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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
Manhattan Island
L B Nov 2018
A river collects debris and silt along its way
the leavings, limbs, the trash-- all of it
trinkets of its travels
deposits delta of another day

It does not choose its wanderings, its depth--  
nor decides the sculpture of its bed
whose contours lend it
force and transitory power--

Its learning journey

Change is in its element

A good storm will force its rise
into someone you do not recognize
and maybe wish you never met
shyspy Oct 6
we made stone soup
from the fallow garden leavings
autumn offered us
with memories of thrips
and clicks of absent groups
of starlings

stirred it with the hollow straws
of squash blossom necks
and dropped from a great height
into the boiling water
swollen garlic cloves exposed
before a frost
burnt the bulbs bitter

added burgundy cabbage fans
softening among sulfurous corms
collapsing gracefully
in cavalcades
of untended quiet

and after grace
our lips tentatively touched
the steaming edge
of each lifted spoonful
abecedarian Jan 2018
rite like Dylan/past the point of no return

all my life wanted to rite just once like Dylan.

but too set in the errors of my way to complement/compliment a master of the phrase, the original tunes I hum’em all
plagued and plagiarized and yet pleasing

head the Head over to the refrigerator, arrive in one piece,
but totally not remembering why I came this way,
cause i am way way past the point of no return

Oh yeah oh yeah cool brother Corona light to succor the soul,
while roasting body slow in a lavender bubble bath and it ain’t
even noon and no no room for company, this solo wonder-boy
tripping alone

pay my bills in the bath, winnow the widow-maker reading list,
good ****** on a free sundaey and there ain’t no football to watch and autocorrect authority don’t like ****** it only godded one D, as if He needs two D’s to mess us up better

the Corona doing magic trick disappearing so fast and here i am
certified past the point of return and there ain’t no more beer
in the general vicinity

so now the time to summarize my little darlings;
don’t break beer bottles in the bathroom,
don’t pay your bills in the bathtub when u gots 53.42 in cking,
don’t take your iPhone unsheathed into the same vicinity

all you will be left with is maxed out cc’s,
messes you want
not to tangle with,
brain leavings of a bad poem half write,
it isn’t even bad dylan mimicry
but confirmation you passed the point of no return

and u happy hum
don’t think twice it’s alright
it is all on my cover photo
Mary Gay Kearns Oct 2018
A road of palest lime fluttering Sycamore trees
Some almost leafless, others coronets still there
Through the golden branches colbalt blue skies
Lilac bushes, the garden daisies, flower in rows.

Thinning Robinna casts shadows of dim shade
Contrasting the red Acer’s lace leaf with green
The trunk arch of handkerchief laden Foxglove
Holds open its beautiful boughs to be admired.

For Autumn spreads my walk in glorious glitter
Though the evening pulls in the coldness of year
Making the best of these last savages of seasons
Gathering leavings, the birdtable spills its seeds.

Love Mary ***
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
March 27, 2019 4:48 am
Juhlhaus May 2
Gravel mounds in the mist
Are the mountain ranges of fantasy,
Spring green, eerie seen
Through commuter train windows.

Pitched roofs recede
Into infinite distance,
And junkyard parking lots are legion
In the gray suburban obscurity.

Factories and landfills loom,
Monuments and masoleums,
The labor and the leavings
Of Earth's little colossi.
Musing on the view from a morning commuter train.
Butch Decatoria Jun 2018
Mulling about
The muck
The haunts we are hardbound
Foggy fetal leavings by the sea
Right before the light;
The days of purple haze
Of sallow street cars, street lamp,  amped up
Yet dampened loss of desire
Pop another oxy-hydro-fire.

To be able
To muck about
With inner abandon
the abandonments deep
Numb battlements   / "Hoorah!"
Semper Fi the pain
Only significant
With derivatives
From ******* plantations
Opioid addiction’s contractually binding
Lingering love notes
A vice grip on idle minds

So many now that prey
But with a side affect of
Try holding in your ****
for three-plus days

So as not to feel
Not at all
Not even the rage
We keep anxiously pacing
Clawing at
Nonexistent strings
A Beast inside our cage
Forgiven by preacher men
Proclaiming to hallelujah

At war with illusionist
The boys fight for still
A country of patriotic pill poppers
Believing in heavenly kingdoms'
Secret silent pleading
Because nothing takes away
The pain
Like Hydro Oxy foxy pills

Self medicate down wind of will
If unaffected "consult your physician"
He’s at the edge of the stage
A Spearmint rhino making it rain
For Peaches
From patient list of his *******
The business of lust
Is feeding the loss of will
If you still feel lost -- and war sure did
Give them nothing but
PTSD & bad dreams
Machine gun migraines
Pop another pill
Jagged little killer
Softly knocks you off your feet
Black is cheaper
Smoke out not to feel

The muck-about days of
Constipated pains
Reader Digesting heavily,
Numbingly unreal.

Casualty of a nameless waste
That’s his deal / what it's like :
Most fecund
A life on the toilet
In wait for relief…
Get off the ***
Can't give a ****

Like this bowel movement
His heart has called it quits
To all this unholy *******!
Manhood’s defeat

Mucking about...
Revised repost
Cabaret Mozart. Defcon Cherries.
Impeachment Reformist alert status.
Even fact checked Fake News
Is left out there anyway.

Every weapon is a Chessman.
Every bullet a flower blooming.
The Milky Way at night - Are you with me?
The smart money's on leaving town.

Spooky Anaphylaxis is a 10yd rush.
Clouds of Unknowing. Listen.
Honeymoon fear response.
All measurements are in denouncements.

Confetti as Graffiti. Tolls on the Freeway.
Falling into Autumn leavings -
Let's not let Perfect
Be the enemy of Good.

Does a sentence exist
If no-one reads it out?
Ask the Prisoner, ask the Victim.
Euclidean Space has many floors.

Windowless wrong meanings
Slide probably. Sine Qua Non -
Think Sunflowers, blooming from
Flowers seeded on a grassy knoll.

The Deaf are signing ***
In ASL while Silence rains(sic).
Such Tuesdays are a lonely brilliance -
Where every Poem is a Word Zoo.
Yes, complex I know... but it is really what my head's like on the inside - even without stimulants. If you've seen American Ultra you will know what the inspiration for this was... 'The Mandlebrot set is in motion...'
SE Reimer Mar 17

when eve’ning calls
the day to end,
and steals away
beloved friend;
naught for holding,
naught for love;
only yearning,
for what was.
once where pillows,
cradled heads;
swallows tears,
wept on their bed.
once the soil,
on paths two walked;
turned to dust,
beneath a rock.
within each tear,
the salty sting;
a silent sob,
the daylight brings.
lips that spoke,
in loving notes;
that kissed each dawn,
with healing hope;
mem’ries now,
a silent voice;
whispered prayer,
a stifled choice.
these the trail,
of loving well;
leavings of
a lover’s tell!


post script.

“brother-in-law”... when a beloved sister loses her battle, what becomes of that word?  do the words drift apart as the hyphens are disbanded?  and what of the light that once added brilliance?  is it forever fractured?

thirty-nine years is a trail long walked; a tale colored by hues both light and dark.  a loss such is his, is to me inconceivable; i believe i would choose death instead.

Onoma Apr 7
never the mercy

of water--

on fire in full.

not once left half burnt.

feral child of the sun.

burning mouth--

why do you eat me so?

as the question begs


over and again--the

ritualistic leavings of ash

for pale morning to fall upon.

to stand my burning ground--

desirous of what you've reduced to


a fine brittle black sickly sear smear.

thus i mark my forehead...

till dispassion be learnt.
James Floss May 24
I cleaned up my **** today
Then, afterwords,
A lot of mouse turds

Decades-old dirt
Archived, postponed
Obvious duff discarded

Genetic leavings
Fingernail clippings
The flakes of folks we were

Cobwebs cleared
Mouse traps sprung
The new has begun
Dennis Willis Sep 21
Hard ceilings and leavings
I'll get back to you
kind of day

This jumble of mumbles
Oh I laugh at me
in a tag cloud

Waiting in a cool
September breeze
for now to come back
bringing me
Yenson Jul 10
the proven might of the gilded wit
one invalidated their invalidation's
leavings numpties with eggs on their faces
vomiting delusions of laughable posturings
reduced to those nodding heads on dashboards
plastic toys nodding in irrelevant nodding action
just doing for the sake of doing to appear relevant
puppets in revolution calling strings binding them power
Blue blood's simple living joke toys, engaging in self flagellation
sanity begs answers why expend such time effort money on nothing

yes, its because sterling greatness makes you feel so inconsequential
their spin has been made to engulf them and their stupidity exposed
their invalidation's has been invalidated leaving them  anachronistic
a pathetic gaggle of nodding heads doing for doing sake
eggs on their faces, eggs on their faces, eggs on their pale faces
The ordinaries and afflicted are the perfect soldier. They have great potential for aggression and a limited critical capacity - or none at all - with which to analyze it and judge how to channel it. Throughout history societies have found ways of using this store of aggression, turning simple minded people and their frustrated adolescents into soldiers, cannon fodder with which to conquer their enemies or defend themselves against their perceived  aggressors.

Can't you see,Jimmy?It's not a war about our freedom,it's a power struggle between rulers and bosses wanting more land,more power.The likes of you and me are just cannon fodder in their draft war.We should have nothing to do with it,let alone be supporting it! The only fight that concerns the working man is the one the trades unions are fighting against the bosses.That's the only struggle I'm bothered about and I don't give a toss if they're British bosses or German! .....
SJG Aug 8
In the traffic jam,
Mirror does not stand
To see the headlights rifling by,
Or the lights change from red to yellow
To bye-bye.

Victor's foreign stance.
Many dead over the course of one night.
An erroneous bombing run then bye-bye,
A hearing with pardon then bye-bye,
A family elated then bye-bye.

Drinking from the devil's cup
Is passé but drink on up,
To toast the grave urchins who said bye-bye,
They are always on our minds,
So brave to keel to principle
And say bye-bye.

Firing squad at dawn.
Those not busy dying have no chance being born.
A poisoned water source then bye-bye.
A knock on wood then bye-bye.
An avian attack then bye-bye.

And these kids.
This Kansas City carrion careening through our lids.
These hot house remains.
This neighbour named Sid,
Told me that hell was an open door
Swinging either way within our midst.
Told how all this inherited knowledge
Is lost on these backwater scientists.
Told me that our tears change nothing,
But still, he insists, we should not be smiling.

While all these spies,
All these hired traitors with too many fingers
And too few pies,
Promote their tell-alls telling everything but why
The earth is dying.

Well, chapter one was a lie.
Chapter two didn't stand to witness testimonies
And further known alibis.
And the leavings of a ghostwriter could be seen
All along chapter three.

"Well, so what if anyone dies?
So what if anyone's spoilt by the limelight?
So what if the public grieves?"

Oh, memorial trip.
Fifty gun salute to the sky
To salute that swiftly exiting ship.
Wave goodbye to your sweet chariot,
To hotel rooms of fooling girls with catnip.
Wave goodbye to the valet and guest-list,
then slip
into something a little more eternal.

And that tooth chipped
When you fell face-forward as a kid,
Was your calling card when you hit it big,
But under agency pressure, you got it fixed,
And suddenly, nobody liked you.
Stephe Watson Oct 2018
A hush envelops
(or is hunted down, demanded)
A particular general stillness outlasts
the here-and-there leavings and goings of


The crunch, familiar always
and always, somehow unfamiliar
of buckwheat hulls...

I sit.
The world's exhalations
my inspirations -
inbreaths of trunk and mouth
inbreaths also of xīn (心)

The headhome of the mostly-me,
like November waters,
phase-changes from
finicky fluid
to quiet, cooler tumultless
ice which, oddly melts the heart

And soon, and soon
(or longer, yes usually longer)
the phase becomes sublime

And then
and yes, and then
(and, yes and only then)
and all at once...

From my "Old Meditator" series.

Reflecting from the Now on the Then...

A Taoist possibly lamenting Buddhism.


— The End —