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You
You build me with
turquoise and
the mountains of Taos.
Cerulean blue
serenity in my soul.
My heart chases
after you.
Even your chisel
helped me
grow through
the pain.
You
are the
grand artist,
The Supreme
sculpter.
Here's a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry from Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, available on Amazon.com.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHB1Q13LID4
The overlords are here
From beyond reality
Not to teach or to heal
Or hold dominion over thee
Not to persecute and pillage
Not to alter or rearrange
Not to allay our fears
Because we find them strange
Not to accelerate or motivate
Urge us on to our potential
Not to shows their technology
Beyond us monumental
Not mediate or pacify
Or empty man's bloodbath
Not to anoint or purify
But because they like a laugh.
I've been a thousand women
For a handful of men,
Each act greater than the last
But never enough for an encore.

At the end of the night
When I take off my mask,
Ready to be the one they fall for,
It's only emotional baggage left.

So I'll pack it up
And put it away neatly,
In case they ever return,
And I'll yearn
And I'll wish
And I'll dream
For someone to WANT to
Want to be with me
I want to be wanted
But scared to be seen
I think truly I know
What that means in the end for me
My father died of dyslexic alchoholism
He choked on his own Vimto.
i will continue sleeping
and the wild horses will keep on running
with each gallop of their hooves
they'll match the clap of my heart
until they trip over themselves
with exhaustion
breaking their ankles
and never rising again
~ for spygrandson ~

with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/


<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…



a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
can they not be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated


ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done
Nat Lipstadt my poetry is there. It just took a year to get my password reset to me. This should be the link:

Nat Lipstadt my poetry is there. It just took a year to get my password reset to me. This should be the link:
https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/


sat 8/24/2024
5:20pm

written in a one fell swoop,,
hat in hand,
bowing low to reflect my deep respect,
listen to my grandchildren fuss, fight, whine and
laugh,
for that is the mixture of our
own individual humanity
 Aug 2024 William J Donovan
najy
have I ever seen your missing sock?
hanging on the wall with the rest left behind
unaware it touched the feet of someone I’ve yet to meet
but knew so well a thousand lifetimes before.

have our clothes shared the same space?
yours in the washer mine just sudsed in
while mine dry on medium heat in the third dyer on the right
and I sit in a coffee shop
and you go to walk your dog.

and when I retrieve my clothes
yours are in the dryer next to mine
the fourth dryer on the right
did I leave a sock behind?

as you take your clothes from the dryer, do you see a fallen sock in front of your machine?
Halloween in August
you have no idea it belongs to me.
am I even still a memory?

and I come back next week
unaware we both have Tuesdays off
your clothes are in the washer
as I load mine into the spot next to yours
and I go to put coins in
I realize my mind got the best of me
and I have no cash for the change.

as I run to the bank
the timer ticks down
you walk around the corner from the opposite direction
you make it back two minutes to spare
as I wait in line to avoid an ATM fee
you toss your clothes
(or do you load them with care unlike me?)
into that third dryer on the right.

like a ghost you are gone
and I never knew you came
as I trade a $20 in for more quarters than I can carry
the rumble of your clothes harmonizes with the clinking of the coins and then the wooshing of the water.

when the beep comes and I roll my clothes to the dryers
I curse whatever stranger chose the third dryer on the right
in my mind I’ve always claimed that one as mine.

unaware I was cursing an old friend
and I’m the one who is cursed
so I guess that makes two
this eternal phantom dance we do
my midnight confidant
from a past life
intertwined with my mundane routine
so far and so close from our star filled dreams.
My periods turn to semicolons
My suicide notes to poetry
My goodbyes became hellos
The blades turn to sunflowers
And the bullets, a rose
My heart still is broken
But the pieces have been found
Death isn’t for me anymore
What is, in the here and now
I still don’t feel enough
But I am alive
And that’s enough to say
Today is not the day I die.
More times than not,
The hero in me
Trips over the zero in me
I get caught,
Tangled up in the calamity
Of this often-overlooked emergency
A played-out plot,
So there's no urgency
I already know the worst in me
I don't pick my spot,
Never holding back what I let people see
Keeping me under wraps was getting especially tricky
I don't know what I wanted, or what I thought
But this is what I got,
Me,
My own worst enemy

©2024
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