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Ms Noma 5d
Veil your windows to the world
Stretch your arms and take a whirl
Feel your heart beat as a drum
Each soul can dance when music comes

Heads will bop in affirmation
Songs may bring us all salvation
Shoulders bopping to and fro
Feet are tapping fast and slow

Swish and swoosh of swirling skirts
The drums and tambourines are flirts
Enticing us to join the floor
And shake our bones right to their core

We dance and dance till morning’s here
Embrace tomorrow without fear
Soak the spirit of the songs
This is where our hearts belong.
Words stir the mind;
Songs touch the soul;
Truth pierces the heart.
Another mini-work.
Gale L Mccoy Oct 6
i want to say something
i want to say it weird
will you listen?
are you listening?
do you care?
i can't say this normally you know
it won't mean the same
you won't understand
maybe you still won't after this
but this way
i can excuse it as art

i think i angered an algorithm
i think there are worms
in the belly of what you call god
my body is buzzing and
i can only think of songs that feel similar
i tell you that i want to go to moonville
to fight my moonself

are you my back up
or my ride
or are you here for the show
will you throw a fit if i take my
moonself out for coffee
and a deep talk?
or will you provide me
with the sledgehammer to
grant my dreams of visiting a junkyard
Nat Lipstadt Jun 5
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”

nuts, crazy peeps

whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped

me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included

the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)

they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline

though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs

so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!

so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning

“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”

guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Nat Lipstadt Jun 7
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like weed,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Nat Lipstadt Jun 8
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)

<•>

familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence

but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy

so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love

what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed

now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>

I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:

selvage
late middle English, from self + edge

how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”

the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin

all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head

a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape


all daring you to say

I could
love
it  here
A Love Song
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west
Songs are an escape.
You don't hear the lyrics, you listen to them, and you truly understand the artist and don't feel as alone as you felt when you started the song.
Songs are a type of poetry that has music and is likewise written out of deep emotion.
Not some shallow stupid feeling that's temporary, but a feeling that stays with you for a lifetime
Apporva Arya Sep 28
My heart stopped at
an early age.
When i started thinking,
What i can be?
Will they like it?
Will they like me?

My own voice got lost,
in the noise of others.
My soul was singing in symphonies,
which my mind cant compose.
No one called out my name.
Neither do I.

It took me a long time ,
to listen to my inner songs,
calling out my name.
It was a moment of epiphany,
Which warmed my cold heart,
Stirred my soul.
And elated me above my fears and scars.

My MISTAKES and ME from my yesterday,
My SCARS and ME from today,
And the WISER ME from tomorrow
are now making up the brightest stars
in the constellation of my life.
Despite of my fears,mistakes and imperfection I am gonna embrace myself as hard i can and i am starting to love myself gradually little by little.
in a van
with an ex-friend
ex win
lose again
sitting in the front
you in the back
we’re so far
but tension dense
i sing the same sad songs
a symphony of sorrows
miscreated mini meals of sensitivity
things won’t ever be the same again
i lose again
ex win
with an ex-friend
in a van
what are you sensitive to?
Apporva Arya Sep 24
Love
What's unsaid about it?
Still it's different
and unique for everyone.

Sometimes,for me its like
songs of cuckoo bird.
Sun that rose again in my life,
a green oasis in a desert,
The best part of my youth.

and sometimes,
i am a lone warrior in the battlefield,
searching for the enemy soul,
dont know where to find
and how to defeat!..

I am not afraid of break-ups or
passionate love.
since who knows,
what love has at store!
the equal amount of love back?
Happiness?
Atrocities?
or may be a surprise?
i have decided not to be fearful anymore. whatever it will be,how far we will go i will cherish our journey,our moments together .Because now i know some people are destiny and some destination.
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