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  Apr 2018 Where Shelter
betterdays
her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,
One of my mother's requests....incredibly, poignantly  beautiful
  Mar 2018 Where Shelter
Nat Lipstadt
35,088 feet over Nebraska,  

(Nebraska-imagining me climbing a ladder, me upwards, Jacob’s angels coming down, off to a high school All Saints wrestling match in a cornfield town)

a place not on my bucket list, just a blue bias of an eastern stater’s unknowns, a sure sign of how much he doesn’t know

reading Patti’s slender volume “Devotion”

slender like her body, some would call it a wiry woman's
sparse but directed, connective, word-worshipping,
old familiar strangers she delivers to you that you have never met, her phraseology striking me and strikingly beautiful simultaneous

scan it and understanding instantaneous
she asking,
why do we write?

her answers are fine copper wire threaded
into a coil and I close it quick cause the loving ****** desire to
plagiarize such an oddly gorgeous offerings is overwhelming;
I feel the wire words piercing my temple, intending to
emerge out the other side, a decorative symmetry,
I don’t own

my need to script some cursive on my smooth body parts,
on my god-given papyrus, always at the ready,
is a methadone itch, a dulling urge needy for fulfillment,
that needs satisfying but me, soundly second rate,
write like the flip side of a hit vinyl record, no one is expected to play, fulfillment meets futility

thus the title is a modification of a Patti light touch

my alchemy never made any gold and my present presence now over Iowa a reminder that my prescriptions are 1200  evacuations; they are negative commandments,
proscriptions, not prescriptions

do not write, do not wrong words with a middling diffidence,
hide your face and put her words on a shelf above your head
hard to reach, so you do not be tempted

why do we write?

“All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.  
The words that will penetrate ******
territory, crack unclaimed
combinations, articulate the infinite.” Patti Smith

disambiguation she relieves us of uncertainty
my combinations over Waterloo, Illinois
are ordinary smokestack gray, a spewing wastage,
the angels conforming that my words Cain-fail,
my confession
meets no one’s standards, not even mine

7:07pm Central Time
march 25 2018
  Mar 2018 Where Shelter
Dara Brown
Every Sunday
we watch football together
& while we yell at the plays
I wonder,
when are you gonna let me
gain some yardage on you?

Every Sunday
You yell,
That fool could have scored!
& while I look at you
I say to myself
Yes, you sure could have by now,
but like that quarterback
you move too slow
I wonder,
why are we still playing
on separate teams
when we like the same game?

You’re such a fool

If only you knew
how badly
I'd like to tackle you
& convert these last 2 points
by letting you hang
Between my goal posts
rush my endzone
and make the best
touchdown of your life

Tell me,
Can we huddle?
Can we discuss
this repetitive play
we keep pretending
we aren't playing?

Meet me at the
50 yard line
Of your bed

Let's scrimmage
man
Where Shelter Feb 2018
Trigger  Warning:

I am about to advocate moderation and restraint,
counsel that has been known to spark
uncontrollable fury  in those for whom
anger has become a way of life.
  Dec 2017 Where Shelter
Nat Lipstadt
a message sent to me:
“I know you, Marrano, secret Jew of my heart, weakened by words and strengthened thereby...stout man of words”^

a stranger invasion - his technology, a new combine of words,
percentage of perception high, a ferreting scraping of tissue,
an abrasion of spoiler alerts that are not hidden but now summoned, despite being unbidden early on a Sabbath morn

and at this, my haunted hours, this secret Jew,
wanders unexplored yet familiar routes
of his well traveled innards,
pondering this sweet Shylock Accusation, nay,
this confessional truth, but more, the nut of his essence that ‘tis
his conviction, his twisted sentencing, the exact lived-level of
a hellish Dante verse that shreds the escape of sleep,
that is home

weakened by words and strengthened thereby

words forced to the fore, peremptorily summoned,
this inconsistency so constant, his battle,
where neither victory, loss or truce, are resolutions legitimate,
contradictory poems are the tension production
of this high wire act of the man, a performance
best assessed as one of always slipping,
more near-falling failing than cross walking,
employing his word emissions as a balancing pole,
and balancing is a sometime thing

I am not an illusionist - if anything, a disillusionist

there are stanzas writ
but unspoken
that shall not be out-spit
here or now; for lengthy answers already exist,
in a thousand prior scripts
and
the thin wire of preservation
teaches the value of brevity

stout, I think not,
man of words,  
no doubt,
one who is both,
a secret Marrano and a Jew, fully exposed,
and one who is
weakened by words and strengthened thereby


12/2/17 The Sabbath 3:33am

<•>
extra credit reading

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/529429/the-true-tale-of-shylocks-pound/
^from Jeff Stier to me:

“I know you, Marrano.
Secret Jew of my heart
weakened by words
and strengthened thereby

Stout man of words.
Where Shelter Oct 2017
an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything

when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
*****-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined

you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:

congratulations healthy swell
and/or
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell

when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming

a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,  
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity

you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime

you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,

I don't feel a pulse
what reading poetry is truly about: the endangered art of listening well,, a sustained exercise in empathy.
  Oct 2017 Where Shelter
Nat Lipstadt
The Daily Prayer                               The Daily Prayer
AUG 2010                                            OCT  2017

Be forever young 'n humble;   seven yearlings of plenty famine;
Feel ancient and royal;              youthful graybeard commoner now,
Ride tall in the saddle;              old hoary, crooked headed ancien
Do something nifty;                   content to just, just walk crookedly

Take someone's hand                if they permit, for hands gnarled,
Unexpectedly:                             roughened and time toughened,
Drive home in the slow lane;   only the city bus, now bows, kneels,
Do the de minims;                      how has the minimalist become
Do the de maximis;                     the max, the best old-dog-in-show?
Leave a book on a park bench;  forgetfulness, unintended bonuses,
Use pen n paper, write a letter; the fingers shaky press cell button,
Take a chance, make people laugh; your appearance quite the joke,
Barrel into contention;                 a barrel casket, half your wardrobe
Show mercy to the confused, no arrogance, have mercy upon poets,
Show anger to the abusers. for they fear voices calling out, account!
Bless a child with both hands; now take their blessings returned
Grasp your soul; throw it down, others sidle, it's our time, now,
Then raise a child to the sky.       to raise you up father of fathers
Straight up,                                    straighten your time bents, curves,
Build a continuum,                       honor thy work ever continuing
You and they,                                 we, and you, we are all your steps,
              on a ladder of each poem, to guide us heavenward


*each poem a prayer, each prayer a poem, passing back, coming forth in the crests upon the beach and bay you so loved, the moon and sun both shine simultaneously while it rains straight,
                                    all come, each to recite,
even the One with whom you vociferous argued, unrepentantly,
all here, together placing that weighty last period at the end of
                                        your daily prayer.
https://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=a+daily+prayer

a suggestion- read each side as a separate poem, then across as one

8:37am 10 years later, 10 years lateral, 10 years lovely. 10 years in the writing
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