Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
The Seven - The Mashup


In memory of my mother who passed away recently, I wrote, or intended to write seven (only six were actually done) new poems themed about her, her passing and some perspective on life and death.  All were read and I am deeply appreciative.  I have consolidated them all here, in order, though not necessarily the order in which they were written. But the order does matter, as it reflects the change in my mood with each passing day.   Perhaps I will write the seventh someday, but not now, not soon.

Thank you all so much for incredibly kind words of sympathy. I am not a dweller, so I set myself a goal to complete this vow, this task, in a week to correspond to the seven days of mourning the immediate family observes after the burial (the shiva, shiva meaning 7).  For seven days, the bereaved family "sits shiva," sitting on low, uncomfortable stools and the comforters come to share their grief, praise the deceased, from mourning till late at night


#1 Shiva

I am confused - what day is it?
Windows tell day or night, a necessary but a condition insufficient.
The days have no distinguishing marks, a video stuck on
Repeat - a single track of recollected tales, prayers add a mild seasoning.

Though brief is this week of pre-sentencing hearings,
If one cannot dice the time into portions,
Then, there can be no pardon,
No early release date, from Phase One.

Rinse grief. Repeat. Seven cycles.
Apply stain-stick at the intersection of
Bloodied hurts and dimming memories,
Strangers secreting, spilling on you secrets unwanted.

This play, saw it many decades ago,
Before there was poetry, children.
A young man of twenty one,
Very afraid, silently, of the newest unknown,
His father, cancer won.

I hated it then. Now experienced, I hate it more.
This semi-catharsis, a tapestry tale wove of faded pasts
Twisting an heirloom blade into an old wound,
the original cast, a new revival, playwright, regrettably, deceased...

First time at bat, hid in a small room, away from this tradition.
Beating my head against a wall privately,
That being my preferred manner of mourning,
Not this Broadway show, twice a day, seven days.

Rituals well intentioned, a time tested method,
nonetheless, jail time for me, a/k/a, the boy, the brother.
Familiarity comforts some. Me? A prison uniform.
I write my own poems, I am not a Borg collective.

Cast as Son, my obligations specific, aged.
My Hamlet doublet, cut/torn, messaging my somber status,
The cuts deepest, invisible, but all see this child
Drowning in eye pools that continuously self-replenish.

I'll do the time, this show the longest running ever,
Did forty years as son-shadow of a father-man,
Tacked another concurrent sentence for his woman,
End Date: Indeterminate...

The low stools will reappear, seven days for me,
Yet my job as poet not fully done, until this be read!
Leave 'em laughing o'er this Official Release from the obligatory,
Read, sit but once, read this poem, this script, this story, and be freed.

#2 Hover^

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

^According to the Talmud, the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.  The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred.


#3 Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.

Orphan

It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

# 4 Judgement Day

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification, you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for, if at all?

Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 80 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for, if at all?


#5 Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

^ Nat Lipstadt · May 30
The Little Black Dress (and its magic prowess!)

*#6 & 7 Live like you're dying

Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.

Huh?

Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
BS hunter Dec 2013
You and poem thief are reasons I don't trust most blacks.
You gonna love a poem thief and cover up what she did, you deserve outing

This is for being part of a cover up and getting me called a liar
You got me called a trouble maker by someone I respected

Told a nice woman about you and poem thief
Thanks ******* for making me look like the one who lied on you. You deserve outing for lying to that nice woman about you not knowing the one who is ******* COMPUTER POETRY

You gonna love a poem thief and cover up what she did, you deserve outing
Outing you cause I HATE a ****** liar!!!!
BEEN SAVING DM'S ACTIVITY BEFORE HE COULD REMOVE MORE OF IT. I CALLED ATTENTION TO HIS WRITING I LOVE YOU ON ******* COMPUTER P. POEMS AND ******* DELETED I LOVE YOU COMMENT.

OK DM YOU LIED *******!
COPY PASTING YOUR WORDS AND WHAT YOU WROTE TO THE ONE WHO STOLE MY POEMS.

DM  
personal hell    1964 -  
Unimportant.

COMMENTS IN POEM YESTERDAY -

heads up
Someone has been logging in under different peoples names and posting a lot of trash. They've even been stealing other peoples work and twisting it and claiming it as their own. They've even sent comments under my name that I didn't make. Be careful.


YOUR COMMENTS TO ******* COMPUTER P's DELETED PROFILE BUT POEMS ARE STILL THERE. THE ONE WHO STOLE MY POEMS. TOOK THESE  FROM YOUR "ACTIVITY" THREAD. YOU CAN'T HIDE WHAT YOU DO ON THIS SITE YOU LYING *******.

PROVING HE'S IN LOVE WITH POEM THIEF *****. HIS WORDS NOT MINE.

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
You send sweet sweetyness!

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
Amazing still! You have an edge about you. Thankless more often than not.

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
Sorry. Just wanted to get in your pants. You have pants right?

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
Stranded *****! Working at Game-stop ***** even more. You have a real gift! Your words are amazing but disclose little in context. A portrait of you is already displayed. Bring your horizon as the sun sets and the moon arises. Awesome job dude!

DM›My new poem by ---  3 days ago
******* amazing! If my throat were as dry as yours, perhaps I could write as well! I'm living proof that arid stupidiciousness conceals rather than enlightens. My meager attempts seem weak and impotent. Your words hover above me and like clouded sky give and offer truest meaning. I love you...hello!

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
You seem to be having a wonderful time here! Congrats to you! That's what its all about! Free-form poetry and prose.

DM›My new poem by ---  1 day ago
Scratch where it itches my friend. Sometimes until it bleeds.

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
And she breathed, and you took a breathe at the same time, you asked yourself why? Then you realized that it was your own expectation that followed you here, she's just a girl. Just as alone and frightened as you. She's only there coz she hungry. You're only there to feed her.

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
Being ' Mr right' and becoming 'Mr right' are always separate.

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
Falling down doesn't mean falling easy. My God if it were so simple. Express and lose or hold and lose. Die on your feet or live on your knees.

DM ›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
Absolutely love this beautiful poem. Such intimate sadness here. Quite touching.

DM › lesson not learned by shaqila  Dec 5
Absolutely love this beautiful poem. Such intimate sadness here. Quite touching.

IF HE DIDN'T THINK ******* COMPUTER P AND SHAQILA ARE ONE IN SAME, WHY
WRITE ALL THESE ****** COMMENTS ON HER POEMS?
Where Shelter May 2018
trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self

<=>

drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Crescent Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian Freud painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly naked,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.


p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing
lost for many years; for Mary Winslow
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #4:  Judgement Day*

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification,
you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for,
if at all?


Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 100 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for,  
if at all?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
My father, gone fifty years,
A transplanted German,
Arrived early, in the 1920's,
Fleeing the worldwide depression,
That decided to follow him to America.

Traveling salesman, raconteur,
A busy man who decided he
Found the right girl at age forty,
But by the time I was teen,
He was, then uncommon,
An older man, an older father.

Raised three kids,
Working six days a week.
Unlike the other fathers,
White shirt and tie every day
Even Sunday.

No backyard in the city,
To toss a base or football to his son,
Though he wouldn't, couldn't,
While his son grew,
Grew up worshipping
Three Gods:
Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and
The bold, the bald Y.A. Tittle,
Heroic sports figures.

The son who went to Yankee Stadium
For the first time,
There he saw the color
Emerald  Green in the Bronx,
In The House Ruth Built,
Whispered Hallelujah,
There, courtesy of someone else's dad.

Goatee he wore, and on Saturdays,
Wore a black jacket, striped pants
And Homburg hat to the synagogue.
Custom of his Hamburg upbringing.
The only one, the only dad,
Of course, dressed that way.
Proud of his style, his heritage,
Helping me not to fit right in.

Yet twinkle twinkle did his eyes sparkle,
Such that all the other children loved him,
Better and best.

But I was the son with the unlike,
The father, unlike any others.
Age thirteen, he's asked me this:
Now you are a man, I wish of thee this,
Accompany me to synagogue every day,
As is my custom, and all your father's,
Twenty generations before me.

When he passed, the stories of
His saintly deeds, his help,
How he saved, brought many to
The United States of America,
Including his five sisters and their families.
During, after WWII, became legends,
all the while, trying to make a living.

One time, I was listening to
Rock n' Roll, on the radio,
In the den, study, his home office,
Where
The Stereo,
proudly sat.

Chased me out,
Paperwork to do,
But stopped me first,
Listening to the song.
That happened to be next.

When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let me tell you now

When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Up on the roof
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
Up on the roof

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go up on the roof
Up on the roof

At night the stars put on a show for free
And darling, you can share it all with me
I keep a tellin' you

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I've found a paradise that's trouble proof
Up on the roof
And if this world starts getting you down
There's room enough for two, up on the roof
Up on the roof

Up on the roof
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, baby
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, honey
Up on the roof
Everything is all right
Up on the roof
Say that, "It's alright"
Up on the roof
Oh, we gotta go up on the roof
Up on the roof
The Drifters - Up On The Roof


He listened carefully,
Pronouncing with an austere smile,
"That I like, now go."

Now fifty years later,
Having failed spectacularly as a
Father, family man, having never saved a
Soul or life, I remember the outcast days
Of my growing up years,
With a different kind of father
Than all the kids who
Played catch, had big suburban homes.

I never understood much,
Always struggled to be one
Unsuccessful in fitting in,
In my high school yearbook,
They outed my anomie,
"Either apart or ahead of us,
Nat stands, uniquely individual."

So here is a poem, an apology,
No, more an anthology, an anthem,
Of, and,
To my pop, for resenting, misunderstanding,
How
You were more than unique,
How you were special, in ways
No teenager could see.

I am have written some of this before.
Tender apologies, but when I awoke this
Post Thanksgiving Day, at
6:00 Ante Meridiem,
In not my bed,
In not my city,
Pandora surprised me
Real Good,
With an old song,
Up on the Roof.

These words,
The ones you are reading did not drift,
Nay, they spilled out in shades of
Tearful regretful guilt-filled,
Pooling tears that cannot n'ere erase
Prior youthful errors, grievous sins.

Of course,
They like to surprise you,
At the end of their song,
Twisty surprise ending.

I will say it, not you,
In some ways, not all,
I grew up to be just like him,

And for that,
I will give thanks,
Not just one day, every day,
Until it is among,
My last thoughts passing,
Proceeding me,
Preceding me,
As I depart this globe.
Nov. 29th 2013
Miami, Florida
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2018
strike my eyes lovely


for S. B.

by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction

so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction

let me explain better

she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored

the poem

                 strikes her eyes lovely

daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged  

for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!

who can own this ability  
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification

to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times

you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you

for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative

11/21/18
Miami
Jacob Oates Dec 2012
Different strokes for different folks, but if I stuttered when I spoke, there is a reason why I wrote, and if you think that I'm a joke, then stroke me, stroke me...

Empirical lyrically virile and viral a warrior reborn like he's gone out of style,

a rage unabated both non-syncopated and internal/external no meter's abated!

You wanted an anthem?

You wanted a cause?

You wanted a figure to even the odds?

You thought I was kidding

but now you're admitting that

I am the chosen whose broken the clause!

Rising in status, my main apparatus, the attitude: platitudes lack the finesse!

I'm searching for perfect not anything less!


I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!

Melding the milieus of millions and millions of masses who clash for the chance for the cash,

when all that was needed was truth to believe in, significance outed, you puppet let's dance!

No bragging, no lagging, and no more sandbagging, the hustle is over, your tussle is weak!

For soon we will savor the end of your flavor, fifteen minutes over, your outlook is bleak.

I'm nobody's pigeon hole, nobody's fool, I've seen quite my share of arrogant tools,

but here are the statements that lead me to greatness:

love me or hate me, go on instigate me, ignore me and gasp when you hear of my rule!

I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!

Now join me in raising a fist to the sky,

and pound upon pressure to powers that lie.

Make diamonds of rhyme-ends and squelter your silence

to pierce through the casket that left us so quiet.

Their reign is run dry, and nobody buys it, let'***** this at home so they cannot supply it.

Prepare the artillery pack in your fire, you're gonna need it , if the bars get any higher,

now hear from the jokee, I dare you provoke me, you still talking ****? well stroke me, stroke me.

I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!

**I'm willing to take it for me and for you, THERE'S NO ******* LIMIT TO WHAT WE CAN DO!
Luna Lund Jun 2017
This is for all the misfits
For the LGBT in and outside the binary
For everyone tired of how they are perceived
And having to justify and validate their identity
This is for everyone who is afraid to go to pride because they’re not seen as “gay” or “trans” enough
For the outcasts of their own communities
This is for everyone who feels excluded or invisible in feminist spaces
This is for everyone tired of requesting they and still hearing she or he
This is for the sons who's mothers still introduce them as their daughters
And the daughters who’s fathers still introduce them as their sons
This is for everyone who feels like a walking taboo
To the strangers in their own bodies
This is for all the people who don’t “pass”
This is for trans and non-binary kids
This it for the gender non conforming
For the men who wear dresses and the women who don't shave
For those who are finding freedom from their gender
Or finding freedom in it
This is for everyone who biologically fits outside the binary
This is for the people who are called deceptive
To the people being outed on live television
Or in their college classrooms
This is for anyone sick of being fetishized
This is for the women having to choose between being called a pervert in one bathroom
Or being beaten in the other
This is for Leelah Alcorn
And Chyna Gibson
And all the other trans lives we have lost to ****** and suicide
This is to knowing our history
This is for Sylvia Rivera
This is for Marsha P. Johnson
This is to throwing the first brick
This is a self love revolution
Because I know it is not easy
I know you can’t just slam the door on everyone who misgenders you
I know sometimes your day to day is literally a life or death situation
I know you are tired but listen
Listen for the voices
Of our LGBTQ+ ancestors
Who existed before us
To the elders who should still be here
But were taken from us by AIDS
We are not the beginning
And we will not be the end
This is a coming of age story
This is a coming out story
This is for sixteen year old me
Mormon and queer and lost
And for seventeen year old me
Outed and suicidal
And this is for you
You, my beautiful sibling
Whatever body you come in
Whatever color and shade of skin
Whatever gender or lack of gender you identify with
This is to you loving you
Because self love is an act of rebellion
Because YOU EXISTING is an act of rebellion
This is to saying NO
We are not skeletons fated to be forever trapped in your closet
And this is to saying YES
We are out
We are here
We have been and will be throughout history
This is to millennials being the gayest generation
Not because we didn't exist before
But because every person brave enough to come out
Has paved a way for us to proudly be who we are
A domino effect of courage
This is to feeling fear
And doing it anyway
This is to taking back slurs used against us and wearing the word queer proudly on our chests
This to everyone who is tired of being loved “in spite” of their queerness
Because no, you shouldn't be loved in spite of anything
You should be loved for all of you
It isn’t just a part of you
It is you
Woven into your DNA
Woven into your history
Woven into your hopes and dreams
You don’t have to prove it to anyone
Or justify it for any reason
Let it empower you
Let it lift you up
Embrace that beautiful, wonderful, unique part of you
Let us, together,
Be fearlessly queer
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
---october, same year, after the bomb,

How should we train the surplus of boys?
We can't use them to sweep chimneys any more.
Nor work in Nike's winged victory factory,
child labor's not a means to an end
any more.
A seller must sell such as toys in Thailand today.

There are too many to waste efficiently in war.
A global conundrum beating time in our global brain.

A conundrum beating cadence for the dancers on parade.
Proud dancers with a vision...

Utopian distanty visiony,
since nought left ought as our only
understood shelter,
from the storm. Cower under ought, my child,
every thing is under control.

You are welcome in our safe place,
was once the reply to thanks, in essence, that was meant.

Now, it's no problem, serves and means nothing, in return.

Why should any boy grow into man? Let them play.
Entertainment's all that needed,
that'n' bread, with sugar,
that'll fixit, do the trick, keep the boy in hero role, virtually
forever, never growing
wiser.

Virtual virtue. Tech them that.
Virtually anyone can see the connection,
virtue, virtually means

What? Exactly. The act is outed.
Virtue went forth from Jesus, there's the bomb.

What does virtue being drawn through thy very e-sense
feel like?
Would we know, you or I, the feeling of virtue going out,
escaping?

A shocking short circuit? or a buzzer triggered by alarming
outflow of essential immaterial
stuff. Unnamed, unspeakable stuff?

Immaterial. The judge declares. The clar-if-ication
means look
elsewhere.

Virtue is too dangerous for little boys at play.
'Tis a cept, signified, perhaps
that
is what a sceptre does, officially it de-sig-nates who got it,
when virtue first
appeared needing shelter in the storm.
lightning lightening,
immaterial. Nonsense, can you sense immaterial matter.
You can't touch it. The judges believe.
Nor can mortals
even imagine immaterial matters reserved for Kings and king builders.

So why seek whys, when nothing matters more than...
why? what? who? when? where?
altogether on the six o'clock news.
All-in-one, all the knowing needed. Be joyfully entertained.
Sing along, meaningless songs,
doo-dah day.
Hallelujah (wait, did you say that? Out loud, ever? In a song?

What if... never mind.. could be a trap. Don't think it means anything. An old fashion past, that's all, now.
No magi utterance that changes
matters, in real time.
Not words and ideas, but
Clocks rule this domain, it's minions are the yoke bearers pulling
loads declared worthy of laboring incessantly happy.
The yoke is on you. (Take mine, it's light.) Carry on.

Take Sisyphus, for ensample. He's as happy as a clam, they say.
Those who live near the see declare the wee bivalves happy as pi.
We don't know why.
That's all.
At this particular point in time, as the ped-ants say.
Let patience perfect that which concerns you.
Let simple morph to sublime.

See, Jesus winked.
Epic poems are a burden to the reader, this is part of something much longer This poem's been keeping time with the one life I had to live, this time, guiding me to what I am, not what I have become. Tell me if i said it right.
BS hunter Dec 2013
You got only yourself to blame for being outed *******
You and poem thief are reasons I don't trust most blacks.
You gonna love a poem thief and cover up what she did, you deserve outing

This is for being part of a cover up and getting me called a liar
You got me called a trouble maker by someone I respected

Told a nice woman about you and poem thief
Thanks ******* for making me look like the one who lied on you. You deserve outing for lying to that nice woman about you not knowing the one who is ******* COMPUTER POETRY

You gonna love a poem thief and cover up what she did, you deserve outing
Outing you cause I HATE a ****** liar!!!!
BEEN SAVING DM'S ACTIVITY BEFORE HE COULD REMOVE MORE OF IT. I CALLED ATTENTION TO HIS WRITING I LOVE YOU ON ******* COMPUTER P. POEMS AND ******* DELETED I LOVE YOU COMMENT.

OK DM YOU LIED *******!
COPY PASTING YOUR WORDS AND WHAT YOU WROTE TO THE ONE WHO STOLE MY POEMS.

DM  
personal hell    1964 -  
Unimportant.

COMMENTS IN POEM YESTERDAY -

heads up
Someone has been logging in under different peoples names and posting a lot of trash. They've even been stealing other peoples work and twisting it and claiming it as their own. They've even sent comments under my name that I didn't make. Be careful.


YOUR COMMENTS TO ******* COMPUTER P's DELETED PROFILE BUT POEMS ARE STILL THERE. THE ONE WHO STOLE MY POEMS. TOOK THESE  FROM YOUR "ACTIVITY" THREAD. YOU CAN'T HIDE WHAT YOU DO ON THIS SITE YOU LYING *******.

PROVING HE'S IN LOVE WITH POEM THIEF *****. HIS WORDS NOT MINE.

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
You send sweet sweetyness!

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
Amazing still! You have an edge about you. Thankless more often than not.

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
Sorry. Just wanted to get in your pants. You have pants right?

DM›Untitled by ---  3 days ago
Stranded *****! Working at Game-stop ***** even more. You have a real gift! Your words are amazing but disclose little in context. A portrait of you is already displayed. Bring your horizon as the sun sets and the moon arises. Awesome job dude!

DM›My new poem by ---  3 days ago
******* amazing! If my throat were as dry as yours, perhaps I could write as well! I'm living proof that arid stupidiciousness conceals rather than enlightens. My meager attempts seem weak and impotent. Your words hover above me and like clouded sky give and offer truest meaning. I love you...hello!

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
You seem to be having a wonderful time here! Congrats to you! That's what its all about! Free-form poetry and prose.

DM›My new poem by ---  1 day ago
Scratch where it itches my friend. Sometimes until it bleeds.

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
And she breathed, and you took a breathe at the same time, you asked yourself why? Then you realized that it was your own expectation that followed you here, she's just a girl. Just as alone and frightened as you. She's only there coz she hungry. You're only there to feed her.

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
Being ' Mr right' and becoming 'Mr right' are always separate.

DM›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
Falling down doesn't mean falling easy. My God if it were so simple. Express and lose or hold and lose. Die on your feet or live on your knees.

DM ›Untitled by ---  1 day ago
Absolutely love this beautiful poem. Such intimate sadness here. Quite touching.

DM › lesson not learned by shaqila  Dec 5
Absolutely love this beautiful poem. Such intimate sadness here. Quite touching.

IF HE DIDN'T THINK ******* COMPUTER P AND SHAQILA ARE ONE IN SAME, WHY
WRITE ALL THESE ****** COMMENTS ON HER POEMS?
Hank Helman  Mar 2016
Rejoice
Hank Helman Mar 2016
Even I cannot find this care anymore.
I’ve run vague and dry of all moist thought,
Brittle will scores this round,
All life is best endured no more,
I will not bend to peek at joy,
Each smile a twist, all laughter ups to snort and ugly choke,
Time strides by, a hustler, a tomcat, a victim on the run.

At last the end of dreams, such bold relief.
Not more takes or edits done,
I breathe in whole, without the worry of dismal hope,
Each expectation outed now and free to fade,
I court the hours without a scheme,
Death will pace until my shift is done,
This warm friend who sentences but can’t condemn,  
Staid promise, an infinity of next for all.
Soon enough this now is gone,
Rejoice
This poem is about the turning point in life when we no longer worry too much about the future. Life isn't meant to make us happy. And so at some point there is odd relief in giving up on dreams and submerging oneself in just the day today experiences. Perhaps I've waited too long-- dismal hope a grand goodbye. Death is not to be feared-- it is our reward.

— The End —