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I asked about a man named Wealth
Who lives nearby - just up the street
I asked his nearest neighbors
About Wealth, and when I could meet

The neighbor on the left replied
That Wealth was not a friendly guy
And since this was the certain case
To help us meet - he wouldn’t try

And then the neighbor on the right
Said “Wealth’s a super friendly man”
“Easy to talk to - fun to see”
Could we meet?  “We surely can”

Both neighbors quick to answer
But with such different views
It left me puzzled right at first
But soon I knew which view I’d use

So Wealth and I remain good friends
I’m happy that I know him well
Get to know this man called Wealth
Enjoy his home and with him dwell
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This poem was not the easiest to write.  I really did inquire of a person who lives near me, and I received different views from both of his nearest neighbors.  So I started out telling about that experience, and then linking to prosperity.  Then I decided it worked much better to have the man actually be a man named wealth.  Are you friends with Wealth?
Seanathon Jan 13
Sleeping soundly on your memory now

I dream of uncollected worlds
Where young girls dance at summer weddings
And foolish men take their cars for spins and whirls

I've seen you less and less, in the headlights of happiness
My onetime escape
From you I'm free

Within the dance of newfound reflectiveness, I'm free indeed
Certain Sounds, Revisited
Amanda Dec 2019
As I become the thing always feared
See my life ending too fast
Honest consequences catching up
Chance after ruined chance
Wasted mistakes consuming me
Fall to my lowest point
Scrambling to hold together
It's no secret I'm a ****-up
Never following through my decisions
Promising to be a greater person
Screaming at reflection
Cold to touch
Colder to feel
Thawing much too late
But for certain
Softly inviting something like love
The wanting in my eyes
Silently hoping affection
One small kiss
My biggest wish
Must be dreaming
No one will ever want this
Ehh
Seanathon Aug 2019
Rich and dark, like apple cider on an October street corner
I didn’t know you, dulcet and sweet
Until the full weight of your intoxicating world washed over me
These quiet little human memories - Good ones
Carl D'Souza Jul 2019
I am humble
when I’m aware
that I don’t know anything for certain;
that all I am aware of
are philosophical-questions
with uncertain changing answers.
Robert Ronnow May 2019
Bear’s certain
it’s a bear
alone with salmon
it’s a bear
on the mountain
it’s a bear
up a canyon
it’s a bear
eating berries
it’s a bear
sedated, carried
it’s a bear
answer, query
it’s a bear
clown or faery
it’s a bear
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 naked 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,
because
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 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...
Yani 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 if’s once killed me
But I’m glad it led us here.
Zachery Oct 2018
Blood drops pitter patter drop/ Pool underneath red/ Surely a sign you are dead
for that certain someone
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