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  Oct 2014 Still Crazy
Marshal Gebbie
Tones of green for envy
Red for passions fire,
Blackness for obscurity
And rougeness for desire
Yellow colours buttercups
In happiness and glee
But whiteness for the purity
of your heart's charity.
Pink depicts your girliness
Gold means you are rich
But grey brings out the trouble
When, occasionally, you're a *****,
Tangerine for tittiness
And gingerness your ****....
Oops! Now I'm in deep do-doos
For I've painted...quite enough!
M.
Helen insisted that I post this.....
  Oct 2014 Still Crazy
Third Mate Third
you cannot miss me,
mathematical impossibility,
there is no null and void
wherein
parts of me reside,
in many places,
most far away,
inside you,
surely one of them,
that is so close,
so d e e p,
never lose or miss me,
for all you need do is
read and breathe
all~ally my poems,
the stain of me,
unerasable irascible immaterial
a permanent maker inked
Oct 18 2014
For SB
  Oct 2014 Still Crazy
ogdiddynash
~
touch~teach her eyelashes
with my index finger,
her toes ask why
they must, no choice,
curl,
my heart answers,
one, one, one

~~

The truths that sway
within my hands,
my body follows,
am music borne,
we each of us
sway differently,
because my hand traces,
my beloved's waist,
soon enough,
never soon enough,
we are
two, two, two

~~~

no no not religious,
but miracles observed
quite regular

two becomes one,
emerald melded,
a yellow blonde, how extraordinary,
his blue eyes, lately
gray flecked,
blue and yellow
combined make
emerald melded,
thus two becomes one,
one becomes
a recombinant color,
and new is now
three, three, three

three that rhymes
not with me,
or her,
but the three that rhymes
with me and thee
which makes
we,*
three, three, three, thee
for life
Oct 18 2014
  Sep 2014 Still Crazy
Third Mate Third
"Most men lead lives
of quiet desperation
and go to the grave
with the song still in them.”

Henry David Thoreau
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*this fearsome cursed thought,
rises fresh daily from
under death's precursor,
when sleep crusted eyelids broken

illusions none,
escapes zero,
go to my grave
with no lew'd selfie
foolish proclaiming
I was the greatest,
tho but an itinerant bit, an Internet curio

this so very quiet man,
sings his way every day,
with these worn tools,
dull, yet shiny from loving overuse,
the very things you
are currently grasping,
words,
his words

as you do as well...

each poem,
oil poured annotating
a new poem king anointed,
a psalmist on the lyre composing
of still waters to lie beside,
of valleys where he shall final rest

delusions none,
my bones and words will in dust meld,
ashes, couplets, dried essences,
a scents that is
this beings, his Eau de Cologne alone,
tints and hints of yellowed pixels,
tired bone and the worn flesh of
maybe's too plentiful,
coulda's, shoulda's,
if only

so in quiet desperation,
and human spirit ignited by lighter fluid burning,
write, and write yet thrice more,
that a leaden life be happy soiled,
each singing a freedom breaching birth,
a glorious failure, yet endeavour'd
to let his unique tune be heard

to my grave down, down,
but one contentment proudly, black-bold-etched,
amidst the forest of daily desperations,
protested he, with tunes herein shared,
marked by no copyright,
other than his name plain,
satisfied that his singing was
loudly heard until his voice,
could be, would be,
stilled only by Father Time
Sept. 13, 2014
Still Crazy Sep 2014
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue

my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills

a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.

do  it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.

was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.

come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower

warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?

defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.

simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.

Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.

need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.

Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.

Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.

my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.

hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.

poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
  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.
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