"nate" poems
.
•
re-
kindle
the spark
that governed
this game•the fire
that once burnt as bri-
ght as sun•all of this once
before, had a name•but now
is weak from the time it had be-
gun•there was a time when it wo-
uld consume•......it would defy the
odds....just so it could burn as one•
frantic and desperate for the magic
to resume•uncertainty has carved
itself into the heart that has come
undone•winds bearing ill no-
tions revealed as the enemy•
stitch up the gaps keep-
ing out the rogue
gust•
pro
tect
the
light that burns ever weakly•rejuve-
nate the spirit that harbours broken trust
•rekindle me now... i'm still in the game•
the heart save the you will
isn't candle need
ready and to see
to make nur- me
sense ture with
of the it this
dark• to in-
fla- sig-
me• nia
as my
mark
•
.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
The eye of the hurricane
Swept through a country side
Not batting an eye
All those in it's path perish
A mosque, a person, a Muslin
Another, another, another
Until 49 were gunned down
Killed
Executed
And many more injured
Scarred forever
in·dis·crim·i·nate·ly
A finger on a trigger
Held steady
Unmercifully
Picking targets
To cries and screams
With no regard for life
Only for the shooter
To make a name for himself
His message board
His manifesto
His hate of immigrants
Muslims
Leaving in it's path
Bloodshed
A country's darkest day
His infamy
Who is this individual
The eye of the hurricane
Sitting in the middle
Teetering to the right
An extremist
Category of the worst kind
A patch of ******
Sitting in his landscape
Of his sunken mind
Incarceration
Laughing, laughing, laughing
Today, today, today
And this was his trigger
His devil
His dialogue
Today he spoke
Another, another, another
To cries
That echo
Forever
Long after the hurricane
Loses its tail
This makes me sick
I look up in the sky and ask why
Logan Robertson
3/15/2019
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 7:23 PM UTC
<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman
strap on a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released
a one way only sign
time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word leave just this:
where is the in in
intimate?
are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?
you swear never again
until committing once more,
a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,
and the greater toll taken and paid for,
and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity
happily
<•>
9/17/17 10:55pm
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
when we met, it was tipsy tuesday and donnie had swollen fingers
and nate sank into his plaid frock and dropped his shadow
on the patio like a heavy slug, and the flies
cavorted in the vortex of our subtext
as the night skies spat stars
at our foreheads.
you were beautiful; too beautiful then.
i was smitten, i was tossed on stormy seas, unsick.
i was healed. the world spun filth and dull glamour
but your face hurled fireworks
and my mind leaned into my heart
and i knew i loved you.
whoever you turned out
to be.
i babbled and groped, as the inertia
of falling, filled my sails
and I was purposefully adrift -
in your brown-black eyes;
as a dog fetched a frisbee
for an illiterate.
and i think i bit my lip a bit.
I saw you for the first time.
for the last time
in my life
and was never
the same.
my heart, now more precise.
you had fierce speech
underneath your sweet speak
and long hair.
i had you in my soul's yurt
on a plain of windswept pavilions
with free horses and costly
remoteness.
i was ' there ' less
and more somewhere else
alone with the perfect you
reading my lips
as they tremored
delight of it.
i babbled speechless.
i remember you tossing your locks
at my cage. and i was set free.
please add me to your wishlist
and complete me.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Bang, bang, bang, baaannggg
I dreamed I was dying and goin’ to hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it was to have seen.
Last night I was shot and arrived at hiphop heaven.
And you know who met me at the big bling gates?
The original kings of da hood themselves, Run DMC.
They said to me, they said, “Bro, the Big Dude of the
hood up here, has told us to show you around the crib.
So come with us.
Now standing on da corner is some of your favourite homies.
**** I was glad to see them, The Notorious B.I.G. and the maestro of rap Tupac Shakur.
I dreamed I was dead in hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it was to have seen.
They introduced me to Snoop Dog, and they showed me the Ghetto of Fame with all the gold chains and number one hits up upon da wall.
Then they said, “Bro, walk this way, there are a few more hiphop stars, that I know you’re dying to meet, they’re hangin’ for you.
“There they were chillin’ by the curbside and staring down at me - Eminem and AKA MCA.
Bang, bang, bang, baaannggg
I met all my heroes right from the get go
**** what a privilege to have finally met
Then I asked them, who else do you think will join y’all, uh, say twenty five years from now?
They handed me a book of sheet music covered with graffiti.
They named it the Hood 4 Life Book.
In it, were many names and some were already highlighted in black texta.
I began to scan the pages and saw names such as, Dolla,
Pop Smoke, Juice WRLD, Nipsey Hussle, Easy-E, Lisa Lopes, Nate Dogg, Lil Peep, Jam Master Jay, J Dilla, Proof, Soulja Slim, Big Hawk, Prodigy, Camoflauge, Natina Reed, Charizma, Bloodshed, Big Bank Hank and Dav E Crockett.
***
Dav E Crockett?
Oh, well, that's when I woke up, and I'm sorry I did, because
I always dream I’d end up in hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it would be, y’all be knowin’ what I mean?
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 10:46 AM UTC
That day when I met the Eskimos
they were sitting by an ice cube house
On the hot Caribbean Island of Brim
I was about ten
The Tourism Board parade them like cattle on an auction block
Somehow, this Trinidadian floosy remind me of Eskimo Nate
All eyes in the shop were on her hips
those
bewitching and enticing moves
As she walked away,
Her long dread locks swing from side to side
I knew it wasn’t black pride
who was she trying to impress?
There wasn’t a man insight
just a beauty shop full of high volume of estrogens
and mixtures of hair bleach and toxic fumes
so difficult to consumes
The hairstylist just knew how to work it
with her deep orange outfit,
her usually looking pouty lip;
would make a Godfearing woman turn tricks
The **** bowlegged female *****
Never seem to quit.
She remind me of a younger me
a very long time ago looking for a mate
stylish, feminine young thing
But look where that got me
An unfriendly divorce and years full of hate
The youth of today will carry on the old Madame tradition
If you got it flaunts it.
Make the cowboys want it.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
All you wanted was my wifi code
Why try.
I could see the veins in your head ready to explode.
Always on the line,
Trying to find sweet circumstances left behind in text messages not fresh ink.
Always on my mind, through computerised images and jpegs -
I just wanted a bit of you to save for myself in memory.
The remedy for running out of time and space,
And as I let you into mine,
The first thing you asked me as you looked me dead in the eye after a hard drive home,
was, 'Nate can you tell me what's your wifi code'
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 3:53 AM UTC
i fold my head into the
thin envelope of her arms
then she folds me into
the small space between her words
keeps me there for a time measured only
in the beads of sweat that gather on her
near perfect brow
she wipes me from memory and
deposits me on the pavement
the cold air shrinks me
the hot sun expands me
i cover her with evidence of wicked eyes
and impressions of nibble marks
i surf her skin with touches
that rival thouse that her nightmares
and the things her deepest desires are made of
her innocent demure hides her favorite things
jean nate scents spread like a casual laugh
i kiss her mind with the story vision thought dream of me and her
spending the night with some other honey pie
i relive myself on her essence
with the words that gave birth to her current personality
she changes faces
its just a metaphor
and she cant hide the fact she is ill at ease
with this nearness
this untamed and unpredictable
she needs on many levels to feel like she
is in control of somthing
i fold my head onto her lap
but the process has changed
she can no longer sustain the madness of this method
she can no longer pretend
that she can not cheapen herself for her own gain
for her own loss
that in the end she cannot deny
it is she who must choose the lesser of two evils
i would rescue her from this fate of her choosing
but i am beyond redemption in her eyes
and i am intent on this not becoming a fishing trip
casting out lines in hopes of
finding a future in the
destitute but romantic face of streetlife
or motel shuffle carpet baggers
after much wailing
at the little gain for much expense
and endless beating of the quality of life dead horse
we found common ground
which without a doubt will get some
banker trying to foreclose on at some point
but for the moment its just the three of us
verses the world
armed with a rubber duck and a bucket of rice
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Vanaand vou ek my snoesig toe
in die soet-droom blou lug
iewers tussen die maan en die sterre...
en as die liggies my pla
trek ek weer, soos kleintyd, die duvet oor my kop
en verbeel myself dat
jy
en jou honger hande
nie in die werled bestaan nie!!
Ek kruip dan in die sagte plekkies
van ontstuimige oseane...
so tussen deur die nate van
die brekende golwe...
en le terug as die trek
van moegheid my kom haal...
en terwyl die vloeiende satyn
my wange streel...
maak ek my oe toe
en glimlag
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
colin kissed hannah instead
and i was nate's second choice
i found out about joe too late
and carson puked on my shoes
wyatt was the first everything
and louis was only a phone call
slade didn't care about my heart
and maklin shouldn't have
you were so much less, so much more
and i know because
it hurts when
i try to write your name.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
He is off to devour the babysitter
No need for shoes in the summer heat
No need for pants inside the house
Three steps at a time, tiny claws awhir
Tyrannosaurus teeth aching to crunch the bones of his Brazilian prey
Sometimes I remember to move carefully around his loud, joyful willingness
Or I don't remember
And tear a fat chunk of adventure out of him with a stinging rebuke
But he is a T-Rex with two tons to spare
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 10:14 AM UTC
I was bold;
Sarcastic and Young.
I could run
Ten thousand miles,
and then some.
I was never more sad
Than I ever was Happy,
and I guess I didn’t quite understand
That I really wasn’t all that lucky.
Yet, I didn’t care,
because I was as tall as the clouds.
Yet, I didn’t care,
because I was born to go far.
My mother gave me her wisdom.
My father gave me his strength.
And that gorgeous girl,
whom I get to hold in my arms and enjoy life with,
Well, she’s the one who’s helping me understand,
just who I truly am.
I am great.
I am kind.
I no longer have to live in my past life.
I am Nate the Great,
and I am here beside you all,
smiling as we risk the fall.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
"O my dearest,
darling, bijou,
*born the silver
worker's daughter*,
"*how so fortunate
mine eyes
to witness thine
palatial wonder*!
"Mine pleasure t'*would
to take hold and
to pick the fruits
among your vine*—
"*the shyest heart
of rose hips what
has pewter cruxes
bold t'shine*!
"*And as eyes and
I pay credit
to a distent,
nearing nimbus*..
"These gem'*nate
tongues b'twine as
oaken staves—
the Brav'ra Lingus*!"
(..she responds,)
*"Mine auburn falls
for thee*, my dove,
but thy fervence, *once
to mine*, abates?"**
"Quite, my dear..
"tho, *ginger trapped
in tantric bond
what's sweetness*, *rare
n'a boon*, belates!"
*"..well*, *then
please use a ******
she said*.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
I remember that day in 7th grade
Back when you were still calling yourself Cassie
You were standing reserved and afraid
In gym class clad in shorts and words carved in your skin
That was the day I began to notice you
3 years later and we're best friends
Not much has changed except that you go by Nate now,
I still mess up pronouns sometimes,
Your body tells the tale of a war going on for years,
In that time
We've become a little bit wiser,
Hopefully a tad bit happier,
And your cuts go a little bit deeper
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Packet of Time
T'is the custom of some,
To do their self-sums,
Periodically,
A self-review of
What is seen
When standing before the
Mirror that cannot lie.
Some like Xmas, while others
Count their turkey feathers
on January first.
Others numerical ***** on
The fifteenth of April,
As required by the IRS.
Others habit bound,
Do a spring cleaning,
Or an annualized medical checkup.
Then there are the enviable few,
Who never do
Such an exercise,
For being sure of one's rightness
Precludes the necessity of having their
**** probed, their status, already known.
As I lie in bed at four am,
Waking after a four hour packet of rest,
Began to wonder, what is the proper period
That a person should time themselves out,
Take a look back, do a "get back Jack,"
To find where they not once belonged,
But where they should set the course heading.
Here is where
This poem gets
Deadly
Serious.
One minute please!
One on, one off.
Did you just spend the minute prior,
Setting your brain on fire,
Scrub away the false pretenses,
Or waste 60 of them on mindless telly?
Day dream, plan and scheme,
Outline the plan, man,
Or curse your fate
The one you, Nate,
Created.
Seems quite expensive,
Spending half a life
Thinking how to
Spend the other half.
But a **** worthwhile,
Notion,
likely to reduce
Self- promotion.
For after but a few such minutes,
You will likely conclude,
Better to think of others,
Than yourself.
Then you truly begin,
The voyage human.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
She was surrounded by people with different identities
People celebrating being somebody else, if only for one night
Or possibly they were more themselves than ever
Perhaps they're reflecting the monsters they see in themselves at midnight
It was supposed to be a happy night and a fun party
With laughs, good food and jokes
So why were so many people sad?
Oh right, all of our love lives ******
Owen had a crush on Kitty,
Ellie had fallen for Jake,
Nate needed closure with Erica who never even came
And I was in love with the boy allergic to straight answers
With him things can never be in black and white
When I ask him a question yes, no and maybe are all his answers
That boy was a huge mystery
That I intended to master
He wore a tux, a top hat and a mustache drawn in sharpie
And God **** did he look good
I was dressed like Sherlock Holmes
But he was still an enigma I couldn't understand
I must admit, I made a ****** detective
And I could never be a Sherlock Holmes
I wasn't smart enough to get down to the science of how I felt
And as much as I wish I could, I was never able to read his emotions
But I was tired of pining over someone who would never love me back
I needed to tell him we couldn't be friends anymore, because I was too fond of him
Apparently I was more ignorant than I thought
Because according to everyone I was the only one who couldn't see you loved me a lot
So I found you and asked you if that was really true
You smiled at me and said
"No **** Sherlock."
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
he studies people and he sees people, not for the outside but he looks right through them like the outside doesn't even matter. he can see your heart right through your chest. big and bright and warm, or cold and stale and unreachable. when he hugs you, his warmth seeps through your shirt and clings to your skin like your favorite perfume that you wish would never wear off. who needs a light in a room when you have his smile?
he started out as a little seed in the ground, and now you turn around and he's grown another 6 inches.
he doesn't care about himself. he doesn't mind if he has a cut on his ankle and its bleeding everywhere, if you have a paper cut, he will give you the last bandaid. if your sick, he will bring you a trash can and some water (spilling half of it on your floor) and he will sit with you on your bed all day talking to you and watching movies, even though you and him both know he can't sit still for even 5 minutes straight, and when you get sick and pick up the trash can, he will throw the covers over his head and he will pat your back (from under the covers) so he, as he quotes "doesn't get your sickies, or see your sickies."
when your feeling down, he will run into your room and he will look you straight in the eyes and say, ***** your too pretty to be crying, whats wrong? and you can literally see the compassion flowing out of his eyes into yours.
nate is a perfect example of how every human should be. live like nate does everyday, searching for no reward, finding satisfaction in simply the smile he puts on your face.
live like my superman, and you'll finally understand what it means to live.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
When I searched,
I found you
When I was lost,
you found me
Was it fate?
Or was it empathy?
I'd rather call it "fortune"
Because when I met you
I could have been standing on a different place
But I was there;
Where you were stirring a hot coffee,
looking outside the window
as you carefully observed the raindrops
That moment;
Indeed, I am lucky.
If this was really just a coincidence,
it is very strong in this one
You gave me hope in state of despondency
Guess what?
You are the cure to my misery
And for that,
I know that I am lucky.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
why do you pretend to be so tough, projecting a hard exterior, when i so clearly see the little girl behind a paper tiger. a little girl who wants to be loved unconditionally, protected fiercely, embraced heartily in her father’s arms, is that what i see in you, a reflection of me, a little boy, afraid, alone, craving intimacy, fearing, distrusting to love and be loved.
take my hand, let me lead, let me be the man, missing from your life, let me be an example, to witness, to rebuild the trust, that has been lost, remove your armor, slowly, piece by piece, let me see the child that you protect so fiercely.
learn to trust, allow yourself to be vulnerable, you have to give to get, trusting another is difficult, you are not to blame, there is no shame, being a child soldier, in an adult world, a veteran of lecherous wars, having your emotions manipulated selfishly, mangled carelessly, becoming cynical, suspicious in order to survive, leaving you disillusioned of the world, disgusted in those you need and want, depressed with the reality of a ruthless society.
we are older, wiser, bolder, the wounds have crusted over, healed, leaving scars as reminders, of what we want, but can not get without giving, patiently tilling, turning another’s heart in the spring to harvest in summer.
it is frightening to show our true selves to another, perilous in what is required to develop the craved intimacy, frightening in escalating, arduous in sustaining, and reciprocating personal level of self disclosure.
we anesthetize ourself with drugs and alcohol, or distract ourselves with mundane things, quotidian tasks, to numb the deep need, the intense yearning for emotional connection, the warmth and security of being held like a child in mother’s arms.
you have to give to get, to love to be loved, to accept to be accepted, for “the greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return (1).”
(1) Nate King Coles (Nature Boy)
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
Through another storm
I worried,
but your mother is fine, and
you're still not coming back.
It's a drive I can't make, by morning.
Dogs bark, you disappear.
I annoy you with the
same two low notes.
One stinks, the other screams.
And I can't play piano.
Are you there Nate?
It's the wagon driver.
You left the back open,
or I forgot to close it.
Either way you're on your own.
Were you God, Nate?
Or just some gorgeous meth-head?
If they don't have a bed yet,
tell them you'll take the couch.
Tell them I'll take the floor.
My blood pays by the heartbeat,
with my veins in rebellion.
Bleached is my skin and I'm
sold in pieces,
to the dust, to the dark, to the smoke.
Nate, I cry about it, every single
ride to work. I beg the cars in
front of me for your life. I beg you,
for mine.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Lungo il tempo infinito della Grecia
quando concesso era il paradiso
alle fanciulle in tèpidi giardini
e le vestali avevano corolle
sempre accese nel grembo,
tu vivevi di già poi che veduta
t'ho nel sonno e vagante, sconcertata
urgevi già alle porte dell'amore
senza averne risposta. Ira conclusa
musica folle inetta alle fatiche
della Grecia gaudente e pur ben salda
dentro la luce enorme che ti tiene.
Sempre, Violetta, il tempo ti oscurava
dentro quella mordente nostalgia
di cose pure, nate dal pensiero
purificate al vivo nel dolore...
E sempre sola, come una puledra
di sceltissima razza, pascolando
riluttante le biade degli umani
ardi d'amore come un giglio chiuso.
1k
musing on memory and all that
re its capabilities, its utilities
and wondrous
abilities, to cover, recover, and
surprise surprise uncover the known
and unknown, what was, what is and
what there is to dis-cover, for memory
is a tricky ole ******* you recall what you never knew at all, forget the address where you lived twenty years ago, and don’t get me
started re telephone numbers
of
old lovers, who get got gone good away
and the combination of a subset of their
digits is likely to be on a discarded lottery
stub, that stubs your shoe too
cannot remember all the women I’ve ever kissed, but I remember the kiss, and that’s
a fair trade off
pretty bad at remembering, birthdays, anniversaries, but that’s because my electronics believe me of this obligation;
Not the obligation to buy a present,
On time, but the kindness keenness of
doing the action, is you an in Nate satisfaction, One gets, when crossing off a line item on your to do list
Sometimes the choices between remembering,
and being dismembering, when is definitely preferable to the other, and though you are not present, I hear your moaning softly
I know I know!
So take a moment to make sure all those critical dates to others, are in your calendar, electronic, and I recommend minimum one week ahead alerts; and one day before as a fail, safe
Do it now or fail to be safe
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
I wrote you a folk song, sister.
Think I’ll call it “Caroline,”
after your mama’s mama
and the way she’d
slow smoke a brisket
for fifteen hours,
slapping away at the jaw harp
and kicking chickens.
Man, she had heart.
Nate and I still swing down by Early’s mill
on these summer days away from work,
and hack our way through the rushes
with that Congolese machete
Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday
(the fringes remain intact).
Nate ran into trouble,
and is back in town
for a while.
I’d say it’s about time
we rosin up the horsehair
and saw away at some old gospel staples,
the same way we did
at the fiddle contests
two lifetimes ago,
when the mountain tunes lingered
in the morning mist
far beyond breakfast.
Back when the AT through hikers
crashed at our place and brought stories of the Great Trail.
Back when my daddy wore bellbottomed jeans
and could scale a rock like some sort of deity.
Back when Nate smashed Grammie’s mason jar
of flour all over the road
and got a good whoopin’.
Back when we’d dam up the creek
and dream up images for the trees.
Back when your mama’s mama
prayed to Jesus on our behalf,
and the stars still came out most nights.
Her redwood rosary still dangles
on the mirror by my Hank Williams shrine.
Yes, I wrote you a tune from the heart, sister,
where the memory wells
flow with water from a living rock.
I hope you like it.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC