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Enas Sep 22
She is but stardust

written across the skies

of haze and wanderlust

with wayfarer soul eyes.

Like ultraviolet rays,

she cannot be seen,

she reaches in waves

shinning in dark scenes.

Wish upon her,

this shooting star;

gaze upon her,

a celestial bell jar.
Jay M Sep 12
All are dancing slowly
This masquerade
A gala
Yet
All is in great discord
Among the orchestra
One is out of tune
Yet
None seem to care
To hear the broken melody
See the chip in the stone

Cover it up
With a little paint
None shall tell
Besides the meek little pup
Soon it shall faint
One shall yell
While the rest
Ring, ring, ring the bell
Dancing in discord
To the broken melody

Pulling out a flask
‘Neath the rows
Folk chatter and ask,
“Isn’t something off?”
While the other throws,
“Neigh!” then one does quaff

Shine a light
Alone the floor
Hold one tight
For one shall sing no more
Grasp it
So one may not fall
That she would not permit
Not a’tall

Sing, sober dream
Whisper your whims
Through a beam
On a limb
The lullaby
Child doth cry
Sing, sober dream
Sing, sing,
For ‘tall must end
One day.

- Jay M
September 12th, 2019
Laokos Jul 19
ring the
bell
crystal chime
shimmers

ring the
bell
my mind is
a stallion

ring the
bell
to all the people
that at least tried to
love me

ring the
bell
break like the ocean
against the cliff

ring the
bell
and watch every
crown melt

ring the
bell
and bless your
enemies

ring the
bell
and fade away

ring the
bell
you are no
more

ring the
bell
you never were

ring the bell
    your time
     was here
     was now
     was yours

did you drink it deeply

did you try

every moment
was treasure
every moment
was fleeting
every moment
was hiding
every moment
was yours
every moment
was beautiful


like first
heartbreak


like a crying
child


like a
predator



like sleep





ring the bell then and
rest

your smile
was here





and it had
more power
than all
the gods
Persephone Jul 6
Her wings fell away
And she descended into the willow
Screaming for her laughter
And wishing for her hope
She warped into a free fall
Crashing into heartless branches
Grasping for a helpful hand
Engulfed in wordless fear
Forgetting to believe in herself
Bellissima May 13
The swing set where we swung
was a pendulum passing time
along with our swelling bones.

The asphalt where we played and skinned
our knees now skins our souls.

It's black earthen colour stains the bottom of our feet
as they rinse ***** and dirtier trying to get them clean.
The school bell rings and our playtime is over.
*d i r t y*
Nat Lipstadt Mar 5
letter to elana

for the poet elana bell

~

in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading


this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...

~

postface:
another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges
Feb. 21 -March 5, 2019
NYC
another true story

^ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elana_Bell
Hey you there!
Sunshine that ringing like a bell
Get ready to shaking my cell
Made little butterflies over my head won't stop yell
Back to a thing that i ever fell
Little secret that i never tell
To the one that clearly to spell
I'm standing here just wishing you well
a snooze
on anesthesia
though boastful
chunk of
elaboration and
lesson refractory
that omnipotent
was such
rapport with
edification I
lied and
over her
***** that
melded ours
in peals
of natures
finest planet
west of  OK City
Danila Mokhonko Dec 2018
the pastor drives
to church,
arrives by
half-six

to ring the bells
for God
with a burning passion;

ringing those
******* bells
as if
Judgement Day
is just around
the corner.
Thorns Nov 2018
Ring on your finger

Ring on your lip

A ring in your heart sounding off

Like a bell

Get a grip
Get a grip

I'm the only one for me
I am...
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