she returns from her classes,
ballet, yoga, core something and Zumba for flavoring,
her hair, an upward, toe pointing cannon of mop mess,
her face glowing flushed,
one look and I know she is both,
morphing high,
wipeout exhausted

a little ritual she performs somewhere between
"it was great and she (the instructor) killed us,
auto sub conscious,
she looks herself over,
twisting elegantly like the
Argentine tango dancer she is,
in the mirrored closet doors

raising both arms to see (show off)
the sums of her endeavors,
the exoskeletal musculature
she has earned,
a life long effort,
like a prize fighter as he
macho enters the ring,
an alpha male gesture
if ever there was one,
made over to say,
hey boy, look at me!

and the boy looks her over,
always thinking, but never revealing,
that it is her muscles of mindfulness and mercy,
that take his breath away, the ones that are worked out daily,
the ones that surround and work the heart beating,
the lung inhaler of humans in need,
exhaling the richest
oxygen for others to breathe

and the boy does his service,
providing a "wow" or "very impressive,"
only you and he know his real thinking,
and his muscle memories secret,
you to keep, just between us,
and his secret identity, only love poetry...

8:52pm 7/20/17

I crack myself up,
once, at the doctor's office,
a steady stream of me~repartee
made the waiting room, the warring harried receptionist,
and ultimately herr doktor, his royal himself, as well,
somewhere combobulated, somewhere beware and between chuckling to uproarious clutching their sides,
and many stations/gradations in between

finally the teary eyed doc inquired not how
but why I do it,
well, replied I,
somewhat of a family tradition,
doing waiting room shtick,
because the sound of infectious laughter,
fills in the cracks quite nicely
where you cut me open, and also drains away
the deposits of chemotherapy poisoned sinful residuals
just a tad quicker,
and that is why I crack myself up first,
when I boldly look in the mirror and
laugh at the silly scarecrow I have become

my dad got waiting rooms to sing along with him.  that's impressive.


unwanted love

we, the human counting crows, tracking everything, steps, bank balances, heartbeats & especially,
those dastardly calories that need burning

pre yoga, her morning banana,
she takes but a half, and looks to unload the balance on a sucker/victim in the vicinity because a whole
is greater than a half,
and God knows a whole could make you fatter!

fully prepared for her desperate supplication, reply so quick,
"you're forcing me to eat unwanted calories,"
she crestfallen,
near to weeping from guilty feelings,
a crime so heinous!

but more than ready, added words, prepared years ago:

but to save your life gladly give you any body part,
step in front of a vehicle, for a certain somebody,
you may know, to preserve, life and liberty,
put up with your inanities, border-lining on insanities,

answer your questions before you think of them,
and will restrict my singing to sole showers in the basement
but never will I eat for two, that so undesirable,
in the name of love

to which she came to my bedside, kissed my nose, whispering,
"thank you for my life saving,"
while stuffing my mouth with said weapon,
"thank you again,
please don't make this into a poem"

somedays you just ain't gonna win,
you see she loves me too well
and knows
my answers before I do...*

in every still crazy story, a few grins of truth,
some crazy, and sometimes tears,
and occasionally some banana
  Jul 6 Still Crazy
patty m

Who remembers the greats,,historians and stars of stage and screen when their lights are extinguished. 
All their import diminished in the scheme of things. 
What lasts and why do we care when our history is wiped out or rewritten.
Each generation smitten with laying down rules, only to have them overthrown,
a mere stone thrown in an ocean of white noise. 
Do we stand poised on the edge, or out on a ledge?. 
I shed my own light on a page, waging a war on the world, 
a stray curl twisted in deepest thought brings thought unsought,
and soon I'm caught up in a snare.
Who will care if writing becomes restricted 
as predicted, the same with books they want them burned
and poetry spurned in an attempt to kill thought?
Who will lead the drive to reach the stars,
and climb the stair to who knows where?
Will our pathway be light or dark, is this our future or merely a lark?  How blighted would life be without written word,
imagination kicked to the curb?
The hell with the planets the moon and the stars
belt out your song in just eight bars,
write your fate on a forbidden page'
sage thoughts in rhyme perhaps in double times
rewinding our history, for one more adept
where the orators spoke and the audiences wept  
when anthems sung rang out so proud
we all stood up and sang aloud in joyful praise
the patriotism of saner days.  
Now all is chaos and we're the pawns
as darkness falls on priceless dawns
no paper, no ink, no sky of pink
no endless tale, no hope at all
the poets fall crumbling into a heap,
perhaps to sleep an endless sleep.  
Yet days will come when an errant breeze
will stir the cobwebs in the trees
and willful minds will start to think
and shuttered eyes begin to blink
then thoughts will stir with magic flair
until a word appears, then another
and another spinning endless spheres.  
Then up it rises from grave and ground
a surging of an endless sound
one can hear it all around.  
Rhythm and rhyme line after line
sung to a tune in three quarter time  
until people once again take pen in hand
and let their emotion and thought expand.
Perhaps poetry is our forever land
a turnkey that debunks future histories?
Never cease and desist always resist
and persist. insisting on our right to write
be it day or be it night, in war or peace, the least
amongst us has the right, the staid and true or the
fly by night.  Write on my friends and take thee heed
thank God we're such a tenancious breed.

  Jul 4 Still Crazy
patty m

Wild hearts
run breathlessly through the woods
on the curved bank of the Mississippi,
where the wind whispers breathlessly through
the haunting swish of endless trees.
Tall oaks, flaming maples, full skirted elms,
paint distant hills, their high green
blowing dreamlike, enchants me.

I fall into a Rip Van Winkle sleep,
my raw nerves crackle,
like storms and rainbows dueling.  

I remember playing in this infinite garden
and the song you composed
that claimed my heart;
You wore an old silk tie, and a discarded hat
while I wore lace curtain dreams.
We waltzed on our pretend verandah,
children playing at being grown-up
years before our time.

I look back, touched and saddened by autumn,
the changing colors plucked from here and there
a crazy quilt designed with such finesse
it appeared whole.

Then lightning slashed the sky
and the earth shook with ominous thunder.
Scornfully we threw over the pumpkin,
our coach of pompous splendor,
leaving ourselves vulnerable
in the midst of turmoil.  

Now there's nothing left in this watery light
to draw me ever deeper into it's fold,
except our initials carved into a tree
and the endless ebb and flow of
the river.

  May 28 Still Crazy
Nat Lipstadt

The Trial of His Worthiness 2017

for betterdays, explorer of my complaints to the heavens,
and Patty, who asks,
who writes like this...answers from an old man

the 2017 baptism yesterday, by calendar dictate,
to my park, nature's commune, the poet wills himself to be
forcibly removed from city, greeted in solemn robes of blue/green,
by the triumvirate of bay, animals and flora & trees interlocking,
who stand in judgement of the humans interloping off-islanders
summer internees

to the double entendre dock removed,
so the bay, the Chief Justice, now a bit hard of hearing,
from the thunder and lighting of cymbal and drum crackling of the winter waves clashing, can hear my deposition clearer

the chief prosecutor, the tallest tree, wraps her branches,
around my legs, my feet, my heart, my head, not to restrain,
but to listen to my internals to adjudge the electrocardiogram
veracity of my words, a natural lie detector machine

the animals requested and sequestered to jury service,
large and small, from forest, the beneath-the-deck rabbits,
all learned in the human language, after 5 centuries of
less than social intercourse

put to me queries only I could answer

why have you returned?

humanity wearing me so, come to nature that knows only natural laws where existence is primary, good and evil are undefined and premeditation of murder for no purpose of one's own kind is rare

will you write of us as in years as past?

will write of the commingling taffy of your
salt waters and my salt tears,
taking of your oxygen gifts, returning my dioxides,
both of us sharing the munificence of a warm sun goddess,
will plant my irises and kiss your cherry blossom leaves,
will step aside, over the ant mounds, harming nothing living,
for rightful life is not accorded by precedence or size
or your chosen version of a holy book

will you play for us your human music?

contrapuntal canons, adagios of Barber, Adele & Dudamel,
"a song for you"by the master Charles, some by the
poet Cohen, and even of a Rocky Raccoon, and for our kids,
a tale of a Yellow Submarine and the Dr.'s Mississippi Mud,
dash of Joni's pure voice, Eva Cassidy's unreal, none better,
rock to Elvis, Beethoven, Mozart and the Zombies,
damn deer demand Pavarotti (who knew)

all but  a chocolate sauce for a sundae of your own air strings,
waves baying, rabbits madly dashing, and birds texting,
the bellows of trombone honking of the
s-hit and run Canadian geese,
multi colored seagull's violin-like protestation squeaks of
'feed me human,
my survival share of the catch'

the tree limbs released, to now stroke my skin, pat my head,
the ants perform an arabesque, the gossipy fish come to the surface as
his Honor, Justice Bay, pronounces my sentencing term:

stay with us warmed and welcomed,
shaded in our attentive embrace human
and of us
be a witness deposed, testified,
of our true nature

to your unattended, impatiently waiting, Adrionack throne, go,
(once of us, a living tree departed)
observe and record, without distortion and human bias,
as you have so oft in years past,
tho mere eye-blinks to us,
life and death and preservation can coexist in a harmony

perhaps your infant species may learn from nature & beasts,
that bounty well fair shared is what humans call
the worthiness of living
5/28/17 11:09

To: Gods  
From: Only Love Poetry
Subject: Manchester Commencement

dedicated to Nat Lipstadt, my better half,
who whispers when life whipsaws beyond belief,
there still will always be,
a new sun come,
a day newly needy for an only love poem

commencement, a lovely,
so human contra-dictional term,
to begin, to end, the meaning meant  
in the ear of beholder,
though this year,
the meaning perhaps, is
in the heart of the true believer

a perfect end of May day, fully unofficially summer
but for the brisk crisp spring sweater weather temp,
informing that the official calendar heated demarcation day,
yet a full month ahead,  
but the news reminding that neither man or nature  
don't necessarily respect
foolish man made conventions of any kind

once again, return to the isle of shelter,
lawns lush, the waves speaking in wave lapping, watery tongues,
which suddenly all humans comprehend,
the sky, a milky blue cappuccino and
I struggle desiring to disbelieve that the
almost summer holiness communing has begun with a  
bloody pointless Manchester commencement

the external perfection clashes with the internal revilation,
knowing anger is unprofitable, understanding and resolving
not even close to possible, the waste of why and what for's

thrice, already sent you missive missiles,
that acknowdge did not hit the target,
you must be the the hard hearted pharaoh
who won't let my people, any people, go,
till all of us hold our eldest child in our arms, dead

the is no point in anger, the consoling of souls,
disregarding the vanity of revenge calls,
the Einsteinian repeating insanity of praying each of us,
to different gods to do what we stupidly call the right thing,
expecting different outcomes

so what's the why and the wherefore for just another poem?

to prepare the soul, keep yourself at the steady,
for the next one, never complacent, staying unready,
commencements are either endings or beginning
who can tell for sure, sometimes a bit of both

and in a poem, composed only of love,
written with solemn tears decorating the screen,
finger slipping on the warm sad wet,
a kind of scar tissue, a healing, but differentiated,
returning similar, but forever changed, different,
is still something human I can true believe in, no gods necessary

5/27/17 2:21pm

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