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Samantha  Sep 2013
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Samantha Sep 2013
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Today I have adopted
a new Dream Occupation:

No longer a Buddhist Monk
On a Mountain Peak in Nepal
but Henry Miller, I will Be
And shall dance the
Worlds Circumference
With no brain in skull but a pen in
between crooked-only-on-the-right teeth
Mark my words today in
pencil please
So tomorrow I will have a
reminder and in a fortnight I will have
an eraser;
Henry Miller never
Wrote drafts in ink
Luz Hanaii Feb 2
My daughter is an artist, she makes beautiful
things with her hands.
I pop in and out of her room, to share.

While writing my poetic drafts, I popped in her room
and jokingly said,
"I don't know what to do with all of this creative
wisdom pouring from my head."
She snapped, "keep it to your self, I'm trying to work!"

Lol, wise response,

Wisdom runs in our family.
Yes, it runs away!
You may notice I shadowed your Events
Out of Deep Gesture to your Customed Doors
Yet, stand-out Naked, begs for my Conscience
How such Blokish Skill would be so adored
It still Stings, really, for your Sun exploit
After few of the Truest Rays give space
Though mouths copped, hymns their minted throats avoid
From submitting premature drafts at-face
It is, though constrict, the Best Pill swallowed
As every Medication would redden
But, after process, heal my Will's allowed
And free myself from this Cage submitten.
But why, though Free, these Keys in my Pocket still
Scratch my Heart-Drawn Car; Welts I duly fill.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Lone Luna Mar 2016
Poems, you will never know when it will come to you
It will hit you right then and there
Like thunders and flashes of lightning
You got to be prepared
But you can never be prepared
It will be as if time halted and all you can ever do is stand still
As the words pour out of your mind
Helplessly you are struggling to put them back
So you can remember everything when you write them down
Poems, it is a long train of thought on a winding rail
It will be impossible to jump out of it
And you will never jump out of it
Because it's a quicksand, all you can do is sink, sink, sink
But what you will realize
Is that, after all the empty drafts and coffee mugs
You've just created something that might change the world
Then you should know it's all worth it
Luna
eighty-seven drafts
and
now there are eighty-eight
yet another blank slate...
So,
I will ask myself only one thing.
-
What are my words worth?
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.

Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising

A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.

Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days

So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:

We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.

Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.

Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques

Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock

Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,  
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Written August 2013
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