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Questions from tomorrow
I can answer only neurally
When pressed hard
For answers unknown today
You hurt me.
Give all an option
To say yes or no,
Neurally.
2015 June
Impure is my mind,
The gnawing desires,
Unfulfilled, weakening neurally
My being, second by second.
Not millions of them
A dozen, may be.
Whom can I disclose,
Gripped with fear,
Of getting trapped
For lives?
2015 September 21
Nat Lipstadt May 2015
one more for five year old Ian*

he is the little boy, on an
I-don't-want-to-go road trip,
yet inside happily,
pretense outward poutingly,
yet he is nosed pressed straining onto window,
so hard, it's window marked, stain leaving,
absorbing, being absorbed by the fresh
flowing of air currents of new scenery

little boys of beauty,
of beauty,
what do they know?

life is action figures,
videos and toons,
colors vivid but manufactured,
daddy hanging them upside down,
coloring books less than quaint,
few museums bid then enter...
how do they learn what needs
remembering, celebrating...
differentiating tween mundane profane and profound...

some say there are pleasure chems,
the brain releases when the
San Fran sun contacts all flesh,
when California coast surf
beckons claiming splashing
and attention demanding,
when nature offers up
mountain trails that insist
one of any age climb her offerings,
to make them "ours,"
if ever so briefly,.

to be map marked upon
cerebral tissues and
leave the boy and the vistas
neurally connected perpetually

of these matters, I,
no certainty possess,
though I well recall
my nose in that windowed position,
the clarity of Atlantic Rockaway
fresh salt breezes
entering, being stored inside
my five year old brain cloud,
so it could be true
what all the grandmothers
claim!

but this know with soul surety,
there are few things
more beautiful
than a five year old boy,
inhaling the passing scenery,
redding his cheeks even more rosy...

he, a painting, forever stored,
summonable with a single blink
of my mind's eye,
perhaps this is how
he will indeed learn too...

May 16, 2015
Photo by Marsha Guggenheim
http://www.guggenheimphotography.com/
Graff1980  Nov 2020
Untitled 579
Graff1980 Nov 2020
I cannot seem to write
without rhyming.

It is not a simple matter
of timing
but has become
my mental wiring.

I find other
non-rhyming
poets so inspiring
so deeply
neurally
firing,
sparking
inspiration.

But my brain
has lost the ability
to make any poetry
without playing with
rhymes.
Graff1980  Jun 2018
Untitled
Graff1980 Jun 2018
He is an old
cold clod,
clay killer,
a muddy faced foe
of late
who I learned to hate;

Neurally neutered
by a network
of morally bankrupted
rich men
who tell him
what to think,

nervous and jittery,
a solvable mystery
that bothers me
because the enigma
could be easily
adjusted to improve
all of our lives.

Yet, he remains oblivious.
With a silvery shank of
stale ignorance
he stabs the very core of me,
promoting the gory,
and proactive expansion
of humanity’s worse traits.

A sea of sickness spreads
the black bile and poison of
oppression, sexism,
greed, bigotry,
and the intentional
obfuscation
truth.

— The End —