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Won't Heaven my give my Angel time off to come see
me again let her visit my dream
oh Heaven give my darling time off just let me hold her In my dreams once again I'll let return before morning
light
spare my Angel let her leave Heaven for a couple hours I promise to let her return she meant so much to me In
life Heaven spare me the time I've never stopped loving her just let
me
hold her one more time make an old man happy Heaven
hear my prayer give my Angel time off to
come see
me
Heaven give my Angel to come and see me let me hold her again send her to my dream tonight I promise to let her return before the morning light
Melody 1d
"Smoke ****, not cigarettes."
stood the calmness in your chest.
inhale the soothing, healthy greens.

fall awake in a state of mind where
time never stays to sleep.
energize me with the raspy air,
gasping for more of another hit.
it doesn't botha me that you're chill
like that.

5 AM, get up like light never knew
how to glow.
swim in your pool of thoughts until
you think your brain will rot.
feelin' a bit hungry, so eat mountains
of calories.

12 PM, choreography of rolling another
blunt: step 1, 2, 3....
pass on the soothing healthy greens to
everybody.
it doesn't botha me that you're chill like
that.

your eyes are watery and bloodshot like
the capillaries, arteries, veins in my body.
5 PM hits with red rose petals blazing
brighter than red: what color is that?

feelin' a bit tired, but there's no need to
count sheep when you could count the
cigarettes that you never kissed again.
To my dear friend (who stated the words that
I quoted),
I am not mocking your words. My artistic mind caught fire and this piece was salvaged from the ashes of my creativity. What you said impacted me so much that I felt like writing this piece. Everything's fabricated, except for your words that I quoted.
The pretty
flowers.
The people and crowds.
The hours
spent.
All to only bring us
to another end.
The tears
lost.
The money and cost.
The tissues
used.
None will ever heal this wound.
It's only
for us.
To you it is
worthless.
With every second,
your body only gets colder.
But for us,
it's only a sense of
closure.
Because up there, you are enjoying yourself with God. While down here, we're still mourning and crying.
As lay here on my bed with phone In hand just continues writing of poems
An ability I never knew that had
but my love reading and writing of poetry
has opened up
a
a new world for me I've gained so many new friends
all come through my sheer determination to overcome any problems I
had
with being dyslexic It used to be almost painful trying to read
at one time writing was out of the question but I was not going to
be
beaten I would write a tribute to my late wife Helen even If Killed
me
and I did and I'm still writing them and through this, I have found
the
love of poetry writing that at one time I didn't give the time of day
to
love everything to do with poetry obsessed I am but a beautiful obsession
to
have that has changed my life forever such wonderful friends I now
have
What a beautiful obsession poetry writing for me has become changed my life forever
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
What haunts you, where is that poem?**



3:41am
You have been
commissioned...
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized

<•>

there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
morning-thinking,
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth

the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,

have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to

word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
like
father, poet,
American,
even,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,
a
Jew

the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
I,
the harshest marker
of all

once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself

nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
when
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers

"Don't know what kind of
Jew
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
Jew
all my life"

so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally

taking all my terms,
reordering,
re-prior-itizing,
what was prior, first,
is no longer

decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me

nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and 
son of
 writers,
son of proud
Jews
rewrites his list

today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for

"a bunch of folks in a deli"

proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth

those
happenstance-not,
bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me

no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis
JE JUIF

*"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Just google that phrase

Obama’s slur
From the broken home she still lives.
She goes out as if her home is perfect.
She goes out with her wide smile, then she pretends to be fine.
She goes home tired, straight to her bedroom then she cries

"What an unfair world I live in?" She whispered inside the dark and cold room she's in.




--j.a

she's living the agony her father brought then  inside of a broken home is a cry of an anguished daughter
M-E 2d
I had this thought today
What can I learn
From an old man in the sea
Fishing
and an old man with a gun
Robbing banks
What these two old men
have in common
One from a book
which I recommend you
to read, if you haven't yet
His name is Santiago
A patient old man, unbroken
by winds or waves or time or fish
Or by the worst of all.. by men
The other man from a movie
which I recommend you
to watch, if you haven't yet
This one is a strange adventurer
living his own way
with his two old friends
Robbing banks
And I liked this particular quote
of the smiling, old gentleman
The nice guy villain
When he was asked on
ways of making a living
He says:
"I am not talking about making a living
I am just talking about living."
I like it and I wish you like it too
Last thing I say
Like Santiago said to the fish he catched
Friend, I'll stay with you
Until I am dead
Inspired by:

The book:     The old man and the sea
The movie:   The old man and the gun
Tonight,
I dreamt of a flying dog.
This poor puppy
had a unique talent;
it could fly.
But it was
afraid
to show the others,
it was shy.
It was afraid
of what the others would reply.
Inspiration came to this puppy
when it saw a
flock of geese
fly by.
The poor puppy
covered its head with its paws,
and started to cry.
And that's where I come in.
I walked by
and say this poor puppy
standing by.
"Go on, little puppy,
go on, fly!
"
The puppy tried,
and flew with the geese,
and it was the most beautiful scene!
I felt so special
helping someone get somewhere
through there dreams.
The puppy flew,
as did my heart.
A true dream that inspired this poem.
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