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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2020
poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker

~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~

my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically
unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt,
spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key,
worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too?

He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated,
helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated,
woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha,
poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average

everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices
howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time”

alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll
go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock

the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too

to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems

everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that!


A wise man
Questions his own ideals
A fool worships them
Showing off is the fool's idea of glory.
You gave us a superhuman spider
and an insect of ant proportions.

You created the man of iron
and a man that can control it.

A pioneer of an epic approach,
you challenged a great authority.

By bringing forth enticing characters,
you lit a fire in those that followed them.

Everything about them is extraordinary,
and the passion radiated from the pages.

Thank you for all that you did, Mr. Lee,
you surely will be a man that we remember.

❝ Excelsior!❞
To honor the great legend, Stan Lee, I have made this poem.

In the words of the man himself: "I try not to do anything that's too close to what I've done before. And the nice thing is we have a big universe here. It's filled with new ideas. All you have to do is grab them." Basically, variety is the spice of life and with it, something miraculous could be made.
Khoisan Nov 2018
Far out of the corner of his
Eye he followed a star
Shining deep in the distant
Dark matter concealed his
Hand out of sight
The connection was COMIC
From the hammer of Thor
Stan Lee created
Spiderman and the Fantastic four
A tribute
To the late great
Stanley Martin (Lieber) Lee
28/12/1922 — 12/11/2018
Creator of Marvel Comics
Spider Man
And many other superheroes
May your journey continue
Among the stars into infinity
You only brought us joy Sir
Joe Nov 2018
Stan Lee.
The real hero of the pen.
The man who set our minds free.
The man who cheered us up again and again.
You will be missed,
But your work outlives you.
Cap and his fist.
Tony and Pepper too.
You created such a list.
Stan Lee WE will remember you!
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
and when your babies were born
you named them for the stars
but the backyard was all they ever saw
when your mother got the call
the world was obsessed
but when we change the channel
you'll still feel him inside
you'll still feel him
Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note
     recalling how I felt like an ***
and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered
     (as a heavy metal kid Rocker)

     toward befriending a brass
see gutsy, *****,
     and MainLine snooty upper class
action button down

    (grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting
     forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned
     by the instrumental
     Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School

     (mud flapping, ornery hearing,
     and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)
     music teacher oompah crass
tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire

     to master the Coronet
analogous to pursing lips
     blowing tightly held grass
blade between two abetted,

     cinched fastened opposable thumbs,
which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac
     to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass
     (ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)

with one steel funnel like mouthy mass
that probably explains, how such a gal
     could easily emulate
     ****** pucker earning pass

to illustrious honorable first chair
and blasts gratitude akin
     as Gabriel would declare
heavenly expressions conducting

     angels thru atmospheric ether
alighting on mortal ushering melody
     with rites of harkening
     springtime Renaissance Faire

solar rays golden raiment
     splays rainbow fragments off
     beveled, bellowed, and
     bedecked polished flare

audiological sound waves trick
     saw toothed reflected
     silhouetted orchestral shadows
to dance as conductor's baton gear
musicians horns ensemble
     epochal feast to hear.
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