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 Jul 2023 SE Reimer
Nat Lipstadt
~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal

<>

see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…

our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar

how I love the how-work of it;  how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness

we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children

in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting

it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it

for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by

the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains
us






6/25/23
 Jun 2023 SE Reimer
Nat Lipstadt
My third attempt to commemorate Joel Frye.

News arrived Mid-May, found me far from home,
found me shock-gasping in a hotel room,
on the wrong coast,
though he sort-of-warned-warned,
about a month earlier, I misunderstood his subsequent
silence, thus it caught me unawares, unprepared,
and strangely grasping for proper comprehension
and the right words, that usually come so quickly,
even too easy~quick, when one’s emotions are
running fast, like a springtime Northwest mountain stream

Imagine a conversation of nine year’s duration,
one of a number forged in the iron-y of poetry,
a most
genteel art.

I found his words above in a comment on a poem (1)
of mine, writ in 2015; the subject, so apropos, to be
ever gentle to thy words.

Our dialogue and mutual admiration lives on and survives,
for bonds forged ex-the world of poetry, but more so,
in real deeds and deals and realized poems come true.

We never met.

Not unusual for an on-line community, where the social, literate
media can foster a closeness surpassing the normative
standard need of the physical,
which nonetheless the absence of that touch is now
deep regretted.


But Joel do not be concerned!

Your words will live with others, as per your desire.

This my promise, this my premise:
A debt of brotherhood that will be,
must be, paid in full.

So let’s begin…shall we…

~~~~

Joel Frye Sep 2015

Friends

Some for a reason,
some for a season; even
lifetimes come and go.
All things are transitory.  Doesn't mean I have to like it.

<>
(1j
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1425812/oh-poet-be-ever-gentle-to-thy-words/
Investment Principles:
Staying the course,
your owned love
will not fail you
~~~~


Staying the course means going against your own emotions at times.

when weeping is easier than squaring the jaw, gritting teeth

Staying the course means thinking and acting for the long term even when it doesn’t feel right in the short-term.

lost loving, when the other walks away, and being brave is
the only path, brace, and excise that stooped shoulder, stand straight!


Staying the course means preparing not predicting.

predict only that hope is eternal, perpetual and maybe, just,
around the corner


Stay the course means doing nothing when that’s what your plan calls for.
~~~
steady the breathing,
ok, now! wipe the tears,
be resolved that once tasted,
love, is human, though inimitable,
and your sunrises will return inevitable
and the return on investment unbelievable
6/22
actual wise principle of investing
 Jun 2023 SE Reimer
Where Shelter
Silver Beach: Always the Sole First

familiar white fishing boat, up with early light,
seeking sustenance and pleasure in = measure,
anchored ‘bout quarter mile east of my under-the-coverlet,
(of course! as the crow, raven or scavenging osprey flies),
it’s precise location amazingly exact, but alas, soon daily
familiarity breeds no secrecy, and now joined by a
farther out, smaller version, a compatriot in spotitude,
of the best spots for harvesting the early running
brackish bay water favorites, striped or black sea bass

what persistent fortitude these fisher-peoples display,
early to rise, first to depart, when others crowd its “spot,”
(amazed by its knowing precision the exactitude of “spot”)
this ship, always the sole-first, invokes a first poem of the day,
always a soul-first, an unburdening of deepest gratitude that
one more day granted me to imbibe this vista, awake to its
soothing silent heavenly serenity, absent machine or
electronic interference with my delicate sleepy wakefulness,
when newly minted words come into my mind, my
secret spot



Sat AM June 3
 Apr 2023 SE Reimer
Nat Lipstadt
<>

the thought is oft on my mind that all the poets here, I hold so dear,
that if we ne’er to meet in flesh & warmth of physical embrace,
that the nuances of our affections should be in someway marked by a lessening, a discoloration, be it be know then that our colors mutuel
will yet be be enhanced by

the colors of divine light,

this real light,
but invisible to the human naked eye’s limited spectrum,
this light fills the “unnamed, unmanned spaces between us;”

although we may not knowingly vision each other,  
we may envision-know the
sensate glow from the warmth of each other’s blood coursing
blue in vein and artery,  
with the aid of divine light,
trace each others faces with colorizing,
memorizing fingertips,
creating a seared retained memory;

the hues of theses impossible colored, rays that cannot be
optically ascertained, yet, we can understand them, in the same manner we mortals understand the divine presence,
invisible but ever present
in ways more real than, well, as real as any other mundane way
Inspired by Patrik Reuterswärd's 1971 essay, "What Color Is Divine Light?" and the art of Anne Lindberg's installations, both a  response to an
unanswerable question
that yet answers and speaks to me

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Divine_light

What colors are invisible light?

However, there are other “colours” that our eyes can't see, beyond red and violet, they are: infrared and ultraviolet. Comparing these pictures, taken in these three “types of light”, the rainbow appears to extend far beyond the visible light.

April 2023
NYC, Washington, D.C.
 Jan 2023 SE Reimer
Nat Lipstadt
my hidden shames

are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
 mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.

But they will someday
make an excellent poem.

Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here

———————————————————-

the askew

are  my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.

a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,

and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery,  by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each  
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.

no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .

a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.

But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.

7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-

morning prayers are
always
a trilogy

the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.


7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
 Nov 2018 SE Reimer
harlon rivers
Remains of the summer
sunlight drip out,
entomb'd in raindrops
from the prevailing
gray beclouded skies
Memories of joy
bathed in sunlight
unravel like a wind
frayed kite dancing
above a day at the beach

Soaring seagulls ponder
all thousand feet of kite string
tied to a hidden bliss below —
hurtling through
the shapeless heavens
tethered to refreshed
dreams still lingering
within an untamed
child of the wind

Morning falls
from  the  trees
in whispers
of golden sorrow
The damp chilled air
smells fresh as the traces
of heaven's cleansing rain —
befallen drop  by  drop,
each plash counted
from an angel weeping,
splattering the broken silence
all  through the night.

An inflamed montage
of leaves surrender
all this unholdable lifeline
we  ever  know;
blanketing the fields
of  autumn's tawny  grass —
Sowing a mosaic colored
reclamation  reposed
atop a nascent green,
soon enrobed by impending
winter’s pallid slumbering hues

The darkening hush
imbues a shadowing
fugitive peacefulness
bathed in wind river eddies
of autumn’s blessing rains

harlon rivers
November 3, 2018

"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 Nov 2018 SE Reimer
Pagan Paul
.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.




© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)
.
My brain is still on meltdown :(
.
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