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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016

for the early morning teach


she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update

"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."

it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain

instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears

"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."

and Mississippi ******,
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up

alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:

"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"

but 38% worse?

not an even-steven rounded up 40%,

should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?

and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)

and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,

it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her

"thinking of you"

or the 38% larger version thereof -

*"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"
2:44 AM,
of course
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men

it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now ***** and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted chemical organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient

here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
Marianne Cruz Oct 2018
If the world found
a way to let us meet,
on a holy ground, in an event with seats and
intentionally our eyes meet,
I won't see you as
the person I once loved nor the person I still want to have
for you're the person I'll always love
but I didn't need to have.

If the world granted us
a chance to encounter each other's lives,
inside a ride to a reception hall and
happily shakes each other's hands,
I won't regret the day we met nor the day you left;
I'd thank you for leaving me
to give me a chance to meet him.

If the world made us happen,
we'll be standing under ringing bells
but it is impossible;
so as I gaze at the sky,
I won't wish for a chance to be with you
nor a memory without a single trace of you.
I'd wish happiness for the both of us
regardless if we could've happened.

And now I'm telling you this:
Those what ifs once killed me
I hope it is not killing you
to not have told me your what ifs.
Zachery Oct 2018
Blood drops pitter patter drop/ Pool underneath red/ Surely a sign you are dead
for that certain someone
Mary Frances Oct 2018
Yours is the kind of love I once wished
The feeling that favored not just what I can give
but who I am - light and dark.
For years, it didn't change.
Instead, it grew stronger with every spark.
It's ever beautiful, peaceful and mild.
It's what I can call mine.
It's what I can call ours.
We may be apart but ours is the feeling
I'm quite certain as I am sure.
For you embedded my heart with words
that bring warmth like the sun's rays,

Avec vous, toujours
With you, always.
midnight Sep 2018
Meeting you
was the prologue
of a complicated story

Memories with you
were the chapters that developed
the "love" felt all throughout the story

Finding out
that you'd rather have my best friend than me
was the unexpected plot twist

Breaking up with you
was the epilogue of our story
that turned bittersweet.

You asking for a second chance
was an invitation
for a sequel

But my dear, I'd say no to that
For I cannot erase the period I placed
At the end of our story.
regina Jul 2018
I can tell you were doubting me.
I can see you were uncertain about what we could be.

But here i am,
I was sure about you.
I was certain about what we could be.

But all the certainty was not enough,
The love i gave was never sufficient.
Seanathon May 2018
You lead my ears to water
Thirsty once forever be
For it is May and I intend
To make this music mine to me

Forever yours
So is my artist
To will his will
Will ever be

For this exists
In both our minds
In memories mixed
With solidarity
Someone shared and you discovered. But to what ends? Sometimes we never know the degree to which we impact one another, for good or ill. And Lord knows I've been guilty of both such outcomes. But anyway... Play the **** song and put it on loop. (:
ash Apr 2018
Jesus looks down on me
A tidal wave of hope
Crushed and smashed against the rocks
It drowns with everything else

Somehow I make it to the nearest town
Looking for shelter
I stumble upon familiar roads
See familiar faces
Faces that may haunt me forever

I climb up a lighthouse
It should be the key out of here
It should show me all my future
It should have helped me

Instead I only see the somber clouds
And mystic fog settle in
I can’t help but watch the water pull in and out again
Drifting back and forth
Moon playing tug-of-war

I can’t stand looking at the familiar view
The same thing over and over
So I must ask myself these questions again:

Do you know who you are?
Do you know where you are?
Do you know what has happened to you?

Jesus send me another wave
This time of peaceful realization
Don’t send me away
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