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Nat Lipstadt Dec 2022
Few people know how to take a walk. The qualities are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good silence,
and nothing too much.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson


A late-in-life walker, the words above resonate in my mind,
with a check, check, check, check and a voluble ding, reading

and nothing too much”

many a poem mine labored, birthed arrhythmically walking,
eyes see verses, verses fill the mouth, mind desperate as
the feet unceasingly trod round new corners, new visions,
Emerson’s words remind my well worn weary path daily renewed, a vocabulary child re-newborn, and how to keep all this forever,
until tomorrow, and nothing is everything all too much carried over

and nothing too much”

speaks to an openness in every orifice, be prepared scout-boy,
to adapt to nothing too much as hours earlier now recalled are ancient history, mind staggers at the minuscule differences tween yesterday and this exact moment in this exact place that has been reimagined, deserving of recording, notating, and my desperation struggle to
semi-successfully delineate, report, on all these
mini-magnificent miracles countenanced, overwhelms…

the brain furnaces/furnishes a thousand thoughts, a million worries,
slew of infinity-sized emotions like love of children, so it’s confusing to window-peeking  strangers watching for the walking man with tears pockmarking his cheeks, unaware that his each stride is a story, a unique grace forward and too, backwards, history mine, reviewed, graded, and the comfortable shoes, the old sagging clothes well worn and beloved, fit like gloves, whispering in the good silence,
a lamb sacrifice to the

good silence,
“human, your foibles and deeds, admixture of
blood inherited, a morality crafted by ancestors,
so the next step is

and nothing too much”* and everything…

Sat Dec10 2023
Shell Beach, Central Park, in my mind, and nothing is perfect
hazem al jaber Jul 2021
eyes speaks much ....

you will feel my love more...
more than i can say ...
more than my pen write...
just wait sweet angel mine...
wait our meeting soon ....
to look into each other's eyes...
to feel how much i love you ...
eyes speak much more ...
than words can say ...
yes sweetheart mine...
just wait to see my eyes...
and to realize it's words...
love you ...
and wishing you a wonderful sweet day ...
my sweet secret love ....
the most sweet secret i got ...
hazem  al....
whispering wind Dec 2020
you live in the back of my mind, under my skin whether you like it or not. you left a lasting impression on me and many, many others.

could i be as well loved as you? as celebrated and cherished as you?
im not sure if i can hold the space for you much longer, but i wish that you would guarantee that it was where you rightfully belonged

you could belong to me, if you wanted so

tell me what you feel and let the rest fall into place. until we can find that closure, reveal the truth to me and you, i will feel like there is an empty hole shaped like you.

i want to hold you so close that we become one
touch the tenderest fragment of the memory of us
and remind me why i have held on for so, so long

is it the clarity that i see in your eyes? the stories we have shared about our families, and our pasts. what is it about us that makes me not able to remove you from my mind?

i would ctrl + alt + delete you if i could, but there is a spot in my bed, and in my head, where you reside, so peacefully, so lovingly.

it's where you say I love you. where you got on one knee and where i said, "I do." Fiction and fantasy, my love sign, my destiny. Can it be, the spot where we can be ourselves, away from expectations, and closer to best friends, to the listening that led to my - strange and everlasting fondness for your memory.

Hold me please and never let go. You fly above, and I walk below. Perhaps our pace is mismatched, therefore I must journey on in hope that you will be waiting at my destination. Just for me.
Ashlyn Yoshida Nov 2020
Too much, too little
I'm intelligent and kind
Two lies, two truths
When you bore me
I will leave you
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2020

with time whittling my days down,
the plurality point of my days long since
surpassed, my poems to the wayside
fall as new generations seek the voices
that are nuanced to their ear, tastes,
I remain, for the more obvious, more now than ever,
forever for the poets who sign their emails to me with:

I close with much gratitude

spoke or unspoken,
you-see I-see your poetry nuggets in everything,
the extraordinary ordinaries!
that delight the weakening eyes, move the ****** muscles
upward and outward, those nuggets by that,
one can grasp
the nexus of existence in words few and singular, open/close,
and the filters that mark life as word worthy,
salutations of words like:


and all that matters is this simple, my friends, my children,
that I go down in days full of gratitude
for them, for them.
Maria Mitea Aug 2020
It is Friday morning,
I feel like a robot lubricating its joints
with peanut  butter and jelly cookies,
repeating its movements over again;
jumping, running and extending into
the big robotic world with the hope of
reaching out to humans.

Driving to pick up Hilda, a soul
that needs a ride to heaven,
her husband a former mafia driver, in his homeland, lost his car and driving license,
as the virus came and switched  his brain on shootings and killings he witnessed,
in his youth days, when worrying more for money than life.

I hope for no shootings today,
Friday morning, and
The sun didn’t show up in the sky,
It can be too much even for him shining every day, not an easy job warming up
earth’s feet when striving for a happy day.

It is early Friday morning,
The dog had no time for barking,
I feel like a robot that has been overused,

Waiting in the car,
I succumb to dreaming and export myself into a passed homeland life, were on Fridays evenings I laugh and wear cherries 🍒 behind my friendly years when Apollon comes with his sweet kisses.

My client arrived, she moves like a robot too ... I drive ... we reach in heaven as we start talking and crying, ...

Hilda opens like a flower to the sunset, while she is telling her life story,
and how much pain she carries in her feet and arms, cut off at every sunrise by her mother denial, shootings hit her heart,
I pray and hope for her husband to be well,
and forgiven by Gods.

Hilda’s storey wakes me up to being a human, ... between tears and pains we find our laughs, ... After we cry, laugh and feel the pain, me and Hilda we feel like two humans on Friday morning.
Thank you Hilda!🙏✨
KHY Apr 2020
So much for them;
I'll forget them
So much for me;
I'll forget me
Forget. In these trying times I find it hard to keep everything in. By forgetting my problems I forget myself. By forgetting others I forget myself. I forget.
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