"nat" poems
Fiat lux and
Then I stand and see how it looks out on
Gnothi seauton psychologies of a naughty automaton he is
Out speeding on the autobahn while she is
Now sleeping on futons in peace it's
Not pieces that need to be re-ordered yet
Since he's reckless but wrecks less when he's courting it's
A sport, you see a ticket's his master trophy in-
Deed endorsing his Porsche-speed matrimony down master row and she's
Driven to this racer who makes her en-
Force things, they later make her take her lead like lead's erasing then vanishing
Banished from whatever it is they're drinking and it's cleaned
Running from the pitcher as if it's her fantasy
Love who's the catcher who has her and
Now you see
It's not lack-lusting but luck-lasting because lastly
Down the street
Is where I swear we're running faster from crashing, finally
Into this dreamcatcher's hazard
Our dreamcatcher's hazard
Oh have you heard
It's absurd that the whip cracked
Yeah the Porsche was hacked baby transformed back in two and back into a nat-
Ural rural state where the horse power level was more morally sta-
Ble biblically faith-
Ful foolishly a-
Ble but yeah we take over whatever we face-off and baby we're faster so we'll have to chase after our
Dreamcatcher's hazard and
That dreamcatcher's hazard's a
A madness that is learned
And it's absurd
So say the mattress is glowing it's holy
Matrimony, so don't look lonely it's only
Master Roshi, to say to chase your dreams
It's you and me be-
Cause for you my blood is flowing
For you my blood is glowing
For you this blood is flowing
And too the flood is blowing
It's true our love is growing
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
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
THERE'S RUDOLPH, FROSTY, SANTA CLAUS AND GOOD OLD EBENEEZER
THERE'S CAROLS SUNG BY EVERYONE FROM KISS ON THROUGH TO WHEEZER
THERE'S CD'S OUT FROM NAT KING COLE, THE BOSTON POPS HAVE TWO
THERE'S ONE OUT NEIL DIAMOND WHICH IS STRANGE BECAUSE OLD NEIL'S A JEW
THE STORES HAVE TINSEL EVERYWHERE, THEIR TREES TOO,LOOKING NICE
THERE'S WRAPPING PAPER, CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND EVEN PLASTIC ICE
THEY ATTACK YOUR SENSES CONSTANTLY, THEY MUST THINK I'M A FOOL
FOR ALL THIS STUFF IS ON DISPLAY, BEFORE THE KIDS GO BACK TO SCHOOL
THERE'S A RASTAFARIAN SANTA CLAUS WITH DREADLOCKS KNOWN AS "STONEY"
GENETICALLY ALTERED TURKEY MEAT THAT TASTES JUST LIKE BALONEY
PEOPLE DON'T BUY CHRISTMAS GIFTS THEY SEEM TO JUST GIVE MONEY
SO THEY GO SHOPPING BOXING DAY, AND THIS I FIND QUITE FUNNY
THE CHARITIES ARE ON THE PHONE AND AT YOUR DOOR EACH NIGHT
THEY WORK YOU WITH SOME CHRISTMAS GUILT, AND SAY "IT'S ONLY RIGHT"
TO DONATE TO UNFORTUNATES AND THEIR FOLKS NEED IT MOST"
AS THEY FLASH THEIR SMILES, FAKE I/D'S BEFORE THEIR PHONY BOAST
PEOPLE SHOP AND BUY AND BUY AND THEN THEY ALL RE-GIFT
MOST TIMES YOU'LL GET CHRISTMAS CAKE, THAT'S REALLY HARD TO LIFT
YOU WORK O.T. AND DO YOUR BEST, YOUR CHRISTMAS CASH TO SAVE
AND YOU SMILE WHEN YOU GET YOUR GIFT, AND IT'S THE ONE YOU GAVE
CHRISTMAS IS LESS FESTIVE AND TO ME IT'S GOTTEN RATHER CLINICAL
WITH SCHEDULES MADE AND SALES AND THINGS, IT'S MADE ME RATHER CYNICAL
TO SAY WHAT CHRISTMAS REALLY MEANS, I READ THOMAS ACQUINAS
BUT INSTEAD, I'LL USE A QUOTE FROM SHCULTZ'S PROPHET LINUS
..."AND SUDDENLY THERE WAS WITH THE ANGEL A MULTITUDE OF THE HEAVENLY HOST PRAISING GOD
AND SAYING "GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARD MEN.""
AND THAT IS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS ALL ABOUT....PLAIN AND SIMPLE.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:13 PM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
What?
well don't be shocked,
it's genetic coded,
drilling for dimples
my parents did it
to me,
down the food chain,
for a millennium,
Baby Boomers, Millennials,
Gen X, Gen Y, Gen Z
it will be done forever,
auto-naturally
place the pointer finger
gently upon each cheek,
commence so soft
digging, twisting for
the oil of human smiles,
the reward, astonishing!
a shocking discovery
made this morn!
*you can do it too
"going up the stairs,"
to Grandmas, Nana's,
if you catch them,
and with extra care spent,
soft so soft when
they are
just waking up,
when their inner kid
is sleepy showing*
drill a dimple,
drill, baby, drill,
if your baby/is
six or sixty,
at any age,
kissing an
unexpected smile,
most worthwhile!
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
Was dit my sonde
om te droom, te wens?
Was dit wreed om te
verwag dat jy my
iewers in jou soet
woorde sou vind?
Kyk ek dalk na jou
met die oorhoofse
afwagting van 'n kind?
Sal jy met sjarme
my kan vermaak of
is teaterkuns
'n masker vir jou haat?
Ek smag na jou taal,
jou moedertong in
my uitgehongerde mond.
Oh die beeld-
wat ons
met sulks silwer stem
kan skep!
*** sal jou brief my vind?
Sal daar 'n tuin ontstaan
as ek jou antwoord naslaan?
Se jy sal bly, net vir my!
Se my brandewyn asem
het jou inner kind bevry!
Se net jy is lief vir my-
en ons sal saam
die tonnel-oog wereld
met soet liefde en
dronkmans woorde verlei.
Skryf saam met my in
hierdie silwertong,
en kyk *** die wereld
in afwagting verstar.
Die liefde wil blom
wanneer twee skrywers
bymekaarkom.
Die wereld raak nat,
met die geuiter,
van ons silwer tong.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Opgedra aan ‘n kind wat gebliksem moet word.
Deur: Desperaatheid en vrees
Jy klim in en uit die ***** van bestaan,
beide die rede vir liefde en
die kind wat sy baar.
Jy is ‘n drievoud van godelike hervertellings
, want wie kan regtig liefde
in ‘n enkel sin verhaal?
Geminag , die seun van liefde en haat
- jou einste bestaan ,van die vroegste
paradoksale meesterstukke.
Verewig , verewig tot ‘n kind
tussen die Groottes wat
blindlings onder jou boogpunt swik.
Vir elke nasie ‘n ander droom
Vir elke geloof ‘n ander naam en
Vir elke mens ‘n ander god.
Amor , oh Amor!
Die sinnebeeld van liefde
wat die mendsom verbly
, maar Eros jou ramkat
jou hupse hygelbek!
Jou erotiese aanraak!
(die begeer ek)
En ek?
Met my koker van lig en van goud,
wat hulde blyk en bou en bring
maar bestorwe le voor my Laurel
oor ‘n lood-stomp pylpunt vir haar ‘n treuerlied sing!
Amor, Amor word wakker!
My son le liefdeloos in my bros hart
, wat instaan teen logika
– sterk op die oorlogspad!
Jy wat na my heuning reik
-met honger hande vieslik gryp
en ek wat jou met angel steek
in desperaatheid jou nat vel breek…
“Oh moeder”, roep die wetter na bo
vir die planete om aan te ****
“Oh moeder, Oh liefde “ ,spat die sot se treur,
“ *** kan so bietjie , so klein – so seer!”
En die heumel druis soos die moeder lag
haar humor eg , maar haar woorde sag:
“ My naakseun, my hinksperd
My fallus met vlerke!
Jy ,nog ‘n roosknop.
gaan ook so te werke!
Aanvaar die poëtiese justitie
Stil nou liefstetjie
Lamtietie Damtietie …”
Amor, Amor!
Weerstaan tog skoonheid se wieggelied
en wees my genadig!
Begunstig my ten einde laaste
, selfs vader tyd is verveeld
met die son se enkelpad!
*** lank nog wil jy sluimer?
Amor, Amor!
Tel weer op jou leisels
en bring liefde op die wind
my wereld lê in afwagting
vir die dolfyn en sy kind!
Wees my genadig, Amor!
Deurboor my leemte met goud,
,want die bringer van lig is slapeloos
en my hart is droewig en koud.
Oh Amor, Amor!
Ek weet jys nog jonk,
maar *** speel jy dollos met lewe se vonk…
Amor, Amor!
Word wakker!
Amor…
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.
Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?
Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.
From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.
From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.
Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
#BlackLivesMatter-
I want to help-
HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!
But-
I
Can't
Breathe.
Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.
Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"
by Dr. King.
When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"
But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:28 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
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.
waters inhabited with murlocs
Forests with centuars and unicorns
I had badass armor
Spellbooks, Abilities, Charisma modifiers!
When you live in Dungeons and dragons you finish quests, unlock gods,
Slay Monsters
When my DnD group broke up
I didn't lose a group of friends.
I lost a party of adventurers
Their eulogies pronounced at the end of that final nat one
Will never be forgotten.
Portaits carved like improv comedy routines.
Characatures of our ideal selves
Bound, sealed, stuck on a book shelf
We deserved another sequel.
When the party healer crumpled her car against a Concrete wall at 70 miles an hour
It made sense nobody else knew how to cast raise dead.
In a world that is supposed to play out our ideal realities
it was no question her charecter lived eternal. the way she would have wanted.
The way we wanted so badly to be true.
Nobody felt right taking over her charecter.
And nobody wanted to **** her off.
So we wrote her story.
Every die she had tossed this whole adventure. Each murloc she ran from, each unicorn she rode, etched into a leather bound tome.
Placed Right on the same shelve we kept our pathfinder books.
Her headstone.
We never played after that.
But she did.
When we placed the novel next to the flowers her mother left.
We felt her cast healing song
one last time
And that night
We got a full rest
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 10:13 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
~~~
for Matt
~~~
*"My suspect credibility upon the rockets of birds,
the soft parts of people,
the oceans’ inevitable, cyclical weeping,*
Who has time for poetry has more time than they deserve"
Breaking Spring by Matt Hart
~~~
your words warp me,
the woven texture of your composition,
Matt,
dumbfounding the sweeping, weeping, instant recognition in
the soft parts' of
Nat,
where credibility
long past being suspected,
simply arrested for statutory dark room
torrented questioning
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse
You Jacob, wrestle with this angel witch curveball!
'tis better to give or receive
this poetry admonishment?
for who knows where the time goes,
when the fix is in,
the addiction itch,
commands and commends,
*feed the poetry *****
write or die*
one fix, one poem,
carousel leads to another,
yet,
with only time to live,
pay the bills
for renting the space you Earth occupy,
no time for illegal
compulsive word blending
the interrogator demands
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse?
*who is your supplier?
who is your time stealer?*
by the ocean, weeping,
you plead innocence,
just ill drivel, needy for expulsion,
deserving of repulsion,
swear repeatedly,
never again, imbibe, scribe
*but the ***** coos in my ear,
reaching beneath
the vulnerable soft tissued skin and cells:
write or die
I thieve your time,
'tis nothing you deserve,
I am Poetry,
just your mistress,
better served*
deserve poetry
deserve blessing
deserve curse
~~~
June 25, 2016
written by the ocean, weeping
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
I’ll take the left side, you take the right
cause I’d rather not be the one who broke your parents’
“genuinely antique” bed
I heard the wood give way just now
when we sat on the edge
and I know, tonight, it’s coming down.
I should probably be more of your gentleman,
but I think that’s what put us into this mess
when we got to the cabin I complimented your ma,
“Natasha is such a unique name in this age”
Her reply, flat through the grimace
“its an old and ugly Russian name, call me Nat.”
Your dad invited me to walk in the woods,
where I tripped over a root, ten feet in
and threw your father head first into poison oak.
It’s hard to tell through the swelling,
but I’m pretty sure he’s still scowling.
Then trying to help after dinner I knocked their
“two-hundred-dollar, honest-to-jesus, Napa Valley’s Best”
bottle a’ wine
onto their “ten-thousand-dollar, straight from Andkhoy.”
Afghani carpet.
So, I’m sorry
but I can imagine you’d forgive me
your boyfriend,
who loves and adores you,
for sleeping this day off
and letting the night drop out from under you.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
In my droom wereld...
Daar, in die verte, is n bed vir as ek moeg raak.
n Berg wat ek gebruik as n kuns muur.
En n oop veld vol rose.
Bo my, die blou lug met reen druppels wat val, maar wat nie nat maak nie.
My gedagtes wat rond sweef.
musiek wat gehoor word maar nie gesien word nie.
En dan, jy.
n Bed vir my en jou.
Jou naam op die berg met klippe, gevorm soos harte, gepak.
n Oop veld rose wat jou emosie kleur wys.
Reen druppels wat val, wys my jou trane.
My gedagtes wat vir jou wys *** spesiaal jy is vir my.
Musiek om als te laat kalmeer.
En jy, vir my om lief te he, sonder om te stres oor wat jy sal **** of se as jy weet jy is die een wat ek wil he.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Can a Love song be used twice?
I love you’s and the reminiscent blues,
do the rhythm and blues remember the
ones you loose ?
This reminded me of you.
I use the lyrical hues
of this fine tune to put into words my feelings for you.
Expiry date.
Can a hummingbird still sing
when your number no longer rings?
I wonder
Nat King Cole’s somber stardust melody still
haunts my reverie.
Can I really vow to another with the words I solemnly devoted to my past lover?
As seasons change
so to does my musical range.
Yet a love song , is still a Love song.
To my future love,
at times my hearts desire cannot create words which quantify that;
of a lyrical tune and a lyre.
A Love song.
Love in the present.
Beyond the fond memories of things the lovers dreamt,
Love remains in all things spent
within life’s timely symphonies.
Oct 14, 2022
Oct 14, 2022 at 7:34 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.
color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.
& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]
maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
above,
between
the lights and music.
reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.
and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science? secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.
nat geo channel: [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]
money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.
quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and *** and
microwaves ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.
blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!
*if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, ********** and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog
a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?
for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”
this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)
array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness
when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….*
but they do source poems that flavor life
2020
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
In my "Thought for the Day XLIII" (43), I spoke of poets that have been with me, and supported me for quite some time. Sally and Pradip have been with me since my first posting, "1894", nearly two years ago, and I have "adopted" Vicki, Catherine, Ryn, Deborah, Pamela Rae,and others along the way. There is Quinn, Phil, Pradip, Francie, Frankie J, Mike, John, Nat, SE Reimer, Sverre, "The 'Ole Storyteller!" and,"Larry, Moe, and Curly Joe!"
Unfortunately, I cannot list everyone, in fear of overlooking writers who, collectively, mean so much to me. Please forgive me for that.
I will continue to "do my best" for all of the poets/writers/contributors to the HP site. I do not write for monetary remuneration, but for relaxation and recreation, with the end result, hopefully, bringing a smile to my peers. I thank all of you for allowing me to attempt, and occasionally, reach that goal.
Sincerely
Richard Riddle- June 03, 2015
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 9:35 AM 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
Fat women with
Fur coats
To warm their overfed
Heaps of mass
Holding overpriced
Elongated, mechanical strings
Attached to their
Mouse-like dogs
That wear clothes
That cost more
Than my entire outfit
Shirt, jeans, boots, jacket
Combined
They yap to small devices
Glued to their ears
Like instruments
Of envy and jealousy
Yelling at their husbands
Or boyfriends
Or pool boys
Who haven't done their job
Either paying for whatever they want
Or neglecting to net out
That last nat
From their jacuzzis
Where they sip white wine
And sizzle in soapy water
Before getting out
And slipping on shoes
Made by kids
In Cambodia
Who have never held
A hundred dollar bill
What is wrong
Who is right
What is it
That's been done
Here
None of it makes sense
To me
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Her scent
is not by fair Channel
for she is nat-u-ral...
her perfume
is soap and flannel
soiled diapers
and form-u-la...
fresh baked bread
and apple pie
White wine
and lem-on-ade
cookies and milk
and chicken soup
hot baths
and hair in braids
for she wears her womanhood
in perfume no coin can buy.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC