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Jeremy Betts Mar 2
A life time lost, mindlessly searchin', wanderin' aimlessly in the margin
Lingerin' in the gray, outside yet somehow dead center of socially accepted norms and action
Starved of affection, but by design, never forget to mention it feels safer with zero human interaction
Parched, withering away, no reaction, no peace, only life but just a fraction

A scorched Earth, a nightmarish vision, a dream state of my demons risen
No rhyme, no reason, no time to be forgiven, is it a sin if the motive is kept hidden?
Does one exist if forgotten? No answer if you can't remember the question
Hence then, to stay afloat one must stop the spin of the downward spiral one finds oneself in

Listen, or don't, it won't matter in the end, frightened without the knowledge of when
A last breath taken after finally on the mend, would it be different if hope wasn't given?
A permanent decision, forever finally allowed to begin but could it be considered a win?
It's all about perception, a frown flipped upside down is a grin

Eyes wide shut, lie and try to pretend they're open, heart closed off, can't repair what's been broken
A conversation with a villan disguised by the voice of a friend, a danger unspoken
Another bad omen, no one around, both voices coming from a location deep within
What's been awoken has stolen emotion and allowed the erosion to begin

...and here...we go...again...
Nat Lipstadt Sep 5
“The executioner’s face is always well hidden”

a Bob Dylan lyric

mine own “ex,” in chest encased, silent, with grimacing smile,
happy to be of sir-vice, sent home unhappy, cause his cut,
not quite deep enough
this time,
though nearly succeeded,
but his biz is an-all-or-none inclusive Swifty tour, disillusioned,
he don’t get paid unless he brings my punched ticket to a glorious
sadness conclusion

someone asked (axed in local accent) if I’m nearer my god
having survived despite my best efforts at self destruction,
to which I’m smiling when uttering a “heartfelt prayer” of
Hell No!

cause the channel always been open and either side can initiate when so desired, the gates of love always open,
so wasn’t surprised when playing with my matches,
he went silent, but knew fully well, Mr. G a risk taker,
put his roulette chips on a “basket bet,” (1)
needing a double 00, to collect,
because, shoot, the timing was good…


ain’t naive enough to hope that a prayerful request
would not be met with a “now you want some intercession?”
and a heavenly sneer, cause we always been perfectly clear,
with each other, ask and you won’t receive, and none of that
what have you done for me lately razzamatazz,
nah, the record impurities gray
and no pencil erasures allowed…

knowing that the executioner will be back’ round someday,
my wounded heart too tempting to pass up twice, and
that’s ok, this old man learned to live with
a not entirely pleasant uncertainty,

”This old man, he played one,

He played knick-knack on my thumb;

With a knick-knack paddywhack,

Give the dog a bone,

This old man came rolling home.”

but he didn’t play two, having no kazoo!
Basket Bet

A basket bet, also known as a five-number bet, is where you bet that either 0, 00, 1, 2, or 3 will hit. It’s always these five roulette numbers. Since you need the 00 to make this bet happen, it’s limited to American roulette.
Brant Jul 10
The most useful lesson
conveys itself in the shadow of your words,
waiting for me to catch on
ky Jul 5
You were the sun, she was the moon, and I was the rain.

You, the sun,
would rise every morning, sometimes accompanied by the most
beautiful array of colors, other times with dark clouds so deep,
suffocating—your rays couldn't even attempt to shine through.

She, the moon,
would go away every morning, just as you were rising,
because she knew that you would be too busy fantasizing about
the mysterious rain that you could never love her liked she wanted you to.

I, the rain,
would come and go, loud and soft, hard and gentle.
I never saw you, the sun, give off your beautiful, majestic colors
because whenever I would come, clouds would shield you from
being able to send me your love in the form of tremendous hues
that would have made me stay in love with you forever.

If it weren't for the rain, maybe the sun would have fallen in love with the moon.
If it weren't for the clouds, maybe the rain would have stayed in love with the sun.
But the moon shines brighter alone in the night sky than it ever would next to the sun,
and the sun is much more beautiful without the rain.

That is why the rain went away.
It had fallen in love with the sun because it felt like the sun was
the only thing that had also experienced the storm, but the
difference between the sun and the rain is the sun shined after each storm.
But the rain disappeared.
The rain could never see the sun shine.
Tom Lefort Jul 2
The magic of summer twilight casts a spell
In ink blue incantations and honeysuckle dew.

Each shadow stretched out like the years,
That spread deeper and darker, stronger too.

As the mystery of day's last light is cast afresh,
Gentle glows, fearfully goes our sacred time.

Hidden there we lose and find ourselves,
In the murmur of the evening breeze, our lullaby.

It sends us, brings us to a mystic place
In which we all relive each memory's hew.

Tom Lefort July 2023
Nat Lipstadt Jan 3
my hidden shames

are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
 mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.

But they will someday
make an excellent poem.

Mon jan 2 2023


the askew

are  my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.

a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,

and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery,  by presenting me,
as if electrocuted,
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
their true Creator resides.

no amount of product
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .

a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.

But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.

same time & place

morning prayers are
a trilogy

the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
all of the above.

same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Nigdaw Dec 2022
I became hard
not like a man
but like a stone
a pebble on
the beach
able to blend
in with all the
other pebbles
and let the tide
wash over me
Underneath, there are secrets
Kept safe from prying eyes
Held fast and secure
Behind a lame disguise

Would they think less of me
If everything was shown
I wonder, would their eyes still see
The person they have known
Maggie Georgia Nov 2022
I forget that reading week
Has a hold on me
Five fingers wrapped around my throat
Holding me under
Under the sheets
Trapped in my head
Fighting myself
And the thoughts that bubble over after being hidden for so long
Are deafening
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