A hop, jump, and skip away
Was the happiness I found today.
I can truly say in every way
That I've found my way back home.

I said what all I had to say,
We listened to our music play,
And as we laid down spoken lays,
You healed my heart of sorrow's song.

Thank you, dear, oh blessed be
The eyes that see what I can see,
For whenever I look to thee,
I know that I found my home.

I don't know how to write poetry like I don't know how to kiss you.

Our lips touch, my heart races, but my hands don't know how closely I am able to hold on to you.

If I could write poems I'd tell you how holding you close feels like finding a life jacket when you're lost at sea.

I'd tell you how your smile is the safest place I have ever known. That I've decorated the walls of my heart with your memories so I have somewhere to call home.

But I can't.

When you're around my body becomes a garden.

Butterflies dance around wildly in my stomach, through a meadow of delusion.

Vines grow and twist around my heart, in the same way that they make old ruins beautiful.

My tongue is paradise.

A thousand blooms unfurling in your sunlight, a bed of velvet soft petals with the sweetest nectar you're only too happy to devour.

You gorge away on the sweetest fruits, th nectar, you take your cuttings for ornaments. And when youre done you leave.

Darkness follows in your wake, my eyes become waterfalls, washing any colour that remained until there is only grey.

I can't kiss you. Because I know that afterwards there is a storm without parallel. I know resting my hand on your skin is no longer a silent I love you. More like a moth flying to close to the flame.

And I can't write a poem, because when you leave me, there is nothing left...

We talk during the day
And prowl at night
Donning our costumes
To prey on tv shows
No matter how many
Cute girls I meet
I will never forget
The ******* who raised me

I did it
I regret it
I owned up to it
I apologized for it
and apologized for it
Apologized for it again
What more do you want from me?
What more do you need from me?
What else is there to say?
What else is there to do?
What else can I do?
I won’t apologize
I owned up to it
Regret nothing
I did it.
Done.

A morning offering,
Prayer is my best medicine,
People do throw rocks,
Thanks instead would be a shock!
I am a Christian, I say,
As here I sit and pray,
All's well that ends well, my boy,
Prayers to God are efforts of joy!

https://artsofthought.com/2018/07/04/why-i-always-carry-tissues-2008-the-poem-i-love-the-best/

To My Children:

I’m laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Than looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that when!
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d’etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n’ fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best…

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one’s fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep when!
When tears fall…

©Nat Lipstadt 2008