Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2019
”so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of
footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction”^ nml  2015


these very words, the issue of my Old Abraham body,^^
children, these, young children, now four year olds,
so ancient in word years, for they,
the product of decades lived, lost,
wisdoms now sudden unearthed by teenage poet siblings,
youthful all, who, stumble on,
uncover and resurrect as accidental tourists in a foreign land,
these very words to:

surprise me, remind me, recall to me,
how the words were cherished, tenderly loved,
now newly loved by those tender only in their years,
grasping pen and paper to diary their youthful travels and travails,
witnesses to their new early days,
exploring the boundaries of body + mind, exciting pleasures and

even more exciting,
their heartaches,
as they dabble in the unexplored,
the trial and error of life

Like life itself,
my writings follow no meter,
free in form, lineage and linage, to wander and to wonder,
follow machete carved new paths,
each essay, composite of the drips and dabs of a human,
a pastiche,

a composite
held together with spit and tears, reflections fresh on old memories, an accumulation of past deeds requiring final payments,
all stamped overdue as if we knew life’s actual due date,
when we draw the double line of final summation,
uttering, here, here are my totals!

it is the wee hours of the early day,
nighttime of the prior,  the when we humans pass
back and forth from the real to the spirit world,
when the unconscious and the faint hearted scheming merge,
when bare remembered imagined and real life dreams blend,
a potpourri
of our unique treasured immeasurable, red rich soil for our mining

this years land’s end draws nigh,
the belt drawn tighter though a new notch,
just now punched and prong filled, the airy atmosphere rushes into
spaces that did not exist moments earlier,
our belts, the tree rings of a human’s life,
our waist expands and mind shrinks simultaneously,
but one metaphor of our journey to ebbing

enough ramblings.

young poets, look forward and new, by screen refreshing eyes,
by visiting the trails cut by your predecessors,
like the breadcrumb words left behind with you in mind,
paste them anew in unforeseen combinations,
valued for being both prime time polished and real renewables
just “reborn”

our, nay, now your precious words,
precision tools to shape new dies, your poems,
for mine are almost all expelled

Dec. 18, 2019 2:30am

^^ Abraham laughed, and "said in his heart, 'Shall a child be born unto him that is a hundred years old? and shall Sarah, that is ninety years old, bear?'"[Genesis 17:17
a rover
of Dover
met his
match when
his feelings
were hurt
in a
pumpkin patch
and liken
to his
hitch where
government zoned
Eddie their
force indoctrinated
as his
thimble crashed
this weasel
A note about a buddy
Poetic T Mar 2017
"And exhale,*

        Wow it looks like a cloud of candyfloss,
as teeth try to taste upon the fluffy whiff riding
the air of exhalation.

"And Inhale,

         Lungs expand like balloons, as this melody
of plants and heat retreat inwards. Thoughts explode
like fire crackers and everything is "Chilled dude,

Giggling over nothing, but still they try to feed on
the fluffy clouds exhaled. "Dude this taste like ****,
Both laugh and take another trip on the train of somewhere.
JR Rhine May 2016
A tease, a tease,
oh how I am a tease,
for I write poems of which
you shall never ever read!

I eke, I eke,
these thoughts with blood as ink,
on gasping pages drowning
in the anguish that I bleed!

I speak, I speak,
of demons I've yet freed,
solely expelled for exorcise,
whose omens I must take heed!

I tease, I tease,
I do not aim to please,
for I write poems of which
you shall never ever read!
Our catharsis as writers cannot always be public. I think of "The Sorrow of War," by Bao Ninh.

— The End —