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Nat Lipstadt Mar 2019
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy

~~~

the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none

~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”

“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”

“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word  wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life

“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
                                                         ­­ of the vaguest of dearly departed

skin is not the only mot shed,
                                                sloughing of woeful words

“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
excerpts from a few old poems, after reading an interview with Bernard-Henri Lévy
https://www.newyorker.com/news/q-and-a/bernard-henri-levy-on-the-rights-of-women-and-of-the-accused
March 27, 2019 4:48 am
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2017
•<>•
the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages,
scar of pleasure, a forehead Cain mark, scarlet letter of pride,
for this reliving of our stories retelling is the skipped beat
of our connection not born from practical reason,
but from truths we own equally and though reason says
mine, it is not, it is only to be yours when the sharing
resonates resonates resonates resonates resonates
and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork
in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with
the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit


                                          July 4th, 2017
                                                •<>•

"If you spend enough time reading or writing, you find a voice, but you also find certain tastes. You find certain writers who when they write, it makes your own brain voice like a tuning fork, and you just resonate with them. And when that happens, reading those writers … becomes a source of unbelievable joy. It’s like eating candy for the soul."
And I sometimes have a hard time understanding how people who don’t have that in their lives make it through the day.
David Foster Wallace
July 4th 2017 10:45am
Shelter Island
fearfulpoet Mar 2019
Why they call me the fearful poet! (The Razor Thin Difference)

”but who am I to complain
the  razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin,
sometimes are they not, the same thing”

Aug. 2018

~~~

this familiar line, well traversed, lives on the maps
sketched indented on your palms and brow,
at the edges of the crow’s nests, the eye’s keyboard witnesses,
recording every stroke

we tap in seeings, forming letters,
letters into lines, lines into verse,
as we alliterate, we walk unawares,
of the razor thin difference tween blessings and curse,
indiscernible until concluded, perhaps, not even then,
the stanza’s probable outcome,
always unsure, unknowing destiny’s decision

so we walk, tread, plumb, shoutout
“vive la difference,”
hoping the blessing messengers hear us first,
consummating our pleas on their favorable sight & side,
ever fearful, we do not shout loud enough,
do the blind hear,
need me, possess my sacrificial offerings,
my trepidations, burnt on the Temple’s altar

who will breathe their smoke and understand
their fearful origins?

so we-write, cajole that our every moment’s fear,
find the difference, that we don’t bleed from life’s razoring,
the thinner thinnest
needle threaded,

and fear is the threat,
and fear is the thread,
that holds me together


until the unraveling
requires me to write again,
the fearful poet
3/21/19 4:15 am
Chikamso Okoye Jun 2018
.
Oh! wicked vicious blindness,
pleasant part of darkness,
Softly called sightlessness.
Your symbol is blackness,
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
Bearing the least resemblance of white,
Stagger and stumble becomes ultimate,
Best friend turns to be the dark night,
Lightlessness's the only thing you await.
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
The very moment they become blind,
Then, sight declined, death affined.
they begin to see the never seen,
For them, the seeings go no theme.
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
My only saviour is the Ear,
No ground for delight in ******,
why?. Sorrow is all I hear,
In both physical and spiritual.
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
Hello! To all the sightless fellow,
Known and Unknown in sorrow.
With you, I do feel the pain,
With Maker, we'll break the chain.
And the lightning sight, we'll regain.
.
To hell with the wicked, vicious Blindness..
.
Okoye Chikamso (Mr_Focus)
.
Neda Zeidieh Sep 2014
I tend to flip the pillow on its cold side,
the side that wakes me up,
and the cold tingle startles me at every flip.
the side that keeps me awake
once that cold sticky feeling has gone
with warmth it has been replaced
so i switch again
back to that cold sticky feeling
where i seem to find peace
where my eyes stay open
again and again i switch sides
until  no energy is left
conserved within my weak body
i wearily close my heavy eyes
and what i feared had started to happen
once again
-of you i started to dream-
yet on my mind you weren't all day
through my thoughts
once, you hadn't passed
yet you managed
to sneak into my dreams
to get rid of your presence there i must
but always
after i awake
from these odd seeings
i catch myself
smiling :)
to stop dreaming of you i cant, although the long days of thinking of you have been long over
David Hasselblad May 2019
Cosmic Ball

Dressed in a suit of pinstripe stars,
He’s discussed war and played chess with Mars,
Far, in foreign solar systems,
He chuckles with their planetary distortion,
He’s gambled for the diamonds of Neptune,
Bowled infinite starlit lanes with Jupiter,
Witnessed sacred scry’s and change from Saturn,
Witnessed lies, severed ties,
Much he has seen, he who walks starlit skies,
Martini’s of primordial soup,
With a scoop of star,
Shared in lieu of chaos, with Venus,
Knocking back a few, so far,
He’s raced Mercury around the sun,
Every lap done, feeling victory, whether he’s lost or won, praises they sung, harmony rung,
He’s sat on the surface of Sol, sunglasses dawned,
Other then growth and to learn he has no defined goal,
Just playing a role,
Breaking energetic chains,
And immortal bars,
He slow dances with a myriad of stars,
Celestial bodies of divine will, power, grace,
Orbiting around him in suits, silk, suede nylon and lace,
All dancing to a distant interstellar song,
A long distant echo of light,
A throng of stars creating the constellations mighty heights,
A universe locked in constant cosmic push and pull,
Never empty, never full,
He reflects, riding the back of a wild cosmic bull,
Riding back to mother, back to varied perspectives of what is true,
Back to a planet of green and blue,
Till the next invitation come queue,
To another night in primordial stew of sights and seeings,
Another quaint Ball with fantastic cosmic beings..
A Lone  Oct 2020
losing
A Lone Oct 2020
All your future days are looking bleak and tragic
All your choices made have been wreaking havoc
You never let a drop of pain seethe this fabric
Life's driven you crazy and you ain't reaching traffic
The way you eats erratic you're only feeding habits
If they only knew how the thoughts that sneak in ravage
So if you ain't in hell why do you grieve in ashes?
Maybe the answer I need to be seeking's drastic
I desire a rest from battle
Life has me stressed and rattled
Is it chains or change that's left you shackled
There's only one answer why you're at best a hassle
My body just isn't finding energy
There's no winning a fight where your minds the enemy
Your eyes betray you where you're blind to inner peace
Everything tells you you're consigned to misery
Slashed by how your demons have clawed and sleep's a facade, i can solve both by just not breathing at all
I aint beating the odds or even keeping with God, im defeated and flawed, all im seeings a fraud
Fallen to a place where you're loathing yourself
And in turn you ain't ask or even hoping for help
you're the only one to ask where your smile has been
Ida been one wealthy lawyer with all the trials I'm in
Picture my life and the candids are trying
There's no situation you've managed to smile in
You don't handle it well as the damage is piling
It's become more obvious what your antics are hiding
There's been none before but this man is an island
So I have a place to vanish for silence
You blame yourself cuz you can't blame who's broken your bonds
Cuz everyone sees there's no pros in this Con
There's a reason all who've seen you open are gone
If you ain't on thin ice, you've frozen the pond
Why must I question if You heard me above
The only thing i do well is worry enough
Life is a test and the easiest question to answer is why I'm not and never been worthy of love
You feel your backs packed still you hated the lesson
There's no strength that can lift the weight of depression
Is it hubris or is it stupid you can't abate it's progression
Maybe you can't cut your ties to a fate of repression
God may as well send you to Hell you're not worthy to save
you're better forgotten, you see they've bought in to no mercy or grace
You're a failure i can tell you're only here to undermine
Father throw me to the darkness You won't get this son to shine
all i called my rocks watched me find the bottom too
Tell me what im good for besides bringing solemn moods
I think I've already found the deepest pit to fall into
I am just a burden so gift them with my solitude
How often I hope for these omens to spare me
Vagaries on all which you want broken and buried
i am aware the notion is scary
I'm still hoping but barely.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
THE LIGHT VANISHES

Summer had suddenly
gotten old.

Shadows nibbled at the light
limping along by an orchard wall

biting it
to the bone.

The light seemed to wince.

An apple fell to the ground
as if on cue.

Forever seemed somehow
shrunken.

Time withdrew into itself.

The house was talking
to the wind

in its creaky old voice about
the this of that and the that of this.

The wind saying nothing now.
Keeping sthum.

Inside... a book
lay asleep upon a table

waiting to be awoken
by a child's hand.

The words now
allruntogetherbit

ready to jump back
into their proper places

take up their position.
when called upon.

Even the pterodactyl
had its eyes shut tight

in the drawing of it
on page 42

flying in pre-historic
black and white.

I was amazed to find
I owned

all these aunts and uncles
that were all mine!

I even had a cute cousin
called Mary Frances who

always made me
smile.

A mottled mirror
had flung itself upon a floor

scattering itself here & then
there in a loud "oNo!"

Still showing the world
its face

in many tiny
little seeings

that could
draw blood.

I breathed the summer in.
I breathed the summer out.

I would never again be
as old as I was now.

It was the last time
I was 9.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 23
A Dyad of Love…

<>

for my friend, Poetoftheway,
whose love stories
chipped this one off the
stoneface of ancien memories..

<>

The dyad definition is the close relationship of two people over a long period with many interactions in different settings. The most basic requirement for dyad sociology is that there are two members of the group. The dyadic communication definition pertains to how the two group members interact with each other.

<>
What business is this!

Curmudgeon crusty old man,
go back to bed, it’s early morn,
and you’ve got no business, any more,
writing of trances of love dyads!


the vague recall of the vagaries
of complete surrender to a state
of captivity, a single star of devoted
adoration ‘of the lovers, by the lovers,
for the lovers,’ which ties us up
helpless, forming bonds that crazy
stretch in ways that cannot be but are,
these recollections bare~remembered,
of driving through the night, to capture
one more moment of love~light~night, before life’s
necessity imposed an unthinkable, a
separate conscious that made the
chest groan out loud with alternating
currents of elation and a loss, that
collapses and coalesces and grows
beyond unbearable…

no reason to step back to that dyad,
when the world was defined by sideways
glances that thrilled, oh my god, all
control lost, every sonnet, every song
on the radio was written

exclusively

for your telescopic universe of
microscopic mutual gravity

and you two misspell words with unconscious
rapport, soul and sole used side by side
easy
interchangeably, and no else can perceive
the lack of definition, where the amoeba
bodies merge into a single cell unity…
and seeings  new composition merge, a blending, exact,
the world is comme il faut,  as it must be,
properly…

not yet Seven AM, and you sputter and weep,
teary eyed of memory of seconds of a single days helping,
when you understood the
meaning of peaks, and nothing of valleys,
and the unthinkable did not exist, and the
one next to you sleeps soundly secured by
the knowledge, fervent belief, that you will
be there to welcome her back to life, with smilies
of smiles, fresh coffee, and fingers that soothe
the temples, erasing all that need not be
remembered, not now, not today, and the old
man whimpers with delight at these, his very
own words, that drifted from his consciousness,
unexpectedly, just because he stumbled on
that very old word, dyad, with its multiplicity
of shadings, but! a singular expression,
so all encompassing that he must cease to
compose for his eyes are too blurred to see…
7:13am
Jul Tue 23
two thousand and twenty four
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
THE LIGHT VANISHES

Summer had suddenly
gotten old.

Shadows nibbled at the light
limping along by an orchard wall

biting it
to the bone.

The light seemed to wince.

An apple fell to the ground
as if on cue.

Forever seemed somehow
shrunken.

Time withdrew into itself.

The house was talking
to the wind

in its creaky old voice about
the this of that and the that of this.

The wind saying nothing now.
Keeping sthum.

Inside... a book
lay asleep upon a table

waiting to be awoken
by a child's hand.

The words now
allruntogetherbit

ready to jump back
into their proper places

take up their position.
when called upon.

Even the pterodactyl
had its eyes shut tight

in the drawing of it
on page 42

flying in pre-historic
black and white.

I was amazed to find
I owned

all these aunts and uncles
that were all mine!

I even had a cute cousin
called Mary Frances who

always made me
smile.

A mottled mirror
had flung itself upon a floor

scattering itself here & then
there in a loud "oNo!"

Still showing the world
its face

in many tiny
little seeings

that could
draw blood.

I breathed the summer in.
I breathed the summer out.

I would never again be
as old as I was now.

It was the last time
I was 9.

Summer had suddenly
gotten old.

Shadows nibbled at the light
limping along by an orchard wall

biting it
to the bone.

The light seemed to wince.

An apple fell to the ground
as if on cue.

Forever seemed somehow
shrunken.

Time withdrew into itself.

The house was talking
to the wind

in its creaky old voice about
the this of that and the that of this.

The wind saying nothing now.
Keeping sthum.

Inside... a book
lay asleep upon a table

waiting to be awoken
by a child's hand.

The words now
allruntogetherbit

ready to jump back
into their proper places

take up their position.
when called upon.

Even the pterodactyl
had its eyes shut tight

in the drawing of it
on page 42

flying in pre-historic
black and white.

I was amazed to find
I owned

all these aunts and uncles
that were all mine!

I even had a cute cousin
called Mary Frances who

always made me
smile.

A mottled mirror
had flung itself upon a floor

scattering itself here & then
there in a loud "oNo!"

Still showing the world
its face

in many tiny
little seeings

that could
draw blood.

I breathed the summer in.
I breathed the summer out.

I would never again be
as old as I was now.

It was the last time
I was 9.

— The End —