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  Aug 2014 Still Crazy
Nat Lipstadt
one more for Pradip...
"Poems...are never short or long, they're only more. Thanks Nat for ever filling the less."



firing up the poem kiln,
this intriguing provocation
insistent of deserved consideration,
after all,
it is thy stories that these days inspire,
my own stories are relentless
grey, old, cold, and to my eyes,
coded repetitious...

neither a chaster or a chastiser,
(You could look it up!)
confessing readily to sinning against humanity
by ecrivezing poems of length considerable,
the Mexicano from Indiano
releases a shotgun blast
to all those whose attention spans last,
to ten words or a single stanza...no more...

but this not the matter of import,
no, no, it is the
more and the less
that makes poetry the best,
no matter the length or the heft...

in each of us
there is a more and a less,
in cycles individual that are not bound to
tides, weather, or any effect natural,
but product of our own amber waves
of chemical imbalances and mental auras...

all my days have I rode waves of
well hid hills of mania *** depression,
contented moments surrounded and cosseted
by wails of worry, sorrel colored sorrows,
making the scientists amazed at the correlation
of the macro and the mini,
the precision of my indecision...

in sixty seconds, in sixty days, in sixty years,
have I battered and battled the disequilibrium
of more and less,
disallowing a pilloried intervention,
will likely do so until
that day when my pen
has bled its last...

this theme haunts,
for but a day ago,
a bus poem was blurted out,
that concluded thusly:

to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry


here I am stunned that Pradip
with but a handful of seeds,
exactly isolates the genetic implanted notion
that I struggle to define,
knowing only that my poetry fills my less,
when the all the rest is just
another fine mess

we fill the less with our wit,
we top off our souls with writs,
we are more for having scribed,
one read or ten thousand,
it mater matters knot!

look upon the pages endlessly bearing
the ephemeral heavy-handed weight full of well crafted words,
the good, the plenty,
the sad, the sorry,
the trite and cranky,
those misted musty,
the light and the careful,
the bad and merely awful,
even the drip of torrential love stories gone dry

what matters not
any of this over sighted analytics,

each and all and everyone
a success,
for each poem makes someone's less lessened,
and someone's more, more,
and by this

**ever filling the less...
this is also about Robin Williams suicide which impacted me deeply but could not find the words...a bus poem is one composed on my trip home from work in thirty rocky minutes on the M31...you could look that up too! The one that goes to the Andromeda Galaxy, and not the MTA 's midtown local affair....
  Aug 2014 Still Crazy
Nat Lipstadt
for M*

never been good at it,
picking jobs, careers, wives,
was not one to
outline the steps,
to goals I could not
speak or define

so I bumped this way and that,
knocked down, dusted off, and
meandering, restarted and may,
unexpectedly,
have to do it
once again

once grooved,
let myself be fooled
by myself,
the best ole fooler I trusted,
that my track,
breeze to the back
was bumble free, straight,
planed and planned
and though accidentally,
what the heck

of course it never is...

you could write it all down,
the before, the softer,
the after, the harsher,
and the middle muddle
of visions hazy,
when you are too lazy
to engage

and to those of you
who see it clear,
on yellow pads and blue lines,
write down step one and two,
god bless you

Know though

there is no such thing
as free and easy
from the curves
that come up fast,
so fast that they
strangle you
near to death
or even past it

you can't imagine it,
I know, you can't,
and those who can,
likely no longer need to imagine it

but when you dare do,
clench eyes and make that ugliest rare bird
come to front and foremost
come to mind, you make it
fly to disappear,
to rarefied air,
where it,
you beg stay

and you do some good,
stupidly think you've collected
celestial brownie points that will
preserve and protect,
but in a flash bang
they have expired
just before the when you
needed them most

so go about your business,
but make no mistake,
others are going about it too,
their surprises the kind that
long term planners call disruptive

sure be sensible,
have a nest egg, a will,
good neighbors if you can,
top off the liquids
that life requires to
make the machinery run silent

work hard, pay attention
to the subtle changes
in your environment,
even hurricanes have a season,
and may you have a
go-bag in a closet,
gas in the tank,
for those days that are the
inevitable
works-in-process

but the only long term plan
that will you true require,
the one thing that will
save your neck,
chance you a chance
to defeat the unforeseen,
is not of paper, steel,
or money green,
it is character

I won't define it. You know it,
You make and or destroy it.

every day set some aside,
climb into night bed,
and recall the empathy
granted and given,
and from that,
build your own storage unit
for it won't be a mere rainy day,
but hail and volcano that will
leave you questioning existence

justify why you daily breathe,
and then exhale,
and say,
I go on
for I am of worth

this is long term planning,
survivor's insurance

This the only way to survive,
the days of reckoning
that you cannot reckon,
the days of wreck and tumult

but if you possess
character,
you will go on

ok, ok
what is character?
why it is that exact moment
when overwhelmed by the tumult,
you acknowledge that nonetheless,
you have the what and the wherewithal
to make it better
for someone else.
Still Crazy Aug 2014
no mean feat to reestablish,
palpitating those few seconds
when arms-in-motion wave frantic,
in desperation,
in fall-prevention mode,
comical and tragical,
a salty suite,
and the semi-familiar
taste of fall/failing
the freshest fear,
jalapeño hot on the tongue

some months ago,
the thinnest tightrope,
not an obstacle feared,
what I lacked for,
I could not say or now recall

the kindness of calm prevailed
now tension lines drawn,
under the feet,
around the neck,
high voltage wires that
no artist-survivor-breadwinner
can walk without trepidation
though you don't see my arms flailing,
there are faint marks on my soles,
parallelograms on my throat,
where fear has tested
the prowess of its equipment

my life retrospected,
have miracles
made and gained,
given and taken

nine lives used up so many times,
thought my allotment was
nine X nine to the power of nine,
stupid-stopped looking over my shoulder

the poems came so easy,
every phrase overheard was a
story explicated, and the insights slid
from throat to paper so fast
I did not count myself blessed,
just merely fortunate

well fortunes veer,
turn left bad right,
no direction home,
and what was easy,
now impossible

how the story final beds,
will keep you posted,
right now all I can predict
with 100% surety,
the fall is surely coming
for the summer-man

the sun cannot burn off
the fog that paralyzes his
ship to shore,
invisible the safety of port,
the horn sound more of a croak,
his voice, ashamed of failing,
has this man both
landlocked
and lost at sea
this poem was once centered
too
  Jul 2014 Still Crazy
William A Poppen
“Except for needs I can pack everything I have 
into my old black sea-bag.”  * *

"I wish I had written that line,
I said loud enough for him to hear."

He shuffled around in his stool
and raised his cup to get  
hit with a refill.

Frustration wiggle I call it,
you know like when your dad
couldn’t let you struggle with a puzzle.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
announced his irritation
"Where have you been,
swimming shallow side?"

"I stated swatting away needs
like mosquitoes on sweat
when I was seven."

He peered past his coffee,
furrowed his brow
and rubbed his tongue
over his lower lip.

"Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,
why do you keep saying that, I asked"

"Guess you’ve never been in the military.
College man I reckin,
fancy degrees
and you don't know Alpha Zulu?"

From Alpha Zulu by Gary Lilley
Alpha Zulu in the NATO phonetic alphabet
  Jul 2014 Still Crazy
Nat Lipstadt
As the surface clouds cleared
and the sovereign sun arose
My perspective was no longer fixed
on what lay below
Yet on what awaits before me…..the unknown.
I fly, with the rocky shoreline behind me.

Maria

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the emperor of the solar system
demands obeisance
but for half of our life
ceding us to the
super moon's sequestration,
a velvet coated, cosseted,
the other-half-of-a-lifetime
remainder reminder
of the divide no poet
can supersede

yet, even these planet pulling,
tide churning bodies
are eclipsed,
their torrented powers
have human
shortcomings

orbits prescribed, predictable,
they too can only look down
upon us and wonder
what if and what lays beyond
their lawful curves

but I can look
up* to you
watch you, human,
so powerful are you!
you, you, you
can reset your course,
irrespective of tides, gravity

I can watch you
rephrase your life,
knowing that my eyes  
cherish what ere,
before in time,
what will be your
course selection

as I write,
I wonder if
my thoughts sufficiently
clarified,
do they require editing?

no matter,
the way they fall is
how they'll be served

I live with the same orbs,
and the winds that lifted your wings,
changelings of perspective,
now but the breeze that coats me,
were the hot air currents that lifted you,
now here, days later,
my genlest cloak,
as I inscribe to you

and the waters that I see,
not lapping today,
but modestly erupting,
the same Atlantic green
you have seen days pre-me,
but my shoreline sandy,
rocks removed,
for your comfort,
awaiting your arrival

the woman sends the seagull,
French Toast is ready,
(one piece, that talkative white bird's commission)
coffee hot n' salted
all ready, prepped to your taste

and for some reason random,
clueless why on, in my Long island offshoot sheltered isle
tears wave over my cheeks,
which I must erase/disguise,
before the repast begins

Surprise!
How came thee to be at our table?
How good the meal will taste,
now that you chosen to fly/stop by!

and this gibberish nonsensical
cup of words
is your welcoming present,
for here,
humans are the sovereigns,
and the celesetes bow to our wishes,
we select our own direction,
regardless of how the orbs try our souls,
we are most powerful human,
sovereigns of our selves
  Jul 2014 Still Crazy
Helen
I wrote a poem for you, it cried
I painted a picture but it lied
I made a movie of still images
complete with the music I bled
Still, it left so many things unsaid
It wasn't enough for you
It wasn't enough for me
The path unspoken, forever broken
is so easy, in blindness, to see
Another day, someone's heartbeat
washes up silently upon the shore
beached upon an unforgiving earth
they think of Life no more
Each battle scar carved upon flesh
in a moment of Self Flagellation
is an answer to a deeper question
beyond our own imagination
I see you curled upon the floor
I bleed for you, I've been there before
You feel like its not worth it
This Life you have been given
But before you cut it down
Why don't you try living?
Death comes for everyone eventually but Death by thy own hand, before Life gets to share its own Wonder is truly not Death, it's a new start to a whole new Nightmare
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