"lipstadt" poems
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal
the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir
Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide
His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst
needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time
Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding
The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being
A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.
~
The Twist
This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.
Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.
I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.
For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.
**It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers**
by Nat Lipstadt
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
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
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
**Jackson *******
*my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum,
signed by you, truthfully, forever,
as first viewer,
and thus as,
co-creator*
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
Every Child Not every Child
Has known God, Has known God,
Not the God of names, All no-named, especially Gods,
Not the God of don’ts, No don’ts, only one do.
Not the God who ever No Life, surviving is weird,
Anything weird, Anything good, beyond belief,
But the God who only But this God speaks not-a-word,
knows four words and vocabulary of wet, dampening silence,
keeps repeating them, no repetition or explaining required,
saying: saying (nothing, only raining tears:):
“Come dance with Me.” “Rain is water, life,”
Come Dance. Come Survive,. Dance in Rain.
Hafiz (1320-1389). Lipstadt (20~21st Century)
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 3:17 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
#*“You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.”*
**From: Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover
... by Nat Lipstadt**
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in memoriam to memories:
for Miriam and Nat
reading each thought numerous ticks of days,
imbibe the silent of the silence
hanging from the rafters this wilderness roof;
grayed heartwood walls that separate
fractals of inseparable distances ― celebrations
the roads taken ― memories of those left behind
at the side of the mile untrodden
Congregated love and sorrow’s spoken words
scribed on paper bark touchstones ―
etched watermarks of perpetual tides
patina the afterglow of life's ebb and flow,
traces of everything and naught can ever fill
Experiencing intimate moments immemorial;
the whispers of living pulse still murmurs
in the gentle breeze between the gathered words of heart
breathing deeply ― a rush of systemic truth
born in the wholly sacred blood bequeathed
A soul outside the lines ponders ―
the sum whole of a life well lived;
coming to understand, although
all might not see the same light shine:
there’s a place one day we’ll return
we found along the way
because one day will come by here …
harlon rivers ... Memorial Day weekend ... May, 2018
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
“you should watch for what’s good and say so, watch for what’s bad and say that,
and be afraid of neither observation.
If you lose your temper, lose it; if you find yourself unexpectedly moved, admit it.
Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope,
clean, dry and level.”
Peggy Noonan,
columnist, author
<•>
good
Christmas Eve advice
getting harder to find,
wheat from chaff, and all that,
what’s sensible,
what’s defensible,
and what actually feels
A~ok!
as in
perhaps, it actually could be,
pause to think,
correct?
and:or:heck,
even right
so if you read the above ,
take it from a couple of senior geezers,
you just got a holiday freebie!
yeah, yeah, keep your powder dry,
just ain’t the same, sorry…
we talking tools and fools here,
them that keep you
on a course
of your owned free choice,
with an assist,
to know your position & to
never to lose your balance
when everybody is
instantly
telling you what to think,
take that long pause,
use your tools,
to pick the problem up,
Rubik’s cube it,
twist and shout,
when the
solution emerges
‘tis the season for
preaching and overreaching,
but use this quietime pause,
look internal,
and keep your instinct and
inside tools oiled,
and mind open, clarified
wish you then, clear eyes, open ears & love;
wisdom, that’s up to you,
but, you’re a billionaire for sure,
use the grey cells you were given
thoughtfully & well,
and keep on looking for
‘what’s a good way,’
which is always an
everlasting work
nat lipstadt
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 11:24 AM UTC
for Harlon
who recalled them to me five years later, asking for the all of them...
only on Mother’s Day +1
and for Miriam
———————————
My Mother is Dying July 2013
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
Perchance
A lovely word, a lovely sound.
Perchance,
When I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days.
With the fresh taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
At a ripe old age,
I, rebirthed, and to the fore,
Risen.
In My Salad Days,
When words fell from smiling lips,
Rain and tears flew upwards,
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
All Per Chance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Postscript:
“To die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”
― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
"To fall, but rise -
To rise, perchance to be reborn, ay, rub one's eyes in disbelief,
For in this reincarnation, who knows what dreams may come..."
~~ Nat Lipstadt, Perchance
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
he is the common denominator
between this circle of friends
who reveal absurd ideas
offer unspoken loyalty and
place secrets in one another's vaults
his NY apartment stands tall at HP
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
Answer me
by Nat Lipstadt
Why are the children
if not hurting themselves,
so busy hurting others?
I know hurt in ways you cannot fathom,
And I rise up daily with a but a single quest:
Banish the hurt, expel the hurters,
And practice the one true faith:
Kindness and Grace.
Sometimes the madness I read, too much, too much,
And I walk away and store my poems in another place.
But I am reminded,
There is no such thing as too kind,
So I wander back,
Chagrined and Chastened,
Hoping one among you
Will help to raise up
Me.
The Rebuttal
Ask me now to fight your war and I shall vanquish legions vast
Call that I, a mountain scale and I shall conquer summit fast.
Command me firmly, forth to go and I shall strive as best I can
But call me to administrate and I will call you fool, be ******
Thus some have talent to be red and some attend to hues of green
But few have skills of rainbow shade, few, at least, that I have seen.
Some wear fear upon their smile others writhe with minds that burn,
They wallow deep in misery, whilst others stop to see and learn.
Some are black and some are white, for most the favoured shade is grey....
Roar ye might for judgement's fall, but futile friend... as death's delay.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
Shakespeare, Keats, Byron and our own Nat Lipstadt
Great men, great poets but!!!!
What do you lesser mortals want to read?
Simple words? Simple phrases?
Some of you just like me
Can't work out the difference between a green salad and a metaphor
But that doesn't matter
We care not
Because we write with love
No pretentious ideas of lasting glory
We write primarily for you,for us
We write because we love words
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two, is:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/
The music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtube_gdata_player
~~~~
Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes
In vanity,
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:
Did not Mary
have her cherries
by command?^
But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"
June chilled.
But not chilling
Today, on a overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters
Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution
Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my
labors past and future,
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots
Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more
Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied
In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine
This note,
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute
Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold
Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated
Though the reign of the heavens
doth suffer violence, and
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
~
does my horror know no ending?
will this holocaustic-cloak-rending
ever cease from trending?
to what sin of a people
could these bitter,
evil deeds
be attributed!
it is times like this
i lose my faith,
my trust,
that deep inside
we are all the same.
never!
and be it far
from me,
this pain,
this darkness
perpetrated.
i am not like you!
oh Israel,
i can only offer you
my love,
my sorrow,
my tears,
my hope
for change
tomorrow!
dear friend,
today,
i am not Charlie,
i am not Danish...
**today
i am
JEW!!**
~
post script.
all inspiration needed found here: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1081943/a-bunch-of-folks-in-a-deli/ by Nat Lipstadt
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
And I suppose these are hardly poetry
More mad man ramblings
With no rhyme or reason
Asked who inspires me
I could’ve said Bukowski, Poe, or even Dickens I suppose
Yet, I listed the Jamadhi’s and Nat Lipstadt
All the way to the Edmund Black’s
Even the ever infamous DelleFemine
Who I usually disagree with
Yet, they are true poets
Who’s words demand to be read
How I aspire to stand amongst you
Tall and brave
For you are the poets of my world
And I hope you’ll be immortalized
Sitting godly with words filling all the spaces inbetween
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
Life, be not arrogant, though some have called thee
Terrifying and delighting, thou art so; sowing random confusion,
Overthrowing mortals with unequal puzzles of both extremes,
Humans, condemned, to collect travails, improvident provisions,
Live, Life! But only through us, for thy are slave to imprecisions, conflated constant reversible, the free choice of souls' decisions,
Random and inopportune, thy bedeviling choice of hurdles,
Our swelled heads so vulnerable to robbers and roadblocks,
But cannot thou onfess, rare is thy victory, oft thy defeat.
Until we meet thy comrade in arms, our paths irregular coursing,
Of our own choice, so acknowledge thou makest our path to veer,
Impotent prince, 'tis always our hands, arms upon the tiller to steer.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
"همه جا" از حافظ / "همه جا" توسط لیپستاد
Hafiz Lipstadt
(1320 ~ 1389) (20th ~ 21st century)
—————— —————————
Running Sitting
Through the streets On the sidewalk curb
Screaming, Observing,
Throwing rocks through windows, Rocks falling all around,
Using my own head to ring Striking my head, ringing in
Great bells, Great waves of thought,
Pulling out my hair, My hair stands straight up,
Tearing off my clothes, My clothes’ fibers come alive,
Tying everything I own All possessions, the poems, yet
To a stick, Unwritten, less valuable than,
And setting in on The air that feeds the flames of
Fire. Their burning.
What else can Hafiz do tonight What else can Lipstadt do tonight
To celebrate the madness, But acknowledge the truthfulness,
The joy, The madness,
Of seeing God In~Exhaling God in each breath
Everywhere! Everywhere!
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
There's shades of grey throughout the day,
Throughout the night entire
And should we bleed in questing need
Comparisons conspire.
Shades of grey when they must pay
To ply as best they try,
Whilst few shall rise to grasp the prize
We falterer's won't cry...
For Shakespeare wrote...
To write bespoke commits sad souls to die.
M.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
Nat Lipstadt
Mar 10
Pradip
Dear Sir,
I can't keep
up with
your prolific, delighting,
creations
This must be
the third poem at least,
for and to you, I,
publicly address
the thought terrifying,
if you took a vacation,
and had really
some free time to write
I do believe man,
it's time for a unique,
reserved, deserved,
and as of yet,
unheard of
special,
Hello Pradip Section
on this site
for this is yet one more
in a streaming video poem,
of me acknowledging you,
Master of the Word,
Wright Templar,
Poet Extraordinaire,
Most Importantly,
Beloved Human,
whose vision sees the world
in ways that
I adore
S. suggests,
I
take a vaca
just to eat your words,
in the lazy, rushed fashion
they deserve
but tween us,
your secret kept,
your parrot and
street dog Hengloo
write
every other one,
cause no human could
thus excel,
without some help
of animal spirits
in between your beloved
Saturdays
Yours Devotedly,
An Exhausted and Admiring,
Nat Lipstadt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 2, 2013
Pradip Chattopadhyay
Simple verses,
blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on and about
This planet shared.
I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, accompany me, on the beach,
We will together ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And afterwards,
Repair to The Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.
This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.
I await you arrival.
Tender this serenade,
this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...
A special man, a simple homage.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
It's not the fact that
everytime I open Hello Poetry
I have to open a new tab
on my computer screen
to a dictionary
No Sirree
It's not the fact that
I come back to read them
Six, Seven, infinity times
and always wonder
Could that be me?
They are sooo easy
(of course it's me)
It's not the fact that
He makes me think thoughts
that should have been sleeping
throughout my whole human phase
bringing up ideas that are better left
when we are prepared to retire
to the stars, I think he's part Mage
It's not his witticism, completely admired
It's not his heroism, completely tried
It's not his ability to not be able to deflect
It's his ability to be able to unashamedly connect
But no one will ever hate you for that... if there is anyone here who can't understand the same, don't hate the player, hate the game
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Poems
1706 published / 43 drafts / 14 hidden
no matter how much spillage of
inspired words are perspired
into poetic
existence,
new ideas push themselves
to the top of the line,
with every eyelash
flutter to falling,
so there seems
always a restless but consistent cohort of
43 draftees
in my lipstadt persona
(one among so many)
inescapably
demanding,
like a dentist happiest
when commencing to
drill you in to submission
but smiling since
the novocaine
hasn’t fully…
that when
a poem,
even a new tooth
is c r e a t ed
in the gum of you,
seed~ed but not fully form~ed,
somehow
a new title is
auto~entitled,
whisked into
a never cold cup of
“what’s next.”
a laundry line
of the great
washed
but needy
for drying out,
not yet ready
for prime time
thus this
never endingness
is one more
perpetual eternal,
a cousin to
gravity
a direct order to be
born/resolved/loved/
only to be sent away
with a firm loving
push
with
no word of
farewell
(and not forgetting
to mention the thousand
of half breeds,
started, left
writ incomplete,
in my official
cemetery
a/ka
my actual draft file)
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 1:11 PM UTC
https://artsofthought.com/2018/07/04/why-i-always-carry-tissues-2008-the-poem-i-love-the-best/
To My Children:
I’m laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.
There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.
When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.
Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.
It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.
Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.
But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.
These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Than looking ahead.
No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that when!
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.
When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d’etre is unfulfilled.
These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.
That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.
The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n’ fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best…
Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one’s fears.
If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep when!
When tears fall…
©Nat Lipstadt 2008
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 12:05 PM UTC
oops
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
(Ketoma Rose) I hate owing money & poems
~for Ketoma Rose~
money, far far easier for me
to gift, give, loan it out,
with very generous terms
of no repayment due
indeed, with my luck down,
the less I have,
the easier it is to share...
perfectly sensible to me
living with giving hands
and a
giving mouth
know that I know
that there are
a handful of you,
who read me with affection,
loyalty and a kind tenderness,
I cannot ever repay
so it makes me guilty+crazy,
keeps me up at night,
these obligations that cannot be
repaid without the hard work of
patient poem-waiting for inspiration
that comes so easily
only when it's ready
and this day I am ready
to pay down, pay toward,
please forward, give what
you have taken from me,
the pleasure of stating,
an adoration of thanksgiving,
a joining so profound,
that once found,
cannot be lost
and you dear reader,
can't fully share, or see these
gratitude-tears-I-am-currently-shedding
but voyeuring come along with the
knowing insight that I would want you too...
so you write from where your heart's
rip tides
rip you open and wider,
yet so oft it falls into the tears in
the pockets of only holes and neglect,
and you, ego-weak human
cannot understand
just how that can be...
but there you are,
Ketoma Rose,
by any and all your names,
liking my words,
and I crease wetness
upon my face tracks
wondering who you are,
and more over
the why
of who you are,
this wondering,
an agonizing
guilty pleasure,
a trouble I just
love having...
but bills must be paid,
and now this debt,
finally tiny-tad dented,
and the fact that the interest
upon it,
grows exponentially
is the
best debt
I ever was given
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC