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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Terry Collett Jul 2014
We camped outside Kiel
and Dalya was not
at all happy
sharing her tent
with the leather wearing
Yank girl
who joined us in Hamburg

I was in the base canteen
drinking coffee and smoking
Dalya sat opposite me
having bought
a bowl of cereals and coffee

that's all I need
on this holiday
a Yank who never stops talking
she said

what's she talk about?
I asked

men and men
and who she's seen
and who she's
had in bed and how
and most of the time
chewing gun

I inhaled
and thought of how
she looked quite pretty
when angry
it seemed
to brighten her up
maybe she'll grow on you

I don't want her
to grow on me
I want her to go
elsewhere
why can't she share
with the girl from Yorkshire
she has a big mouth too
they’d be good together
Dalya moaned

I looked at her
tight curled dark hair
her dark blue eyes
the way her  mouth moved
as she spoke
I sipped coffee

plus she makes
the mini-bus
more crowded
10 of us
squashed together

I didn't mind
too much
as I was next to Dalya
and she was closer
her perfume almost
oozing on to me
as we drove along
through Germany

chill out
I said
enjoy the holiday

she pouted her lips
and took a cigarette
I offered and lit it
with my red cigarette lighter

all right for you
sharing with the Aussie
bet he doesn't
talk about ***
all the time
or who with

no mostly
about beer and rugby
I said
(he did talk about girls
but I never told her
about that)

typical
she said
wished I never came

what about me?
don't you like me either?

she exhaled
you're all right
she said
but I don't share at tent
with you

no shame
I said

she said nothing
but sipped her coffee
and inhaled her cigarette

I looked at her
sitting there
with her dark
blue eyes
and tight dark
curly hair.
A MAN AND WOMAN OUTSIDE KIEL IN 1974.
Erica O Jan 2013
dear kiel,
remember all those months ago
when you had to guess what I was
how scared I was when you meant "now"
but all that came after was smiles
beautiful bashful smiles that someone understood


well, something funny happened today
a boy played a trick on me
I thought he was serious
and now he won't talk to me
it's funny, I thought he'd understand
I accidentally outed myself in History class today.
That kid was the first non-friend non-therapist person I had ever (even if I did it indirectly) told I was a big gay.
A Baltic atoll nigh
I am but a giant
of enlightenment
as I've been both years
here yet develop
strep in tears despair
days that might
stay when I came to
love our being still
mystery now season
in newly gotten wiles
only there to impress
a red rover machine
and target afresh
dreamscape by canal.
Filomena Jan 2021
(1) Nun Izraelo diru tiun ĉi:
Se l'Eternulo kun ni ne estus
(2) Se l'Eternulo fore nin lasus
Kiam leviĝis homoj kontraŭ ni
Nian animon provantaj ĉasi

(3) Tiam vorintus certe ili nin,
Kaj tuj glutintus laŭ timo nia;
Tiel estis kolero ilia -
(4) Ĉion dronanta, kiel inundo;
ili nin trenus suben al morto.

(5) Akvo fiera, kun ondoj tiaj -
Tute la teron superfluantaj
Animojn niajn detrukovrantaj.
(6) Benu la Eternulon nun ĉiuj;
Li nin ne donis al iliaj dentoj.

(7) Kiel ĉasbirdo el la kaptilo;
La retoj estas nun disŝiritaj,
Kaj nune estas ni liberitaj.
(8) Helpas nin nur la Nom' de l'Eternul',
Kreinto de la tero kaj ĉiel'.
PSALMO 124a
Esperante kaj Verse
Laŭ la melodio de '124 Antikva'
(Psalmo 124a de la Psalmaro de Ĝeneva)
10.10.10.10.10
ABBCC
SG Holter Mar 2015
Kiel, Germany.*

I know it's not even lunch yet,
But I'm a poet, so this huge
Beer has no bad feelings

Attached to its coldness.
All ice, hugs and barley.
I love Germany this time

Of the year. Guess I should
Get back on the boat and wake up
The woman,

But there is something about
Cold drops running down
Glass to kiss a coaster that

Makes me want to read what
The cardboard says. So I expose it
With the intentions of a literary

Drunkard: Noch ein Bier Bitte.
I guess there's poetry
Everywhere

To a writing man
Who loves
Beer enough

To write about just
One. Even in
Germany.
Riley Apr 2021
iufoje mi fartas ke la stratoj fakte promenas sur mi
mallumo neniam timis min
nek morteco

sed la noktoj longiĝos per pli cigaredoj
mi fumos, mi fumos, mi fumos ĝis mi ne plu eblas
kaj mi provos ne forpeli denove

kraĉaĵo punktas la trotuaron kiel DNA petanta helpon
ĝi ne troviĝos bedaŭrinde
vojeto da soleco

"iru kacen" al la bluaj flagoj
aprilo cedas al majo
kaj majo cedos al sunbruligoj kaj malgracia babilado

tamen, mi pretas por ĉio
Karl Johnson Jun 2017
Initially
        he thought to
        bring sight to the Blind
                       Desiring OsIris or
                       Evoke E(see)kiel
        
        But he looked in a mirror
               and couldn't see
                                      his self
         His mirror
         betrayed him
         transparent, anti-Narcissus
         he was

         Now
         he feels he has
         too              much
                    V  i  s  i  o  N
                                            his (soughts) self(s)
                     go in one             (thoughts)
                        eye and             (oughts)
                               out
                               the other
he, So Self-Aware, scares his mirror
                               wHEre
                               Who
                              (did) you see            then
                               Do                             now
                                                                 becoming
                                                                 tomorrow . . . ?
My mind is too filled up with light
Ideas of the future have me up right
Pondering what fate has in sight
Me
I've done nothing but be
Can I do more?
Is seeing changing the way water approaches the shore?
Are sentient being the last stop in the universes lore?
What's next
All knowing specs?
That's what we aspire to be
Land locked pests
All we do is bang on our chests looking for a competitor to take away our breaths
Showing our teeth for what
NOTHING
We have no clue
We don't know who
All that we have that's true is me and you
I don't even know if I'm real
Or I'm just following a set out spiel thought up by a all knowing being of pure feel
I know I'm not immortal I will
Kiel over
That day will come closer as I become older
Just as the rock was once a boulder we are worn down
I hope we are just striped from our gown
Our physical form
I hope o don't lose the knowledge I have found
I'd rather drown
Which I am doing in this see of society
I can't breath with all these Pollutants that we call political movements
Everyone stop and look around
We are all the same but have different sounds
Different vibrations
Different relations
Routed the same
Born as a sponge of brain
So you tell me you mean more because you're wealthy?
HA
that isn't mentally healthy  
Stop dwelling on the specifics
Just look at the scientific study's
We are mentally linked
Even if you're spirituality is distinct
I may live a thousand lifetimes,
but remember only one….
I may find some peace in quiet
when a busy day is done

I might be the other loving half
of someone else’s whole
In somebody else’s picture
I might play a leading role

I might take the time to give thanks
for the things life’s given me
In an indecisive moment
I may possibly agree

I might make a strong commitment
to support a worthy cause
I may learn to live each moment
even those with major flaws

I might travel with the masses
but march to a different drum
I may keep forever hoping
that the best is still to come

Life’s eternally evolving
and no doubt we’re changing too
So I just might think about those things
I may decide to do

Wanda Kiel-Rapana
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
i'm trying to remember all the times
i was "subject"
to... being... assiociate
with a mis-application of ethnicity...
i'd walk down edgware rd.
with a half-Indian half-scouser
girlfriend, and i'd be approached
by muslim street preachy-vendors
being asked:
are you German?
   and i was like: internal dialogue:
iz ziß ver v vype ut
zee Ju?
i always replied: guess...
counter to German,
i woz eh Schveed...
             i gave up...
        but after a few more instances...
i voz alvayz: die deutsche...
oh... you think that the English
are no suspect?
   the innocence of being asked:
where are you from?
will always be countered
with... Leibzig...
or... Kiel...
               i almost felt like
an actor... all that was missing
was the schutzstaffel uniform
and a smirk of a catholic schoolboy
from: Witten, Bavaria...
oh... not unlike the reaction
from the movie falling down,
where some poor schmuck
gets lectured on the distinction
between a Japean and Korean
(does anyone really need
the correct -ese, "person"?) -
we all know that the ****
think they are the master race of
the asians...
so... why bother?
but i was kindly reminded,
the Muslims were all wet *****
asking me: are you zee gerrrrrrman?
you know how painful
it sometimes is...
        to play out the expected
question to the questioner's
leveling of surprise?
for me?
that's like asking me whether
i'm a ******* rushkie...
             no... i am not part
of any... "ummah"...
                      wasn't the dajjal supposed
to arrive from Babylon,
as the head of the Iranian army?
so i nod,
yes, i'm German,
and in England that's like:
visa...
     or... something that
the post-colonial former powers
do not fathom...
Germany might have given
birth to the Nazis...
but it didn't give birth
to the colonial bureaucrat...
feeble... a reader of Kant...
like me...
          whatever cocktail
of ****-wits and party-pleasers
is to come out of all this...
20 years into the 21st, grand opera,
of a century to end all centuries...
most of the time...
it's better that these
people understand that i am German
than figure out:
exotica postcard from
the nowhere that's Poland...
like: kommensie um! kommensie um!
like some hanzel und gretyl
witch...
          i play the German...
back where:
i'm just the "failed" generic
                                         similar...
but no...
i could tell apart a Thai from a ***...
and a *** from a Ching...
maybe...
but then a Maroccan from
a Libyan from an Iraqi
from a Saudi from a Yemenese?
well...
   am i alone?
looks like most of these, people,
can't tell the difference between
a German and a ******...
so...
                 what?
and more notably...
                               what?
           oh right... there's also a "now"?
pull me a sly Bogart
will you...
                 i need to forget
that James Bond didn't really exist...
*******... carry on Casablanca!
that's all that James Bond
ever was...
        carry on! Casablanca.

— The End —