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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
commemorated-worthy
and
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
.
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

first,
she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
:
perhaps
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes


  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
this,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye

poets.org
koreen Nov 2016
"Yours and always will be"
I was sure from a long time ago
From the first time you made me see
That I was never on my own

"Just think of happy things"
Your eyes, your voice, the feeling of your hand
"And your heart will fly on wings
In never Neverland"

You flew with me from lowest lows to up above
And helped me walked through my darkest hell
Before I knew it, I was in love
But my dearest, I was the only one who fell

I won't ask for more, nor ask you to love me
You, unknowingly, already gave me enough
All I want in this life is for you to be happy
I'll always be here for you even when things gets tough

And it's inevitable, someday I will flee
We'll be apart, not just miles, but worlds
But when I said  "my heart's yours and always will be"
Expect that I will remain true to my word.

Being in love with you is an adventure, oh so lovely
Until now I am still falling from the sky
Even when I hit the bottom, don't you worry
For you, my Peter, taught me how to fly
Happiest birthday to my dearest, ljh, thank you for the 11 wonderful months of me being in love with you. Thank you for being born. Thank you for smiling, for singing, for working hard. Thank you for teaching me how to fly. I love you so much, more than eyesight, space and liberty.
The doors were shut again.

Inside, Wendy could hear him typing. The click and clack sounds of a typewriter had grown monotonous to her, a never-ending drone, so unlike a human heartbeat.

Jack said, “Wendy, let me explain something to you. Whenever you come in here and interrupt me, you’re breaking my concentration. You’re distracting me. And it will then take time to get back to where I was.”

She placed her hands up on the doors and put her ear to the wood, listening.

Click and clack, click and clack.

Jack said, “When you come in here and you hear me typing, or whether you don’t hear me typing, or whatever the ******* hear me doing; when I’m in here, it means that I am working. That means don’t come in.”

Jack asked, “Now, do you think you can handle that?”

Wendy liked to believe the best sound in the world was the sound of creation. Jack favoured the clatter of typewriter keys. Wendy preferred the sound of laughter.

Wendy wondered, with all this typing going on, if she could still keep her place in his heart.
On a foggy dark London day
Strode Mr Prufrock, Alfred J.
He made many an allusion
About ****** confusion
Now he’s dead like Phlebas…ok?
Similar to Wendy Cope's Waste Land limericks.
I am an old soul
with an open heart
to love like that of a child
It is never really hard

Anyway
We're all but children
Trying to sort chaos
In these adult forms

We're just stuck
In the land of not Neverland.

9 to 5 menial jobs
Whether in the night or day
We take whatever luck
That comes in our way

Life is a circus
We ******* know it
Like an elephant in the pedestal
They beat us to it

Your chest houses a lodestone treasure
It strongly attracts
The every atom in my body
That's the least I can measure

We have an affinity
This is some sort of attraction
You
A darling boy
and I am
Just a girl

Let's get out of this world
Together let's fly away
Be my Peter Pan
I'll be your Wendy
Peter Pan said Wendy -
There's something I want to tell you.
I am neither straight nor bent
But what you might call bendy

Captain Hook stopped reading his e-book and eavesdropped more intently.

Peter knew what his flexible friend meant and spoke to her quite innocently.

Wendy - I am as vanilla as Manilla envelopes in a creamery with whitewashed walls
And identical twin albino Godzillas fighting snow leopards with cue *****.

No gimp suit in fifty shades of grey for me.

I am pretty much hormone-free,
More than happy with asexuality,
Playing pirated computer games on one hand
And others' loves that dare not speak their names which fewer understand.

In my world of dreamery certain flights of fancy pass me by.

I love to fly and you Wendy.

And I love you too Peter - Not Everygirl's Ideal of A Real Man.
But I can understand the attraction of Lost Boys and their toys in Neverland.

We've known each other for all these years,
Shared too many troubles, thoughts and fears
To be anything other than in each other's hearts.

If I never visit Neverland again
I know you will always be my closest friend,
What, where, whenever happens
To the bittersweet end.

May we both be dying for an Excellent Adventure,
If not together then separately.

There is nothing better than to know
That you will always be there for me
No matter how we might grow
Into this 21st century.

And one day I may straighten out
But
That's
Not
What
Life's
About.

Captain Hook put down his e-book and Facebooked a friend...............

And that is where our story will end.
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
My heart cry 4 smoke ,bt my life **** i try to drink bt i get drank ,i always drink alcohol an people call me alcoholism.i let my heart free but i always has to feel the pain in me.am **** enough to say i love u ,beauty to let go of the real me.until i found the one for me an change me forever an thats you.
1.life is not a play game.
2.u wil always have a good time but hurts after all
3.every smile has its on season believe me i am in pain but am stil searching for tht happnes ,sometimes i even feel like dying but i have only one reason to live an thats my mam
Peter never understood why Wendy was meant to grow up
why she had to leave the blissfulness of Neverland

If there's an answer to his questions it would be that
she was dreaming of castles and voyages and someone to love
while he was mischieving pirates,chasing a never setting sun

I often wander if I'm more like her,
sincere, gentle, a duchess-to-be
a young girl who dwells in stories

or like the boy who wouldn't grow up,
nonchalant, full of lovely wonderful thoughts,
Peter Pan,the one who could fly

But what did he do when she left?
Is she a beautiful memory in a child's mind,
why didn't he abandon immortality for love?

Here's Wendy, back in Kensington Gardens
a lady asking herself what if I had stayed
why couldn't he abandon youth for her love?

And she will forever remain in his mind as a little girl,
who played family with and dreamed
but Wendy will be married and will be kissed
but not with him.

And Peter will always be a chasing dream,
a fairyland with pirates and ships,
a world of villains, mermaids and the boy who
didn't return her kiss.

I read, imagining his crooked smile growing up
or her staying forever
and none of these feels completely right

In the end, I am another lost boy who went to Neverland,
and flew and fought with a sword, and swam with mermaids
and danced around fire with the eyes of Tiger Lilly

Sometimes there I return, finding him lost in her thoughts,
but there again everyone's forgotten among the things we never say...
thoughts on a tale

— The End —