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Nat Lipstadt Mar 2017
oh, these messages, you send,
invitations to a gala, a black tie affair,
but only if willingly pay the exorbitant fare,
your money's no good, you must dare,
find and write the poem hid within

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever, either, extinguish*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
any message you send can and will be turned into a poem
"how cold are the carpenter's hands"... patty m

patty m  Divine intervention
extensions of grace
kiss the doubt from the
blind man's face.

Yet all are blind and deaf
so few left who truly believe
when tricksters smile and
cunningly deceive.
Where is the lamb
who died for man
how cold are the carpenter's hands.
Jerusalem where all roads lead
in winter white your sorrows bleed.
Lie still awhile and mull the words
all creatures big and small wo;; be spared
if on they believe, repent, circumvent the globe
frontal lobe what's in this treasure trove? myrrh and frankincense. stabled now in a manger
of hay, Earth Christmas Day.
divinity m Dec 2018
earthquakes have nothing on me
as my shaking body shivers
trying to ignite some form of warmth
to fill my empty bones.
However my mind will extinguish
any flame that starts
for i have worked too hard
and too long
to be stuffed full like a plush toy
again.
J L James Nov 2018
Memories
are like fire,
they can execute
or inspire,
satiate
cooked on a plate,
deforest
when
filled with hate.
Running like lava
through
varicose veins,
embers smolder
ready to ignite,
or extinguish the
remembrance.
Exploring the power of memories.
T'was the night before Christmas, And at the back of the bar

Sat a man all alone, Lighting up a cigar

The waitress ran over and waving her hand

You can't do that here, Smoking is banned.

If you must smoke that thing, you can go to the street

And stay away from the building, by at least fifty feet

The man took a puff and with a voice like a croak

He said, "You're kidding, right miss? You're making a joke"

I'm sorry, but sir..I'm afraid that it's true

But the law is the law, and it's not only for you

That we must say **** out, please extinguish your smoke

So our place can be filled with other fine folk

For ninety two years I have walked on this earth,

I have broken no laws and you know what it's worth?

Bupkiss, no nada it's not worth a thing

Would that law still apply if I was a King?

I've been coming in here for 60 odd years

And I think I've consumed a truckload of beers

I've smoked in this corner on many a night

Now you say **** out, I don't think that's right.

I fought for this country at the end of the war

I came home with a war wound, and you know dear...what's more

I came to this bar to have drinks with my friends

Who all weren't so lucky and met terrible ends

They died on the beach, heart as big as a house

Taking on the unknown for their country, their spouse

They battled for honor, the right to be free

And they all weren't as lucky, to come home like me.

I was here in the sixities when Camelot died

I was here with my son, and we both sat and cried

It was that night in November, I remember it well

That my son said he'd joined up and was heading to ****

He had joined the marines and was all set to fight

For freedom and honor and he knew it was right

Because I'd gone before and stood with others like him

And I said just be safe, and come home son...my Jim

In the years he was gone, I came down here to think

Of why he was there and I shared smokes and drinks

With friends, all now gone from this world of distrust

Now they all lie beneath us, decomposed back to dust.

My son made it back and we came right down here

To spend time with our friends, both from far and from near.

The years passed us by and my grandson joined too

And we sat and we prayed in this bar, for we knew

He was fighting for freedom and the rights we hold dear

Like having some fun, over smokes and some beer.

He never came home from his war, don't you see

That's why we're sitting alone here, just you and me

Tonight is the night that his letter arrived

Saying "We regret to inform you...that no one survived"

So, each Christmas Eve I come back to this bar

To savor my memories and to drink from this jar

And I finish each year thinking of what now is gone,

Of my battle scarred boy and his now deceased son

Now, you come and tell me that I must go outside

To continue my smoking and so I'll abide

'cause for 92 years that I've been on this earth

I've broken no laws and you know what that's worth

Then the waitress reached back and she pulled out a match

From a box on the bar with a rusty old catch

She said Sir, I am sorry I didn't mean to offend

For this one night each year, the law I can bend

So please light one for me on this Christmas Eve Night

And Thank you from all who continue the fight.

Merry Christmas and HAPPY NEW YEAR 2019
A Christmas Eve Poem that was posted earlier, I have not added much, but, I think it is fitting to read so those of you who haven't seen my older works, and The Street Poems, may get a chance.
WITCHES IN THE LITTLE SMALL TOWN

Dark Angel lurks around the old wet grounds, soon alerted him to the witches,
where they all do hold in their souls bleeding lies to give words of true deceptive capabilities, where they give wary predictions to come. There would be poets writing out their famous lines of witches scaring the small little town. Casting spells all over the place. Since Dark Angel, is part of their evil darkness, He couldn't be misled by them. But he wanted them to help him win people's confidence.
So they started telling stories of little truth, in order to mislead who all believes the words they speak even in darken dreams. Betrayal is the head game the key of many things, that truly cause so many pains. You can see how they would stand out late at night while the blood moon shines.
Oh, how they love to trick innocent people, with their gentle language or phrases. But late at night, they are crying out in riddles of true agony. The little town has grown weary. Oh, how the witches looked so scary. If only they had listened closely to the words they were saying, It may have saved them from all the blindness of what is soon to come, In their language are that they speak seriously.
Oh, the consequences will be hard, that is when true reality kicks on in. But so many ignore the signs while they rest in their bed. How ironic are the masterminds? They walk around with smiles on their faces like they're ‘'innocent flowers, ''that can charm a very big crowd. But what they really hold in their hearts, true darkness, where ‘'serpents''play all the time on their minds.
Their method is to use charm and somewhat little truth to feed on innocent souls. It would be impossible for them to be set free once they are under the witches spells. Just like what the words of ‘'Shakespeare, '' ‘'Where our desire is got without content; 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.''
"Here we stand! ", the witches cried out among themselves, saying to the stars that are shinning in the heavens. "Let all eyes not see what lies within, Let them only see what we ask of them to see. And that would be our outward appearance. where the smile can charm those innocent hearts."
"Let them hear with their ears the words that we speak, let each word dig deep. Where imagination plays the game upon their minds. That cast out true emotions of all times. Imagery and appearance conceal what is of truth."Sometimes the witches use those nice little skills even upon themselves.
Oh, don't they know by the looks in their eyes, that they're not nice? They even ask the stars to extinguish their light so they couldn't see the ***** deeds they were doing.

Dark Angel walks around in hunger saying out loud, ''Oh, this little small town doesn't know what is truly out to get them.''

Poetic Judy Emery © 1980.
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 1980.
Crow Dec 2018
How do I go
When my absence melts you
How do I turn away
When I am immersed in you

What else can I see
If you are all my vision
What can draw my mind
If you are each thought

Are you truly alone
While you are surrounded by fears
Are you left without voice
While you scream in silence

Is there a limit to my rekindlings
As I extinguish with each last look
Is it possible to breathe
As lungs fill with endless calls to you

At what point could there be too much us
Though there is never enough
At what point is pain exhausted
Though the void of apart is limitless

Where is the end of empty
Can it be found when we are cleft
Where do we cease to touch
Can we be disjoined at any point

Why do we bleed with stilled hearts
Must away be bottomless
Will actuality ever come right
Do we survive, or die trying
Catechism - A set of questions put as a test

Though most often thought of as religious in nature, it need not be
Shilpa Panigrahi Dec 2018
Nothing can extinguish
the fire
in her soul
but another soul
with the same
intense flames
Chelsea Rae May 2018
I shout at the stars in the night,
I shout in my mind, and
I think my heart even screams sometimes
For any kind of life
To hear my cries for help.

My throat becomes so burnt
That no sound comes out.

My lungs on fire,
Begging for more oxygen to fuel them.

Yet, there is no one.

I wonder,
Is it because we all are walking through the flames?
Stuck in our own pain
That any other's fire
Isn't yet dire enough,
Because you all are still trying
To figure out how to extinguish
yours..
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
The Misconstrued Dec 2018
is dying.
I am tired of failing yet constantly trying.
It is not just self-realization anymore,
but a friend's comment, in half my confidence tore.
She said she never imagined I would end up this way,
little does she know I am begging my sanity and health to stay,
Instead, life is having its own way,
Me fighting for normalcy, yet my already stamped fate almost does not sway.
Take the painfully sweet escape and jump into the sea
And extinguish the light within me
People often say that once you hit rock bottom and then there's only up from there. I have reached my rock bottom, yet why do I feel like I keep sinking further and further, getting worse and worse
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