"accrete" poems
for Alyssa Underwood
~~~
my poems do not trend, go viral,
Fast and Furious!
yet, they do not die
they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered,
smoothed by time,
upon the surface of the
green earth waiting patient, virtuous,
purposed for itinerants bards
to trip over one
one some someday
somehow they accrete a readership,
slow stepping and steady from,
|the seekers and the stumblers,
the droplet drinkers,
meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years,
miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form
beneath the alluvial streaming
of the waterfall crescendo
of words
I like this
when another traveler sends me a like,
a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation,
for a long ago, barely recalled, writ,
allowing them to carve their initials upon the
external, visible roots of my tree trunk,
invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring,
forcing me to look down,
look back,
take measure of myself,
accepting myself as not wanting,
nor lacking in other's acceptance
these statements are neither boastful or illusory,
*yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures,
slow to chew, fast to the taste,*
reminding me of old friendships,
well valued,
though no longer fully employed,
their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure,
their discovery is my own re-discovery,
exposing flaws and fallacies,
even fallow,
mostly shallow facts
about me
all of them,
a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh
with and at
me,
when I think to myself,
Holy Crap! did I write that?
copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Day eleven, I'm missing you
and I'm feeling like sinning,
maybe I should start from the clement beginning.
Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone
contemplating how I accrete age
and how many seeds I have sown.
Day two, palimpsest problems
weigh in heavy on my choices
and my mind has many voices.
Day three please don't look inside hollow me,
the pregnant wasteland of my heart
has been growing ruin from the very start.
Day four and out all my emotions pour,
I'm breathless from a sight of you
and my whole world returns anew.
Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night,
authored by your omnific fingers
and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight.
Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more
and I asseverate promises,
becoming blurred by family uproar.
Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication
and we know an end is coming,
lost in the easy salvation.
Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled,
you are a plagiary of my emotions
forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation.
Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end,
conclusion of what extent?
and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent.
Day ten and you're caught,
in my arms is where you ought to be,
and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
So there’s a girl across the street
A girl to whom he’s grown accrete
A girl he’s just to scared to greet
But yet still he sits and hopes
You see she’s in love with Darren
However Darren’s in love with Karen
And Karen sits and stares at Bob, who’s probably gay, probably not,
But still he drools over Linda,
Who’s stare is blank and barren,
Pointed at the anti-nerd, football loving, guru Darren.
Yes it’s really that simple,
Forget love triangle, more love enneadecagon,
Gone,
That reminds him, as it hits his head like a hadron,
Gone,
Are his hopes of him and the girl across the street.
Her features to him, were long developed similes,
They came to his brain, seamlessly, chemically,
Of course he’s never express these feelings formally,
But to him they acted as a soothing love remedy.
Her eyes were golden like caramelised sugar,
Or the enticing qualities of slowly melting butter,
Each eye, a galaxy waiting to be discovered,
And yes he means the chocolate bar.
Her hair is crimson like strawberry laces,
Which reminds him of the disadvantages of having braces,
But he braces himself as though it’s his duty,
Braces himself for an overwhelming amount of beauty.
She talks to him about all the awful things that guys do,
She then says she wishes that more guys were like you,
She says she wants that guy to show up this year,
But what she doesn’t see, is that that he’s standing right here.
So there’s a guy across the street
A guy to whom she’s grown accrete
A guy she’s just to scared to greet
But yet still she sits and hopes
You see he’s in love with her neighbour,
A chore that she knows can be a labour,
Yet she knows she can be the saviour,
Because she is even greater
So one day to no surprise, he’s looking out with eager eyes, they lock eyes, butterflies, quite surprised, more butterflies, they remain like that til sunrise, emotions start to normalise, then fluctuate because of those **** butterflies.
So there’s a girl across the street
A girl to whom he’s grown accrete
A girl he wasn’t scared to meet
And now they live and bond
Because that girls in love with Darren,
However Darren’s in love with Karen,
But who cares,
They have each other for the rest of their days
And beyond.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:57 AM UTC
tired of my drooping Hanes,
my slept-in choice for greeting
a new morning tad overexposed,
my weekend breakfast table
body's accoutrement,
"coverup" she deemed accurately
as in-suffice,
my nighttime slept-in choice for
welcoming the new morning
as a single continuum,
exposing my true colors,
thus declaring biblically,
"Let there be night, let there be day,"
in a manner of speak
she-woman wryly declares
over her slim sizing
yogurt Greek and half of a laugh
of a banana downsized,
"You need some loungewear"
pondering this ponderosa-sized ponderosity,
grasping its monstrosity insulting me,
coffee pouring, Eye, a
first responder
contemplate irresponsibly,
thinking to reply with bravado,
that on said day,
when Eye accrete
such a class of clothing
so nomenclatured as
"loungewear"
upon my person,
or in my ward-so-unrobed found,
unasked for,
Eye will require transgendering
but my tongue bites me,
so instead
draw down on my John Donne,
on the subject of
food, good taste
and being unclothed,
and instead
He-poet
bequeath the she-woman
this riposte...
*"Full nakedness!
All joys are due to thee;
as souls unbodied,
bodies unclothed must be
to taste whole joys.*
wisely retreating than be
defeating,
not wanting
a world war conflicting,
with coffee mugged, Eye return/hide,
under the bed's blanketing comforter,
thinking of the taste of whole joys
of her body unclothed,
when later, she creeps in next to me,
to practice the serious art of
lounging...
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
While in war, target is enemy down
Gathering men to the frontline
After war you accrete alot and advance for expansion
In your flock include; captives and dreamers
Maximum loyalty an initio
But a gun resolution is sound track of history.
Your greed in recruite to quash loyalty for abeyance
Are the back stabs you will receive later
Time comes ancillary dogs set loose and out of command.
With much more anger to claim identify, it was your own favor to groom a fellow thinker that will break your own toes
It's then when you will see the bullet released can't be retrieved
Fast as you can it's all axiom.
You didn't hurt yourself alone, your family falls suit
Now that the bees are out of the hive you can celebrate the stings you're to receive.
"Country men hands together for a better, hope is sooner than soon. I smell the winds of CHANGE
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
If you speak of me in such oily vinegar,
then reply to me with joy subsequent,
I shall think of you as polar Cressida,
as she slalomed between bi-encampment.
To see your mouth forming my name-
Blisters peeled back so I may openly lament-
Of every rolling hill your fingers grazed carefully,
And every forged wanderlust you splashed upon my chest
Hellbent on spent days and evenings anew,
Lipped old promises freshly feigned undue.
Take me for bitter, and taste me all too sweet,
Storm whorled to ebb, still flow we accrete.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC