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Nat Lipstadt Sep 24
Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p
Autmn T Aug 12
Shameful to feed your kids breastmilk in public, but yet we will feed them bullets in their public schools.
Annoyed with the urgency some people treat something natural and the dismissive nature they treat something urgent.
Part 1: JOY & SORROW

It was around 3am, sometime last week…

When I learned that the
Sweetest Joy
Could, simultaneously, be the
Bitterest Sorrow

As I held my newborn son, Ezra
Close to my chest [Joy]
As he was (inconsolably) screaming his head off
Just below my right ear! [Sorrow]

(…Around 3am, sometime last week…)

But, oh, Ezra himself is a single joy
Who outweighs 10,000 sorrows!

And his parents CANNOT IMAGINE
Life without him

(Though our bodies ache to know, again,
The comforts
And rest
Our past life afforded us)

---

Part 2: THE BABIES ON THE PORCH

We COULD NOT WAIT to introduce Ezra
To everyone (and anyone)!

And the first time we took him outside
Onto the front porch
To meet the neighbors,
The most curious thing happened:

The one-and-a-half year old neighbor girl, Remi –
Short for “Remington” (yes, named after the rifle!) –
Hobbled over with her Daddy,
And pointed to Ezra, and said, “Baby!”

And I smiled
And said
(In the least manly voice I could muster),
“Yeah, he’s a Baby…”

---

Part 3: “BABIES” TO BABIES

Later, I was replaying this interaction
In my head –
Amused by the irony
Of the situation:

That this one-and-a-half year old BABY
Identified a thing
Smaller and younger than HERSELF
As a “Baby!”

And I wondered if she knows that
SHE too is a Baby –

If she ever looks in the mirror,
And points to HERSELF,
And says,
“Baby!”

---

Part 4: BABY GIRLS & BABY DOLLS

And then, I recalled
Having witnessed this ironic phenomenon before…

…As I watched our friend’s little girl, Addy,
Pushing her baby doll in a toy stroller
Around her house
As if it was her Baby

And I thought about how amazing it is
That “pre-programmed” into little girls
Is the nurturing and emotional concern of
A Mother,

And that, it’s not uncommon to find
Baby girls
Pretending to be Mommy’s to their
Baby dolls

---

Part 5: THIS “BABY”

And then, I thought about myself
In relation to my Heavenly Father

Who, in His Infinite Character,
And Bigness,
And Greater-Than-Us-Ness,
Is so unutterably HIGH above (and beyond) me

And a thought popped into my head –
In the form of an absurd question:

“Are we all just ‘playing with dolls’?”

.
Are we all just pushing proverbial ‘strollers' in a cosmic ‘nursery’ we call life and existence?
I still wear her shawl
hand knitted
gravel-toned

not an item
I'd buy in a shop
but it's so Mrs. Saks

lamb soft
under many layers
of crusty chill

she'd have it on
standing all of
five feet tall

hands on her hips
peering sharply
down her steep drive

her wooden hut
buried in rambling thorns
of isolation

I'd ask about her life
in the old country
for her as if yesterday

in broken English
she'd tell of the scenes
that bitter day

I'd make notes
to write that essay
so people see

her checklist
sharp as martensite
toughened steel

of mountain fire
fathers and sons
picked off

mothers' wails
silenced
made to look

their babies smashed
screaming in shallow soil
as soldiers laughed

hyenas glibly stealing
a people's jewels
not seeing

the core
lived on
still
Caroline Jul 12
I handle my children as if they might disappear.

Sometimes when I am holding them,
My face pressed to their hair,
My hands around their little fists
Like so many eagles
Cloak their nests
In feathered wings,

I feel their edges start to blur
As if pulled by a strong hand
Through a silver curtain.

“You can’t have them!”
I yell at the space above their heads.
“They’re mine!”

And yet I feel the weight of being gifted
So many treasures that
I don’t deserve,
That I try to earn.

I handle my children as if someone might come back for them.
Speaking to me sternly, they will explain
“These are too precious, too rare,
For you.”
But I would not let them go.

I would come after them.
Charging like a lioness
I. Would. Come. For. Them.
Through every burning flame
And every mangled wreck
And sterile hospital bed,
I. Would. Come. For. Them.

Dragging both legs
And seeping blood
And holding the heart
Inside my chest,
With my own two hands
I. Would. Come. For. Them.

I would die for them.

I handle my children as if they might disappear.  
Clutching their tiny bodies and all their edges,
Holding them in, keeping them whole.
I wrote this a couple of years ago when my babies were very tiny, but it remains true, always <3
You're the one who killed the sun. You're the one who's killing everyone. If light can not enter, there will be no colour. We're all going to disappear.

Eating the babies.
Plucking the daisies.
Preserving their organs,
Saving them for later.

Artificial clouds are where the sun used to be!
You choked the sky and now you're choking me!

Drowning in every drop of water.
Eaten alive by every human flower.
Devouring every son and daughter.
Sprayed by the punctured capillaries of a sick mother.

Beware the carnivorous fruit. It's killing us softly.

Who knew dying would taste so **** good today.
Every bite I take I am slowly eating myself away.
The only way I feel alive is by eating what will **** me one day.
Who cares about that we're all gonna die someday.

Breathing through the holes in her lungs.
Flowing through her ever thinning blood.  
Stored inside her dissipating muscles.
She's sick, and we're all sick like her.

This is the post-human era.
Lynn Scott Mar 12
I have seen women cry all day long
When their pregnancy went all wrong
I have seen men weep and mourn
For their children who'd never be born

I have seen the longing in their eyes
The couples whose children have died
The ache and pain in their shattered souls
Each miscarriage taking its tole

So how can a human who is so blessed
Throw it away without a second guess
Call it convenience and "financial burden"
"Or not a human with no skin or organs"

The countless murders of innocent little babies
For the so called rights of these many "ladies"
How can you remotely demand for a choice
When you don't even give the children a voice
Bohemian Mar 11
°                °       ☽     °   °              °
      °   °          °     

  _________
If you feel free
Being wicked even,that you've turned
The acceptance may begin to vindicate the sins.
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