the outstanding glowing skin,
the perms-frozen half smiles that
never are erased, you secret it not
so much,
for your body entire expels
the scent secreted of a world
in orbit
around
each other

then the unexplainable, threads go worn,
a slower tearing, one by one, till there
is not one, nary more any, you then
check the invisible box,
“not in a relationship”
and it feels like
a load has
been dropped onto you
from on high, flattened,

now cloaked in a demeanor
that cries out
they
put a load
right on me,
and you seek
excuses to recall ecstasy and

you start dancing to forget,
like a centrifugal whirlpool’s vortex,
whipping up the air surrounding

to heat a forgetting, till the until,
of collapsing shame offers up
arms to drown you, a relief offering,
and the words to “Yesterday”
are everywhere
reverberating


walking down the street
a somebody smiles to at, just,
for you,
without cause,
but a causal triggering
a singular event,

just a smile with edged up corners,
and suddenly you feet golightly,
and inexplicably inextricably
in the moment it is
all you can see,
and one starts to dance
to well
remember

and a poem
forms upon your silently moving
lips,
and a dance to remember
is finished,
starts up
a new one,
with similar familiar steps
a dance to believe  in~

and laugh when
you say your name

out loud

you!

are the poet of the way,
a new word choreographer


and there will be a way,
always another way…
Still unwritten not quite, filled in
every word has pinned itself to story  
like a sewing machine stitch
down a runway path to somewhere;
Turning points and zig zag threading
let the seams tell of the glory
Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,  
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet, ...

Until a dried rose gets pressed
against the pages of my life,
my eulogy stands told
in this book, of life.
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