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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2023
“and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”  

Walt Whitman

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having recently been on standby for a permanent-entry residency visa
to over & just beyond death’s door, Walt’s prescient prescription strikes my broken breastbone even harder much, than the persistent
periodic pains confirming the breaking and the healing
of this man’s mending of the human centric poetic *****

for this warped heart mine, now rejoicingly rejiggered with some threads and wires to deliver a new but fresh bloodied wisdom,
begs me, eggs me to torrent word streams, but Whitman’s wisdom cautions a new slowness, the wisdom of mortality’s hot breath urges careful consideration of every letter that my second chance, consignment shop flesh, eagerly embraces, to both prescribe and proscribe inside-insights tween the deafening sounds of eyelashes beating synchronized to the revived heart rates rapid renewal and
last second-chances….

torn tween minute torso sensations and the running silence of
a new battery’s internal rapid intervals, the silent timing gaps tween beats leaves-just-enough-space to ask over and over again,
from whence will come my richest fluency? (1)

at 300am, I lay carefully caressing and chewing well each transitory
thought, absent the former energetic ability to just spill,
though highly desired,
now requires, like me,
steady re-piecing together

the steady drumbeat of now-nearer-my-god-than-thee Titanic reflections
demands a slowing rapidity

this I thought before and now ken, even and ever better, that our primary endeavor shall always be the giving, the disbursement of the act of love…for therein lies the healing of each, and wet eyes,
make necessarily concluding this poem about nothing and everything
and I comprehend Walt’s dictum:

my very flesh is a poem,
every sensation a lyric,
every breath taken and returned to the atmosphere
so unconsciously
are my oldest
and newest
3:00 AM poetry companions
(1) I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from?
Psalms 121:1-4
Third Mate Third Jul 2014
dedicated to all of the women~poets here I love not-so-secretly*

early to bed, early to rise,
stunned to sleep by a superhero trio,
sunset extraordinaire, food and drink,
but, nonetheless  I am awakened
by a poem birthing,
water breaking,
now in full labor, burning borning,
inside a man's womb

full wattage, thus empowered,
the moonlight
nudges me awake at 300am
with something real
halfway between a slap and a tonguing kiss
of pure white ****** light

This night sun has an entourage
clouds in attendance,
attend-dance, exactly,
so many fawning, that the bright light
upon the water, normally a claro path,
tonight, but, just, a moon spot
smudged by the shapes of
cloud interlopers intervening
tween me and she...
(nature is female,
everybody knows that!)

yet, the night sun is so overwhelming bright
that everything is perfect outlined

edged sharp in relief,
the stand of six,
our bedroom guardians,
six oaks strong,
are quiet, at-attention still,
their leafy dress uniforms
perfectly pressed,
as I am too,
at full attention

now I understand why soldiers
award themselves oak leaf clusters
as medals of decoration, bravery

poor man's mind weak with admiration,
plots alternative W courses,
a. Walk on water as invited
b. Wake her with your tongue,
in order to put her back to sleep,
                                       (with your tongue)
c. Write a poem with eye light
d. W-all of the above

unable to decide,
no, that's wrong,
incapable of decide,
I do the bravest act,
self-decorate myself with a
white badge of courage,
go back to sleep,
thinking I should not
drink so much wine on weekends,
but write of love and desire,
moons in July not June,
like the inner kid
wants to

and I look at the title this poem gave itself,

Full Moon Woman Life

wondering where the commas should be placed,
then realize it is all
one word
July 12, 2014
3:00am
on a tiny isle, moonlight loving, moonlight bathed,
thinking of the women I love,
and love me back with their finery,
their vested bestus,
their words....

— The End —