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Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of ****
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?
**how will I breathe?
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
They were young and in love.
They didn't know, what it was
All a game of push and shove.

Smoking up and gazing at the stars above.
Without any reason, or any cause
They were young and in love.

Black dress and a leathered glove.
That one night, inside the bus
All a game of push and shove.

Like a pair of mourning dove.
Always sticking together, because
They were young and in love.

Maybe in their naivety, they knew love.
Maybe it was better, when it was
All a game of push and shove.

Maybe the river of **** flows to the ocean of love.
To them it didn't matter, what is was
They were young and in love.
All a game of push and shove.












Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
I am often accused of not writing anything naughty. So, I thought of giving it a try. Happy reading!
I want to do it
But I don’t want them to hear
They’d finally hear the pain
The screaming
And crying
The pain I feel
In my core
The one I wish to leave
The one that makes me want to die
**** it
Seanathon Sep 21
The slowest pain
  In the back to explain
    Is when someone you've known
      All along from the start
        Pulls out the knife
      Slowly inching by inch
    Almost surgically
  Barely missing your original heart
An old write about an old misunderstanding. It's sad really. But I did my part.
the strongest thunder in the street
and in all the lakes today
today it was reflected
reflected and sparkled
and range all the limits
and the stars fell off
and there was no sun
autumn has come

07.09.18
Hunger claws through my eyes.
I grip my empty stomach, quieting the growls through shifting feet.
A heinous cycle caused by a faulty mind, and terrible reflection.
Tiredness floods my foodless body.
My teeth grind like earthquakes.
My lips ***** like the Earth's crust.
My eyes drift like the tides.
Enthusiasm no more than a relic in my voice.
My brain is a dying world polluted by my thoughts.
Nobody notices the storm
Until that is.
A girl with enough passion to power the winds came along.
She told me,
If you've ever cared at all
about yourself, something, or someone
you should eat.
She stood with me until my stomach was filled, and life began to crash through my veins.
She could see my planet-like eyes screaming in hunger,
She gave me the hope to stand.
For if someone cares enough to force me to eat,
I can care enough to stay.
The foodchain stabilizes,
The plates create new mountains,
and new life begins again.
-
a thank you to the girl who cared enough to talk to me,
stuff food in my mouth,
and remind me to eat dinner
-
?
Was all the agony worth this splash of interaction we get?
The lonely?
The anger?
The sadness?
Was it worth it?
The hours my eyes stared at a ticking clock whilst waiting for you too show up?
The terrible misery than burns in my fist?
Was it worth it?
I’ve waited a year just to see your face, and this is what I get?
Conflicting emotions that battle for hours?
Is it wrong that I’m mad at you?
Wrong that you wasted everything I have?
You still care about her more than you care about me?
Why?
Was it worth it?

Yes.
Somehow,
It was worth it.
Arsène Aug 20
Drowned in pills
Her morbid gaze and soulless eyes would send me chills
A relationship empty but a foundation of thrills

Her beauty piercing as to be posey
I just delighted she chose me
Her slightest whim I would mosey
Or she'd batter, bruise, and expose me

Why me I wondered at times
As her white powders were sniffed in reverent lines
Too petrified to ask
Her actions ignominiously grasped

So I left
My feelings undealt, as I wept
And all of my friends were gleaming
But I didn't know what to believe in
Value your self!
trf Aug 6
skipping stones along the shallow banks,
my toes numb from the cold mountain water,
flowing purposefully, free to escape
& moving with pride down the ranks.

I find my mind there, in this place,
where momentum is the only answer.
I turn my *** upstream, can't face the past,
but my prior storms of debris follow, biting back.

side arm throws & one eyed aims,
embraced by lies & I'm alone to blame,
in this place where time is free,
gold dust lace must find me.
Let's skips our stones and create minimal ripples.
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