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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
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The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending

When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening

to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable

and yet

cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,

it has yet

to arrive

When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed

When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction

she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
rentery orbit,
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot

When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after

death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
is the God
I worship
The phrase "the consolation of physics" was taken from a novel,
City of Thieves by David Benioff. The other nonsense is all my fault.
11/23/14 8:30am

for my blonde Big Bang theorist
Hartaz Kaur Sep 2018
She seems pretty queer
Yes she does
Something odd
Something peculiar

Is it in her insouciance
Is it in her audacity
Is it in her pirouettes
Spun with such vivacity

Is it in her defiance
Is it in her nonrepentance
Is it in her reveling so free
A form full of glee

Sometimes impetuous
All times ingenuous
Aflame with passion
An immersive intoxication

Cracking down on this mystery
A perplexing dichotomy
Let's remove the misfitting pieces
In sync with commonplace notions

Alas what dismantling of a girl
at peace with her pieces
What uprooting of a girl
at home in her body
Dan Hess  Sep 2014
O, Henrietta
Dan Hess Sep 2014
Oh, Henrietta come to me, my queen of what's forgotten
In life you were a troubled thing, and now you have but rotten
A misdemeanor commonplace to you who sees the world
Your liveliness has been erased, and with it, thoughts unfurled  

Oh, Henrietta come to me, now, whisper in my ear
For what can be made of a blissless journey, when you have disappeared?
Mr Quiet  Oct 2018
Epiphany
Mr Quiet Oct 2018
Awake,
Driven by the rush of blood that flows through my veins,
Eyes wide open as the raindrops fall on my face,
The storms have stopped,
My hurricane.

Mundane,
Yet I still keep going,
I don't care what it takes,
I'm going to be happy,
I won't let myself make me prosaic.

My caricatured heart,
You made,
You put it on display,
Laughed at what you hate,
Yet it was yours anyway.
We got too satire,
A monotonous childish play,
That everyone will eventually execrate.
Nevertheless, don't be ashamed,
Because you're not the only one going through the pain.

As the sun shined through my dismay,
I lie awake at a commonplace,
The continuous mess that I used to numb away,
I'm leaving this abyss of heartaches,
I'll climb 'till I see the light of day.
just some of my final thoughts about my situation before
Vierra  Jun 2013
untitled
Vierra Jun 2013
The night comes with a hint of cold.
The fading sunlight mixes colors with the gaining darkness,
until all at once there is no light, just cold.
I can see all the familiar shadows with a relative ease.
They make me feel comfort in my solitude,
like a lullaby upon youthful ears.

let me write you a story
of which you can read to your sons and daughters at bed time.
stories of times that enchanted the dreary eyes
of their never ending imagination

the night brings this magic.
dreams and faded reality are commonplace
upon the alter that holds these fantasies.
quiet solitude with the realization that you are alone in the darkness.

yet the night will turn to day.

i have seen too many sunrises through wayward eyes.

oh night will you return?
will my beloved solitude render during the day?

we shall see. we shall see.
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