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amber Oct 9
are you a person,
or a cloud?
you seem to be,
physically solid.
you are warm,
under my touch,
but sometimes,
I feel you fading...
evaporating,
like water vapor,
into a cloud,
above me.
Willow shade Oct 3
Though there is no physical reciprocity
and there are permanent, long distances,
you are becoming inside in an unfamiliar way,
even living myself completely down...

Not too anxious for such paranormal states
since I learned the influences of your stirring...
I know you are just growing inside again
leaving all emptiness silently away...

Leaning on the wet grass dreaming of you,
the sky is spread over before my eyes;
resembling you as receiving me with open arms,
reflecting your hair - as dark as night...

Something was born within, profound and new
as I made my sublime wish beneath shooting stars;
a couple of hearts beating inside in tandem
and I live everything twice upon a life...
Johnny walker Aug 22
I now walk a thin white line between the present since my sweetheart been gone and the past but find
myself leaning more
and more
towards the
past
So much more I'm living
In the past compared to
the present day that consist of nothingness boring
empty days without
Helen to
hold
One night I'll return
to the past and to my sweetheart In my dreams
but I won't be coming
back I won't be waking
from the
dream
Johnny walker Aug 21
The highway was once for strangers that I travelled
on led me to your door to a life I'd never known
before
And the stranger I once was became no more finally find found a place to settle down
with a
girl
I once could only dreamed about the stranger who came knocking on her door suddenly became a
stranger no
more
Poetic T Aug 5
I was swollen in
  the whirlpool of coffee
            
                           hangovers.

Tsunamis of headache
                                  neglects.

But when the waves of coffee beans
               collected on my shores



I trod upon them, crushed and slowly
                               roasted under repeated waves.

And then they washed over me,
                            caffeine drops falling
               like rain on my senses.

When I was drenched,
                      calmness fell upon my mind,
                     And I was myself once again.
Once upon a time,
I dressed in fluffy frocks
and wore tiaras
believing I was a princess.

Now that I am older,
I find myself dressing in others skin
believing mine wasn't worthy
of being worn.
fix
The world falls upon me,
So heavy, Yet I outlive it,
Piece by piece fixing life.
There was nothing to compare waking to my wife on beautiful
morning birds singing their songs outside our
window almost as
If
they singing for my wife and I With the sun finding Its way through gap In the curtains to shine It's warmth on my
sweetheart
This was nothing more beautiful to waking to
Helen on a sunny
morning birds
singing


The most damaging and deceitful lies

are the ones we tell ourselves

Written: April 20, 2019

All rights reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
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