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L B Sep 2016
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight

Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape

Summer again

I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening

For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….

She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…

     The queen will be safe here
     from the rabble
     The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
     Among these lofty cliffs
     Between the raging circuit of the tide
     Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
     Here lovers learn
     the debt of love’s bad timing
     “Drink ye all of it!”
     --the potion that assigns our sorrow….
     She will not sleep—
     while I chew this gum--  GUM?

Roll down the window!

Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings

As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity

…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly  
Their hands steady the wheel
As a fourteen-year old, I picked up a book to read at the beach about the legend of the lovers, Tristan and Iseult.  I was so captivated by their story that it ruled my imagination that summer.  

Anyway, I still think of it when I think of the ocean-- as I did on this cold dark occasion when I should have pulled off somewhere for a coffee, but I was trying to beat the snow storm home.
Route 84, also known as Dead Bambi Highway, has a desolate, treacherous section going over the mountains between NY and Pennsylvania.  Didn't have much option for music at the time, so I leaned heavily on the radio pushing the search button to find anything bearable-- not too much static.
Song reference in this: "Time of the Season" by the Zombies-- all time favorite beach song that happened to be on the radio that night.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBxK3CcOQD8
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
crazy idea, silly notion,
then again,
come back, circle around,
why not, you ask yourself

now prior to posting hereon,
every word with extra care reviewed

sharing, checking in
with my beloveds,
here, those gone/disappeared

telling myself
telling anyone,
talking to you
letting you know
my grace, your grace,
one and the same,
my face, your face,
my child, my son

know you're
checking in,
checking out,
the comings,
the goings,
knowing full and well,
I see you,
my face, your face
everywhere and everyday

our conversation never ending,
look for me here,
at the intersection
of memory and what's up,
you see my messages,
responding in a thousand
different ways,
our dialogue unending,
formally organized
Face to Facebook,
your face, my Facebook
my child, my son
Marco Carlos Aug 2018
Over coming my short comings.
Initially so plentiful, now nothing.
Your naked body clothing my thoughts.
Like leaves to trees.
Like pouring vinegar in the wounds I once bled, I continue to ponder you,
they continue to bleed.
Alone I walk in paradise, the shrivelled memories faulting to mere dust.
The air in Eden, a little colder, the water stained bitter, turning hardened steel into rust.
Spiralling up in a whirlwind of desire of what once was, consuming me whole, and ridding me of trust.
My inevitable demise,
I knew what you were, I chose to bite the apple , why am I surprised.
love hate
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
"...I WANT TO RAISE THE DEAD MYSELF..."

Here in Cookham
Stanley has become sunlight

his voice
become as leaves

that walk amongst
the breeze.

Here my hand
on his battered pram

pushing it along
stepping into the photograph

of him
that the camera catches.

His paintings chat with me
gossip about all they've seen

the comings and goings
in heaven.

I tell them about times
that have come

they talk about  
time gone.

His resurrected voice
speaks to me in rain:

"Painting is
my way of saying '

Ta!' to God,"
Always fascinated with Stanley Spencer so I was enthralled to find myself in his village of Cookham...see his encrusted pallette...the dried up paint waiting patiently to be made into paintings...the old battered pram he pushed his paints and canvases along. Here was Stanley everywhere and nowhere...in the wind and the rain...the sudden sunshine.

"When I see a man putting up a bivouac beautifully...I want to do it ;myself. When I read of Christ raising the dead...I want to raise the dead myself. What a glorious thing to be an artist...to perform miracles...I am on the side of the angels and dirt”
Nat Lipstadt Mar 27
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy

~~~

the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none

~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”

“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”

“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word  wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life

“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
                                                         ­­ of the vaguest of dearly departed

skin is not the only mot shed,
                                                sloughing of woeful words

“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
excerpts from a few old poems, after reading an interview with Bernard-Henri Lévy
https://www.newyorker.com/news/q-and-a/bernard-henri-levy-on-the-rights-of-women-and-of-the-accused
March 27, 2019 4:48 am
Jamie Riley Aug 2018
I treated you like any other girl

And I wanted you to want to **** me
and maybe you did
but you also fell in love
with my weaknesses and
that wasn't the plan but
what a relief it was
to drop the get-up.

My vulnerabilities were
delicious and your short-comings

****.
BJ Donovan Feb 13
Sitting in a rocker on the porch
I watch the comings and goings.
I see kids become gangsters.
Meat wagon drags them out.
Lots of folks from suburbia come by
looking for escape from their paradise.
We can all become addicts. Remember.
The magic fog is always in reach.
Live a life? Live a lie? Tough choices.
Ormond Sep 14
.
We trod in steps without spark,
A careful journey one remakes,
With days of dreams' surrender,
O love— is but a promised land.

In our youth precious time reigns
And greetings are met with sorrow,
Maidens and lads, each entertains
Graces above us, Venus and Apollo,
                                                      ­  ­        
Gods on high, who told us stories,
Of the cloud nursery, of mountains
Keep and comings of celestial glory,
Not of gentle caress to windy hands,

Of shy indifferences, the trials of lot,
Nor the endless engulf, still desires,
In this land of lost, unmoving gusts,
Go those who shuffle— souls entire.
.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 23
“into the women-coloured twilight”

from Post Impressions (VI)   by E. E. *******^



there is a woman here who seeded in a ‘darling,’
awhile ago, thinking it passed unnoticed
but wax polished and jewelry bag separate kept

placed in a soft Etsy silken purse
suitable for holding precious iou’s,
vision her in the fields picking up the fragrance
of bulbs from soil, now scented upon a working woman's gloves,
arrival timed, in the woman-colored twilight of e.e.’s woman,
knowing she will be both prepared and unprepared,
perhaps for my recital, certainly, my comings unexpected


she knows I come with no singularity or multi-purpose,
except to complete this poem with proper decorum,
decorum properly undefined, but how many fictitious poems
scribbled in between the living days, in plastic bags to keep,
till a grounded definition is someday procured


April 2019
^ http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail20.com/t/ViewEmail/y/A0771945B4813E90/98E58011B0AFF2EF20B193FBA00ED1DB2
awknight Feb 4
Fear lingers the air
A rush of emotions
unprepared
my guard was down
safety in the plush maroon
blanket shrouding my tear-filled face.

I have begun to escape the bliss
I have seen the bad in myself
I have seen that you see them too

I am no longer the epitome of your
perfection, you scrape across me
with your saddened eyes

You see the flaws I let seep from my shell
The labyrinth of my mind invited you in
but you got lost
slamming against the walls
an anger is misunderstanding
an angst in the unknown

I wish I could calm the tempest
that has found home in your temples
veins arise in anger and lack of oxygen

my dear, I used to be your breath of fresh air
now I am toxic waste
flooding your system
only to drown you in the short comings of
me.
Krison Nov 2018
Did you hear the boom?
Then quite, calm, to tragedy.
The comings of the gloom.

I might mistake the sound of it,
the concussions are so low,
they are little, peice by peice
until the hammer drops.

Mighty us to revil in and then to shelter hide.

Is this, but of the meddling of
what we have to show.
All the workings of a peace
with no regard to then.

Yet, out so loudly do we go.
When silent did we make our voice.

The railing we suspend.


It was a bomb, that brought to heel.
The world we wish to never know
A mushroom that lights the sky.
Away, away we go.

So You and I have heard the sound,
.
A telling noise that is but brief.
The shock so imminent.

The world that's at its precipice.
And we do look away.

So decision.
Life revision or to crumbling.
That might then stop the lazy tears
and postponing of these things.

That it is always of the now,
And of our lives to cherish.
Without the foresight of the past
Is future never known.

Yet, you and I can change the land,
and keep the world we have.
Or might to burn within the sun's
Reactive gifted glow.
Nick Stiltner Oct 2018
Home is a bus station
A byway between,
A place to rest my head
Before the next departure.

I’ve seen rain through the windows,
I’ve sat through cool midnights.
The station fills and empties,
People with their luggage arrive
And wait for the next bus out,
Standing in a line at the door.

Home is the next station,
The nearest side of the road
With a view of the stars.
It’s an x on the map,
A hazy line connecting the dots
Between me and you.

My ticket is stamped
My bag tightly packed,
And with time I’ve come to know
That where I’m truly at,
A map can never show.

Life is a bus station,
With its comings and goings
Its periods of waiting and of rushing.
Charon, the perpetually impatient,
Drives his bus into the loading bay
And checks tickets at the folding doors.
With teared eyes I wave,
At the back of a bus as it drives
Into the dreary autumn sun set,
Down the interstate and out of the city.

Life is a bus station,
The place between
Where the crooked lights are on
Through the windows they shine
a lighthouse’s winking eye to a captain
Trapped in the tumulting waves
Of a wrecking sea storm.

The bus honks at it leaves,
And we wave to the driver
Who bravely heads down the road
That we all walk down in the end
CharlesC Mar 4
we learned long ago
assumed in school
a simple grammar lesson:
subject and object
maps all of our life's
comings and goings..

some have rebelled:
restricts my freedom..!
but consent has been
the ticket for entry
in our cultural games..

to some..experience
seems as flouted:
subject and object
equals dogma..belief..
experience proclaims:
there is only subject..!

followed by retort:
senses record objects
in the world we find..
displayed out there
seen from in here..

so for now
it appears
we can choose
life in either world:
experience..or belief...

Your preference...?
Shamai Apr 4
I don’t understand politics
The comings and goings
The ups and the downs
And the ego crowing
The lies and deception
And covering things up
They yell and they scream
And each other interrupt
Let’s put a woman in charge
And see how things will change
To the women men will bow
Now, won’t that feel strange
Women care for their families
And can surely multi task
We can watch them live truth
Vulnerability to unmask
So if politicians could finally
Put away their war toys
And grow into men
Instead of little boys
And listen, really listen
To all that we say
We might finally have humans
Present for us everyday
Dark n Beautiful Oct 2018
He called my poem
Wise and tropical
The heat of the Caribbean:

The tongue of the goddess
Years of eating so much
Fishcakes lace with Guinea Pepper Seeds
****** beer and mauby bark drink
Top with lemonade and pomegranates
remains in my blood stream:

When I dream, I dream
and react like a chosen prophets
So, I spread my words like a modern Moses

Message in my poems, are
Like ashes, they can’t be bottle
They have to be scattered
Throughout the internet,
Around the globe: global feeds,
Depending on the poet’s pen
The archives is not the place for them to be stored

I once saw my mother sob
As she kneel in the sugar cane field
The tears was for her children future,
These days I sob because of a bad dream
Our American dream is no longer valid,
a beacon of hope without a definition
for our future:

Tupac saw the comings
In his dreams,
Suddenly, the silencer
Silence him,

Martin Luther king, had a dream
A silencer silent him
Apparently, John Lennon was getting closer to the truth
he too was silent

He called my poems
Wise and tropical,
I think of them as written transmission:
Each time it came -
the sudden fear
encompassing a midnight
of driftwood, empty beer cans, phosphorescence,
the silver reflected serpent of a lighthouse;
each time it came with the signs
of a coming typhoon,
a mask worn by mortal fears,
a mask worn by the trembling sense
of insignificance.
Each time it came like an alien
whose repeated comings
had shed no alienness -
it came, yet it had opened the way
for insights that wound up
scooping up
realms with a different say.
It spoke of insignificance, yes -
that selfishness that keeps
the stars and starry spaces at bay,
or tries to;
it spoke of a cozy, limited view
clung to,
the body and family and country clung to...
It spoke of these things, gave way
to some cosmic sense spreading its wings,
some cosmic sense shedding
parasites and worn-out underlings.
Traveler Mar 19
There exist a reason
I have to believe
Things are how
They're supposed to be
Pain and pleasure
Heaven and Hell
Doing just fine
But not that well
.....
Ups and downs
Backs and forth
Comings and goings
Returning
To Source
....
The trip of a lifetime
In an endless sea
Yes I do believe there's a reason
For you and for me!
Traveler Tim
Each night at eleven o'clock Valerie Clare removed her glass eye.
Placing it carefully on a small purpose built plinth on her windowsill.

She was conscious it had become an obsession.
Her hand turned the eye to face the street.

Then she would settle into her bed and go to sleep.
As soon as she did so, the eye took on a life of it's own.
Glaring out the window it kept an eye on the comings and goings of all the neighbours on her road.

Each morning, Valerie would replace her eye and all it had seen would filter into her consciousness.

At first she thought she was going mad so she placed the eye in a drawer of a locker in her bedroom.

She  would always wake up though at three o' clock a.m. A compulsion to replace the eye back in the window always overcame her.

One night she sensed a disturbance and a sense of dread took hold of her. Warily she pulled the curtain aside. Down in the street a one - eyed woman looked up at her. This elderly woman held out her hand and instinctively Valerie knew it was the eye she wanted.

No words passed between them and the glass eye turned it's glance to Valerie. Overcome with horror she smashed the eye to pieces and screamed her lungs out.

Cursing the destruction of the eye, the old woman stared at Valerie.
Even as Valerie stared back the eye reformed and stared out the window.

Opening the window in terror she witnessed the eye raise itself into the athmosphere as it floated eerily down to the old woman.

It was grasped eagerly and placed in the empty eye socket of the crone.

Valerie awoke next morning and there on the plinth the eye had returned.

At first she stared in abject horror as the glass eye returned the stare.

It looked at her with brazen defiance and possessed her mind.

For three nights after the old crone returned and each time the eye would float into her hands.

Overcome with revulsion, Valerie set out to find out the history of the eye. What she would discover would take her into a horrific journey into the depths of madness.

— The End —