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Hello World
I am not a PrOphET
Neither do I.. pretend to be
But neither will I compromise when it comes to speaking the truth
Chosing to speak it.. Non-exclusively
But still.. more often than not
When the truth is spoken?
The world tends to get mad
Yet seeing how they're already M.A.D
Most will laugh and will shrug it off
Most.. don't even care
And or.. Either
They just don't want to hear it
Yeah.. I know.. it's such a shame
But sorta strange in the same
de-mea-nor
As their meager expressions seem
to get mea-ner
They will go on to say.,
Who are you to question me about faith?
And Oh.. here's one of my favs
A sarcastic.. What is truth really?
Ok now.. Look.. Please hear me out
First of all..
I already told you about the subject
So this is just a reminder
For I am not a.. PrOphET
Remember?!
So stop it.. and stop stalling
And don't try to change.. the subject
Cause it's just as I.. have already said
twice before
Therefore.,
I am not.. Who or What
I may appear to be
This is not my calling
For I am just a.. normal guy
Who's only trying to warn you about
True.. conspicuous lies
Which is.. a contradiction so deceiving
Eyes only believing in what you see
And.. what is set before you
But true Faith and faith in God is not relying on the seen or the seeing
That being said.,
It totally trump's the saying.,
That seeing is believing
Both.. in truth.. and.. in theory
For any given reason be it visually
Or.. Religiously
But yet.. mindset decisions are so dreary
That's why you feel so weary
Having these number of choices
heavily hanging..
                                  Over
                         ­        †
                            YOU

Hey World.. Are you still there?
OK.. just checking
Now testing.. 1., 2., 3 just to further sell these seeds of truth
Cause sometimes.. stepping outside of yourself feels like you're walking in
Slo-motion
Beneath the Ocean
Where life seems so Frozen
But life's oceans and seas are too deep for you to be creeping at a snail's pace
You're hopeless
So feeling out of place you escape for Space
Hoping to create more space you perfect with Grace
You save space and trace the moon with a graceful.. Moonwalk
Yet in outer space.. our voices now Echo
Darkly_ Amplified
Now you're feeling.. Unidentified
As the universe of black holes seem Unavoidable
Yet an abundant life is still affordable
As a matter of fact
Or.. to be more precise
A matter of.. Truth
Life has always been free to run
And Death?
Well.. is just another hurdle
But I for one am one who dares not
to say.,
That a truth spoken is a truth I never
heard of
But then again..
I will say this again
I am not a PrOphET
But then again.. Maybe I Am?
Just not one that you've ever
heard of..
M.A.D ( Mentally Antisocial Degenerates ) All I can say is, I was contemplating a lot of things when I wrote this.. My name, my calling, my lively hood and the state of the world that we're currently living in
Past? Present? Future?
Yeah.. All of these things
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
all my life
wanted to write just
the way
Joni (Mitchell) sings

seesawing
rising unexpected,
write the changing temperament
in the pitch,
of now

yawing, oscillating,
speedy slow,
enunciating the whip of
love crazy

twist to fall into a
double-time
bass baritone insane
from and into a higher pitch,
switch on the
en garde,
blue ink
onto cloth napkin poetry

plain plaintive,
rendering the scene,
rendering my heart,
it's crazy high-lows,
emotion backyard
swing set

Oh Joni!
I could drink a case of you


that is was what I
told the single girls
when I was a wooing man

send me home,
high and crying,
thinking uneven,
creatively,
drinking you,
pounding the dashboard,
sing our palpitating poems

thinking up
the in-between
songs of
till next time

that they loved so much
they begged,
sing it again and again

I drank them all
and think now of poem love songs,
vintages that never caged,
never aging,
those songs I wrote for them,
back in the day
when Joni
taught me how to
see life in verse
6:05am
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...

~~

“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“

Van Morrison


~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~

old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box

someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored

and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey

but what you remember is

that differentiating phrase

and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing
,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...
Tupelo Honey is the gold standard by which all other honeys are measured. For two weeks every spring, White (Ogeche) Tupelo Trees in the Southeastern swamps bloom with fine sunburst-shaped flowers that glisten with nectar.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but an
abbreviated four short generational
days

the Kabbalist among us say Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist chants so-be-it,
both celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things, both notating,
that death makes room for more

ugly yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy,
dancing summer lawn

today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side

all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield,
the half-heaven

oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****,
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts

what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of
nature's cycle -
your children

Have children.
Am a father.
Had a father in my youthful days.

this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me to commentary
with gravitas, now that I’ve graduated
to grandfather status,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters

of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,

likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall

I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever

it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none

but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best

for before,
many father's day
in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere
in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past,
that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts

Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well

but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that Adirondack chair you
by now, we’ll acquainted

they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
nowadays I get a ten second video of a happy father’s day wish
Skye Shauger Apr 2020
is it **** for you to
think you've been burned
think it was your new chapter
your chance at a New York Times Best Seller

to make a villain of me
to make me operate
play doctor
dissect and cut open every part of me,
to look for a corruption, an ulcer, a cancer,

that you'd fabricated?
Broadsky Jan 2019
I braced myself for the impact of what the blow would be. Kissing the sleep out of you on that cloudy Saturday morning keeps on running through my mind like the memories are water swirling in a whirlpool, they keep going and going before my eyes and I can't shut it out to sleep. You- God kissing you, feeling one of your arms go under my neck and the other around my waist made me feel like all the harsh silences and sad facts became irrelevant and all that mattered was the way you kissed me by the piano and the way you pulled my body towards you this morning. I'm preparing myself for the blow of you leaving and I don't want to.
October 11, 2014
We were at Pat's farm house
Jas Feb 2018
Passive stances and subtle aggression
***** dishes wiped clean
A bucket of bleach and toxic masculinity
This is home to me,
Lavish meals and trips dripping in fantasy
Older men's eyes had *** with me
While my neck was seared with fake jewelry
Home appears to follow me,
Desire wears a scarf of sin
Lust around my ankles and wrists
Naked for all to see
This was home to me.
MaddHatterQueen Feb 2018
It is possible
for grammar to-
be a mistake ... sometimes

words are

NEVER  perfect

I type,

text

errors

true words,
though
run like a stream

FLOWING

from my brain

BUT

this brain
my brain

had been
under construction
for all
my entire being

words
were born in here
in my brain

developed
collecting
images
from my....

surroundings

elevation
no conclusion

BUT

I was counting
scrambling numbers
poor additions
about life

adding, nothing

NOT YET.... no method
salvation
with a bit

of seizure

relying on them
to save me

deppening on them
to revive a tune

to make these mistakes
look pretty???

There are
many languages devided

= many errors in
      
                     perfect grammar

+

the ones with gutts
rasing amo  
graph-ic-assurence
firing reprisal

______=
unique insignifacance
intellect that does not belong
to the world

it is possible
for mistakes
to be a grammar
unexplained

not understanding
why I have to prove
perfection

when
there is no such existance
in humen kind.
© The Madd Hatteress
Nobody, and nothing is perfect.
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.


The Master Weaver’s Plan

My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.

For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.

Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.

‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.

by AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.

with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
CORRIE ten BOOM is a Dutch Evangelist who rescued many Jews from ******'s hands during WW II. She had traveled around the world to tell about the many Wonders she got from God during her life, especially during those war times.
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