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The hammer is falling, my fists are clenching and teeth gnashing while my bones are crunching. Waves of pain are crashing, breaking. The voices are calling but no one is there, not even myself. The blood is pumping, aided by adrenaline dumping. The lack of the drug is inducing my mind to start seizing, both my legs are freezing, involuntarily quaking. The sensation of claws are slashing my back. As my heart keeps thumping, pumping and jumping. Now my blood is pooling. So the attack dogs keep drooling. They smell the blood and begin to whip into a frenzy. I jump up and start running, because the dogs, when hungry are very cunning. I was moving fast as if I had wheels, but one dog was much faster and now nips at my heels. The dog bit my foot so I tripped and then fell. Now it’s gnawing on my leg and I don’t feel very well. So I patted the dog’s head and then laid down for a spell…will I wake up? Only time will tell.
Just HAD to write something. Couldn't take my lack of productivity any longer. And I don't ever want the (suicidal thoughts) that can result. So, yeah, here it be my beloved people.
Keah Jones Jun 2023
She is now all elbows and bird limbs
Eating her ever smaller
Hearing her cry in the night ****** nails on a chalk board
I want to hold her help her
Be the rescue swimmer in her ocean of tears
Holding for I am soft
Her daughter no fine specimen
A coward
A softy
Not once did she hold me
In seventh grade when I had my first kiss and he broke up with me for the girl with blonde hair and bangs
She said I was just too young
In eighth grade I fell in lust with a high school boy for the first time and ended it when I got bored but not before I gave him what i thought symbolized love.
I didn't tell her
In 9th grade I fell in love with a boy that would never be able to love me the way I wanted him to. But I stayed  for four years until I couldn't find any more of myself to break off and give to him.
She told me I would get over it.
I have a mother who the world made cold
And she had a daughter that felt too much
who she taught feeling was a waste of time
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2023
(and I cannot live
from with-out)

a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo


I, too:
          - am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight

                                I too,    
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor,  quite similar

         - my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
                                    noting, it lives my artifice,

with in & with out

Then, we are a We:
          - my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,

          - Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”

This duality:
          - where the haunting of words providential,
             emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
              She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out

She, Poetry:
          - leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
            depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements  of
            externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands             be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which

when Poetry’s  birthing:
          - chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
            abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
            no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
            product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth

you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you

“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*

just another unfinished work in progress

a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,

and you say to no one and to everyone:

this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry

(1) And Ruth said: “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Leave if You Can II

I live in the house of poetry.
I ascend her stairs slowly
and leap back down.
I sit in the chair of poetry,
sleep in her bed, eat from her plate.
Poetry has windows
through which mornings and afternoons
fall, and how well she suspends a teardrop
how well she blows until I tumble / With this
I mean to say that
one basket brings
both wounds and bandages.  
I love poetry so much that sometimes I think
I don’t love her / She looks at me,
inclines her head and keeps knitting
As always, I’ll be the bigger person.
But how to say it / How to tell her
I want to leave / honestly I want to
fry my asparagus…
I see her coming near
with her bottle of oil
and crazed skillet.
I see her,
her little bundle of asparagus
slipping out her sleeve.
Ah her freshness / her chaotic glint
and the way she approaches with relentless meter.  
I surrender / I surrender always because I live
in the house of poetry / because I ascend
the stairs of poetry
and also because
I come back down.

    — Translated by Lisa Allen Ortiz & Sara Daniele Rivera
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
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
One night
before I went to bed
while dusting my books
One by one
counting the ones
I had read
I came across
a book from you
I had it all along
I wish I knew

Chapters I never gleamed
Pages I’d never seen
About places
I’d never been
Experiences I never had
Things I never heard
and to add to that
a bookmark
with your name
and a blue bird

And out slipped
a photo of me
As I flipped
the cover to see
The title
And there was you
You fell out
from the book too

Two photos torn
separated by scorn
placed in pages of a book
Between the worn covers
were torn lovers
and It never dawned
for me to ever look
All stories end but some end
without the help of fate.
We need to open our eyes
and read the signs before it’s too late.
Rob-bigfoot Aug 2021
Statuesque, cocooned in a living-goat of many colours,
Fastened by multi-hued cloven hooves,
‘Approach without fear, do not listen to rumours’
‘I am learned in lore and wisdom, a parting gift from the Elves’

I nervously approach, what shall I call you?
‘Name? so many, but call me Mother Earth’
‘I am the embodiment of all that is pure and true’
‘The virtue of flora and faunae from their living-birth’

You knew Elves! I am full of envy and wonder!
‘Yes, for many years, hundreds by your measure’
I once thought I caught a glimpse, made me shudder!
‘Do not try too hard! their spell is dangerous treasure’

Surely not! they are renowned for their kindness,
‘No! the danger lies in your malign-heart’
All I want is a quick peek, I have faith in their goodness,
‘Very well, come back tomorrow, go it is getting dark’

Sunrise beckons, into the woods I eagerly creep,
‘Do your parents know you are here?’
No! they have eyes only for my baby brother! makes me weep!
‘Step into the light, and see what will appear’

Imagine my surprise, before me my sobbing parents,
‘They are distraught, thinking you have been spirited away’
But, I haven’t! I only desire a few moments,
‘Even a brief visit will condemn you to be forever lost and astray’

‘What you see is their perpetual abjection’
‘Your jealousy is corrosive and spells mortal danger’
‘There is a hard choice, Elves and no way back, or their salvation’
‘You forget the intense glow of their love around your manger’

© Rob perspiring-poet
Zack Ripley Aug 2021
I didn't change for me.
I didn't change for you.
I changed because I had to.
But the one thing I could never change
Is who I am inside.
Because who I am is too important
to leave behind
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2021
the truest love: ask me about too perfect*

this I believe:

that part of we humans
that intersects emotion
& memory retains a video

not frequently reviewed,
placed deep in an unlocked,
unlabeled chest of drawer

surrounded by keepsakes, hidden
letters, scribbled napkins and
a less-than-handful of stills,
plain poems of raw delicacy

infrequent summoned, preceded
by a stray, strong thot asking
no one but you, why now? what
was the trigger synapse?

the love, the being, blessed, cursed,
known by its call letters:
Nov 2020
joey Mar 2021
an intense or short lived passion
or admiration for someone or something
an elaborate definition right?
at this point i know this word well
it can be synonymous with puppy love
or a flight crush
it's the way you describe someone*
when you are in denial
about how you truly feel

when i was a sophomore
my hopes for senior year
included a high school sweetheart

but here i am
two years later
not in love

nowhere close to achieving the dreams
and hopes
a younger naive me
had for this age

part of me didn't expect to live this long
another-- upset that i have
without a choice
i've made it this far

infatuated with this dream of love
impassioned with creativity
and a solid outlet
not stuck at home
crying about the same old burned feelings

and yes. maybe there is a crush.
maybe slight feelings for a person
who is out of reach
too far away
to be tugged
into these hopeless arms

when i was a sophomore
i was happy with who i was becoming
and now i'm a bit disappointed
at how i have let myself lose that happiness
and had it replaced with

* ex. "oh i'm just infatuated" or "it is just an infatuation"
written march 19 2021 at 11 pm in my notes app
i couldn't get the word out of my mind and so i looked it up and the words spilled out of me (and yes it might be loosely based on someone in my life
btw "the more you know about..." is the actual title. i just felt like there should be a TW considering the reference to ending my life early in the poem
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