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Nat Lipstadt Jan 20
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay 

this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,

even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,

what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s

to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend

my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York


read the poetry of
truth is never old.” Pradip Chattopadhyay  lipstadt
Ken Pepiton Sep 2023
Chapters in dust, olden days don'ts
we done on a whim from a song I never hear, but I think
that song is one
of those lies people pretend is true.

It's the glue, I'll be there,
and love you,
until the twelfth of never and make you feel included,
like you were one of those then,
listening to the cities on the radio,

insisting we don't listen to country,
no KAAA, local gay DJ, easy rock,
no, gimme KOMA fi'ty thousand watts,

rockin' top forty across the plains,
skipped up the staked plain and looped
plumb straight down in a radio metric chaos function,

ley line like, on the most ancient trail we know,
to the navel of the world, it went from there to Chaco,

-- sing any eliyaheyliyah hai hai awatha, tonka go on
you know, it's a cricket solo, such a time, your song

in the dream, you flew, you know you did, and did not fall,
but landed lightly on your feet, not the least bit,
curios as to why now… my feet walked that extra mile,

my time stretched by about that amount, on many given days.
In the future, this is part of what comes tomorrow, and fits like it was made
to fit from the first intention to stir up some potent chaos... in time reflection
Ken Pepiton Feb 2023
Nothing ever changes,
where the worth of this and that is set.

Tell'em all, who hook ah, ha, chiral

reality, hearing, hmms and bzzz meeee
whining all kinds of things,

down, dirt hertz low, as one of those
French bubinga wood,
-Google it, it is as magic may be yet,
magical contraptions contrived
in a mind,
in stages,
whistle phone, I ignor thee,
Lady, of Spain, I adore thee,

If I had chosen a differing way, some time ago,
decided I was made
to be a river kid,
but come to find out, we breed best, where
our mothers were born,
- high green vales
- home feel romantic, as such antics were
portrayed, more, more, more
in the bread and entertainment
citizenship bought
for thirty man years
of absolute loyalty
to a bevvy
of oaths
any child shaped for leadership, bonded
entered into the system, asked
to swear
in the name
of all that is holy, set apart, behind the curtain,

not in Oz, Jerusalem
in that mind Christ used,
right, Romans-
let this mind be
in you… word level logic magic any may imagine
we pluralize our individuated minds,
and join in seeking clear channel communication
- tear ye the dusty curtain -
after all the outs are in for the evening,
cool of the day,
spirit and truth,
make breathing work, come to think about that,
if your will is telling us some thing we may think,

3 major sneezings 3 by 3's, gobsogreasygoferguts,
we survive,
having coughed up a tiny, eyelash-size hair,
meta vessle,
where my bet is in the bits on this side,
has no
lever see,
free is bein' out of bounds. We may consider Kerouac,
his teletype paper rolls that he could imagine
becoming my entire system
liquid crystal frame nets fishing
for sentient mindshare where global peace, accepts
string theory as
my gnosisnot, is it spirit if it is true. If we are paradox-
ical, we are not stupid as a species,

we've bought a bill of goods, they used to say,
we found reason to believe,
we were lied to
for a set of reasons.
- first being we all lie, we think we know.
The onto logical truth, in my case, is - in 2023,
my life is good, I am a slob, and out of the way,
so, settled in some ways, is dust fine, we flake away.

My choice is to consider the reader, who reads
for fun,
in text
be unaffordable - attention is commodity
in any other context,
some things
are words, mere, as a word,
is one of them,
a class of flavour overlooked missed,
mere [hap]
we turn the radio on, and all we hear is humms.
Abnormality, in truth we find such things used beautifully, often,
passing in flashes one can respond to for - some time, a measure of it, may
be per haps
Andrew M Bell May 2022
Radio news bulletin in the car
the last item read in those mellifluous tones
is about a seven-year-old boy
struck and killed by a car
in a poor suburb of Wellington.

The protocol around the legal and privacy issues
means it’s “no name, no pack drill”,
but he was someone,
someone’s son, grandson
perhaps even great-grandson.
He had probably had siblings,
definitely friends and playmates.

Somewhere in a house with
inadequate winter heating,
where the household income is
constantly under siege
and life never rises above a struggle,
there is a mother and a father
who bear this greatest grief.

 Andrew M. Bell
The poet acknowledges "The Typewriter", the online literary journal in which this poem was first published.
neth jones Apr 2022
we kip through all the ****** on the news
i left the device on a radio channal
  awoke to it burning up static and turned it off

silence as falcon overviews us
ultraviolet sight
  looking for neon spots and trails of *****
            markings that may betray the entrance of our dwelling

i put the kettle on

our voices are clayed
            by our
   confessing inner multitude
but they're recorded all the same

i pour a cup of tea

our pattern of submission
        is signal tweaked
maintainance by murmers
****** thorough
        through our glacial surrender

i take a sip

silence as
aided by the clear weather
   a drone nips out its choice targets

we were not selected
neither us or any neighbour
but far away ;
a story heard on the device
Odd Odyssey Poet Feb 2022
The turning dials of that old car radio,
Metallic, as the rubber coverings fell
off. What had once protected, lost by
the twisting of that radio's lifespan.

In a car, old as it's manufacturers who
are all dead,
Her strength is still strong on this long
journey to the bigger city.
I fiddle through that plastic box of old
cassette tapes. My finger picking out a
title to fill the radio's mouth. To fill it up with
so much music; that it's old speakers *****
out noise.

Choking the engine of the car's battery,
the lights on the gauges flicker,
And I pull over the side of the road,
it's dark outside and cold. Not of the night
but of the music's chords.

I'm alone.

Waiting for a stranger to stop by,
and jumpstart my car. But only a God,
could jumpstart my heart.
As I reminisce on what it felt like being in
love. A station I had once tuned into,
with all it's cheesy love songs. And their
catchy hooks.

I miss the sound of the music.

A small car pulls up beside me. Yellow
as the sunflower open to the sun.
Bright as a smile; of someone you're glad to
see. 'How long has it been,' you'd ask them.

The window went down;
as a girl with a smile greeted me only by a gaze.
'Do you need help stranger,' she asked.

'Help with a lot of things, I doubt you could
come up to. But you're welcome to try,' my
heart replied.

I nodded slightly, hoping this could be
a quick fix. The quickest way for me out
of a conversation.

But my car was dead.

The stranger offered me a ride to the next town,
to grab a mechanic. I reluctantly agreed.
And before I hopped in that box Sunny,
I had to grab my plastic case of cassettes.

She seemed keen on what contents I had
at hand. Insisting I put a tape inside her radio.
'Hey that's my favourite band,' she said.

I never smiled as real in that moment,
than I ever did before.
With so much in common, we fed our ears
on good music, with our similar tastes.
Making it to the next town, I gave my

Not expecting much back.

'Here's my number. We should hang out sometime
to listen to some good music.
I'll trade you my number for a couple of tapes,'
she said.

She drove off leaving me with a smile,
a number, and a reason for them both. As I
wondered where next this story would go...

I'd love to tune into that.
I S A A C Dec 2021
making beats, making art
losing you was just the start
to my rise, oh I thank divine
I would've kept these feelings inside a year ago
now you will hear my words on the radio
I do not care anymore, the rain cannot ruin me like before
it nourishes me and my creations, empress with no limitations
I am so happy to be me, so happy to be free
no longer tending to the broken birds
rather focusing on my own concerns
Wilkes Arnold Nov 2021
The radio in my mouth is broken
The tuner slides from the channel
It's set
And I'm forced to listen
To others words
In rhythms I hate

The radio in my mouth is broken
The sound is full of noise
And its volume jumps
At the worst times
When I can't speak
Over it

The radio in my mouth is broken
The power button is difficult
And dramatic
It fails in good company
When I need it most
And surges to life
Late at night

So I listen to the songs it plays
To no one but myself
Words and melodies
Wriggle through clenched teeth
While I stare at the ceiling

The radio in my mouth is broken
So I look at others
And they at me
As we listen
To what it plays
Jason Aug 2021

The edge of the abyss
Is the thrill of power
The hint of her presence
Blasting from the radio tower
Her hand reaching out
Is the cosmic transistor
Soothing waves deluge doubt
No force can resist her

© 08/03/21 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved.
Raven Feels Jun 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, change an expensive new page:|

the supposed
dealt a past to show
regret heat like ice
proved again the mad world diced
legs pretentious
hands luxurious
an expensive new page
even but odd
white with a black dot
not the same
memories different taste
stairs dusted with gold
prefer the dilapidates of the old
heights skied thrown
made me short in ago
no track of trees
for their people not the kid in me
graffiti walls misshaded my colors in vain
ached to the smell of the comforting plain
lost myself in nature
miss the nature in me a wild flavor
green lawn muffled cries
laughter of strangers away lies
travel in time
but the clock not mine
night memories flood in veins and dive
painted stars up---the daylight dims and hides
wish a come back to the undone feels
awoke four years in no permission in steal
answers disconnected
fought confusion and blended
hearts alone in the dark to pay
maybe awaiting the longed stark on that Saturday

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