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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending

When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening

to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable

and yet

cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,

it has yet

to arrive

When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed

When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction

she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
rentery orbit,
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot

When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after

death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
is the God
I worship
The phrase "the consolation of physics" was taken from a novel,
City of Thieves by David Benioff. The other nonsense is all my fault.
11/23/14 8:30am

for my blonde Big Bang theorist
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
5:00am and folding laundry

when the inspiration tank is yellow lit,
and E stands for more than empty,
g e n u i n e emptiness,
try this remedy that is a
first generation family secret!

fold the laundry.
all kinds.
his n' hers,
blacks n' whites
really clean and

and the kind that never get clean,
no matter how much d e t e r-g e n t
you use, how oft you wash 'em...


Instructions:

1. fold only when wearing t- shirt, tank top, briefs (optional)
2. put on Pandora 60's rock n ' roll (folk rock - highly recommend Runaround Sue by Dion and the Belmonts, The Wedding Song, The House of the Rising Sun)
3. dance, shake, improve your moves when nobody's looking
3a. control yourself, if you must sing, at the top of your lungs is not acceptable.
If alone skip, skip to no. 5
4. every third piece give a sniff, get high on
fresh starts, clean notions, the idea that all can be washed away
4a. Every third piece of hers give an extra sniff,
so you can know why love keeps you alive
5, if you have to sing, then only loud acceptable
(***** the others, you're doing the folding, they're sleep-dreaming)
6. drink lots of water
7. have pen + paper handy cause ain't no doubt
the poet puppet muse masters gonna smack you
when folding sheets alone.
8. finish the write and post it ASAP
9. always leave the single socks on top of the dryer,
a prayer to the laundry gods for the
safe return of their better halves
10. finish
11. If done correctly, you need to shower (wash hair!)
12, around 6:00am, all scrubbed and clean,
fold yourself back into her arms. Snuggle, spoon.
13. when she mumbles you smell clean, you reply,
                                  "been folding laundry, writing poetry,
                                   and the clean smell done fell on me"
14. if alone, despair not, read this poem and know we are together
15. believe this day is full of possibilities,
write me a poem, put the load right on me

there are stains that cannot be removed,
deterred by this gent, and his a-gents,
they are history, treat'em with respect
and not more
deter-gent

every poem must end,
so when the folding is done,
whisper:

*the day ahead is full of possibilities
like the pleasured making of my clothes happy soiled,
so I possess an excuse, a reason, a rationale for living
to fold laundry again!
I have no idea where these crazies come from.
"But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Maestro Bill Joel

For Harriet Tecumsah Watt

11/24/13
lmnsinner Apr 2017
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line


~

all the lines of man-made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting,
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution,
remaining hopelessly empty,
defining the watery soluble
inequality of null


~~

The Fall Line

first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina,
standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls

the fall line
where the crystalline basement rock
erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary,
there, where,
a waterfall is nature-gifted

so intuitive, so obvious,
what else to call the water's owned edge,
line of demarcation,
where we grow captivated,
mesmerized, knee weak,
traumatized and tantalized

knew that instant when spoken,
The Fall Line,
saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives,
would be a someday poem

selective service phrases stored and
someday up recalled,
a thousand, maybe more,
waiting for the confluence of
time and place,
to be a mother

letting my fluid sac burst,
giving birth to a concoction symphonic,
the emotions waterfalling, cascading,
the precision, vision seconds,
when words

pour, gush, surge, spill,
stream, flow, issue, spurt

~~~

silently crafted in the weeks and months prior,
the unconscious drowning in ache and pain
of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living

all the lines of man made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null


the vision infection of the majestic fall line,
so accessible in an instance of overwhelm,
cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful
whatever

one more additional addiction unshakeable,
jumping from fall line to fall line,
it's the game I am played,
but the controller
is not in my possess

for the joy stick that drives my actions,
toys with me,
the human fool jumping
from fall line to fall line,
unsure of what he desires,


salvation or saving
11/26/16
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Abdulrhman Nov 2018
yellow
lights
is sad

Blue
Blood
Is death

Black
Rose
Is memory

Grey
Lips
Is lonely

Red
Face
Is love

White ..
What’s white ?

to forget about all these colors
And to move on with your life
Destiny‘s might

The zodiac stars

Shone bright

To bring together

Souls

Of different kinds
He woke this morning
Another night of her dreams

He glanced into the mirror
She’s not real it seems

Society unknowingly accepts
The image presented
Unaware of the damage
Being self-inflicted

He hides her for fear of rejection
She battles for her reflection.
______

Michelle Renee Milford
Nov. 2014
I was blessed to have this poem chosen by T.E.N.T. (Transgender Education Network Texas) for the Austin, Texas 2014 Transgender Day of Remembrance ceremony at City Hall. :) :) :)
Mr Zeal Nov 21
Silence getting loud and I can barely hear,
Sinking behind the wheel and I can barely steer..
Drifting in and out of consciousness the guilt is here
The little kid in me is hiding under my beard..
He locked me out my heart, because Im tired of fighting the tears.
I can’t find the tears
I can’t shake this feeling
I can’t sleep right now
But I cover my head with these sheets
And the moon reminds me how dark it is
I can’t see ****
I made peace with the darkness
I made with peace with brightness of bright above my window.
allanbrunmier Jul 16
The setting moon leaked silver into the languid sea
The sailor lay below in the murky deep
Far from the glimmering light
He who could fix any boat lay with those no one could heal
His parents Dee and Beep wept with sorrow
As did his wife Tina at the marina edge

But the day will come when white clouds and blue sky
Will kiss the sunlit sea and their dogs Brady and Otis
Will romp in the joyous surf with the sailor’s beloved Farley dog
And they’ll know the sailor and Farley will forever move with the ocean tide
And forever live in their hearts

A sailor can’t leave footprints in the sea
But Gary left his on the home shore of friends and family
All our lives are traced in water
But some are etched in loving memory
I
I wrote 1st time in 50 years for my friend Gary and for wife Tina, his parents Dee and Beep and even for Gary's departed dog Farley. Gary sadly died suddenly from unsuspected colon cancer stage IV at the age of 48. Gary was a merchant sailor and later tug boat engineer. He could fix anything afloat. © 4 years ago, Allan E Brunmier
Tammy M Darby Nov 2016
Crept in sinister and foreboding
Announcing their warnings in silent contrails of clotted red
Though the signs were not heeded
The impending extinction civilization was to face
From this reality humans turned their eyes away

The war was soon in coming
The blood parasites set their war machines humming
Singing songs of death and gold coins
Rubbing their hands with mad glee
As death profiteers cackled and rejoiced
Veiled widows sobbed quietly resigned and forlorn

Black strangling stench of rotting bodies and lies
The look of defeat in helpless glazed eyes
Tears running down accepting streaked faces
The sounds of fading souls and lost dreams
The screams of the dying lessened and eventually ceased

When Crimson skies in the morning
Crept in sinister and foreboding



All Rights [email protected] Tammy M. Darby Nov. 28, 2016
Tammy M Darby Nov 2017
From a murky corner I emerge briefly
Penetrating and blinding
Shone the light upon my face

To gush a few words of insanity
If I may say so though tongue in cheek
With a touch of eloquence and grace

A rare moment of clarity though quite fleeting
Upon you my irrational thoughts in verse I endow

Among the dark poets
I willingly take my place
And exit normality with delight and an awkward bow

@ copyright Tammy M. Darby Nov. 16, 2017.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2018
I halfheartedly grasped the ledge
Peering indecisively over the edge  
Wondering perhaps in all seriousness if I should let go

A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you do not experience it
Why and how could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?

A little less grew my grip on the edge
Taking momentary notice of the crumbling ledge
My mind wanders into a place where all is nothingness
And nothingness is the norm

I let my mind freefall as they call it
Into oblivion and time dissolved it
Finding myself very comfortable in this environment
I wished never to return

So I concocted a simple cunning game
Whenever spoken to by the seemingly sane
Smiling wickedly
Into nodding confirming faces
I repeat these words

A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you haven't experienced it
How could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?

@ copyright Tammy M Darby Nov. 24, 2018
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday,
From the “Bridge of the Casino” to the port.
The things I beheld on my shiny way
So simple they were, here is a report:
II
Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic
As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows.
The water snakes performed some dance symbolic
And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance.
III
At a green grocer’s cart a lady in jeans
Sought peas, artichokes, & broccoflower;
Two lovers, each tried to explain,
As a cat miaoed, what love was to the other.
VI
And I, hastening to my liquid address,
Shooting a side look at a man in a dress,
Was hoping the glazing port in the White Sea*
Would wash the bleeding wound in my memory.

© LazharBouazzi, Nov.16, 2016, revised Nov. 17, 2016, elongated July 8, 2017
* The Arabic name for the Mediterranean is the "White Middle Sea."
Tammy M Darby Nov 2018
It without reservation can be said
Light on their indistinct feet these apparitions
Having no physical form

Cavorting of course with analogous kinds
Ravenous
On human emotions, they dine
Waltzing with elegance and ease
Disappearing as they please
Showcasing their unearthly skills
Rattling their chains
And moaning with glee

Ah yes it can most assuredly be said
I enjoy
Dancing with ghosts of the dead
It is the event of a lifetime
And is a rare phenomenon amongst the living

But not be envious of their steps
For throughout their existence they may never rest
It is a clandestine situation at best
Though they frolic gaily

Imprisoned between two worlds
Ignoring their dilemma
Nebulous phantoms
Continuing to whirl

Still, in good conscience, I cannot deny
Even with their trickery and constant cries
And disregarding the fact they are dead
What a delightful experience it truly is
Dancing with ghosts of the dead

All Right Reserved @ Tammy M Darby Nov. 3,  2018.
Re-Write Feb. 11, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base.
trhey may nevr eestSo if you seek ***
Nov.7.19

Come and fly with me
Come see the world
With me ,
Hope it’ll last
At least for a while
Then that’s last
I’ll wake up
Tammy M Darby Oct 2017
Please pardon me as from society I quietly withdraw
As chaos rapidly approaches inadvertently consuming us all
I can see no sign of goodness in the heart of humans
No visage of the future as it is submerged in red

Kings of the darkness devoured by greed  
Each sits haughtily on a throne of fire
Rife with the odor of rotting souls and coin
When the Angel of death quietly called

Now burdened with fear at what they had created
That which could not be undone
Drenched in repentance
They fell to their knees
Bowed low their heads and prayed
Alas the hour had passed for forgiveness
And so too dying of the day

Please pardon me as from society I quietly withdraw
As the chaos rapidly approaches inadvertently consuming us all
I can see no sign of goodness in the heart of humans
No visage of the future as it is submerged in red
Alas the hour had passed for forgiveness
So commenced the disappearance of man

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Nov. 2017.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2017
The cutis anserina raise cold upon your arm
The brain dispatches a foretelling chilling alarm
It is panic that has you in its grasp
I daresay your destiny
Though somewhat delayed come at last

You focus your frightened gaze rapidly from left to right
Wishing the sun break the dawn and begone this haunted night
Your inner voice speaks to you
Turn round if you dare
The hair slowly rises on your neck
The cautious self tells you to beware

Ring covered fingers icy run up your spine
Struggling to remain conscious
Your heart is pounding
Counting breaths you mark the time

Drenched in sweat you stumble headlong into the dark
Unaware an actor on the stage merely playing a part
Flee as far as you wish and swiftly as you can
There is no eluding the touch of fears hand

It is panic that has you in its grasp
The arms of fate
Clutch you to her stone breast and hold you fast
They call your name
You must bow to the gods
And breathe your last

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Nov. 25, 2017.




I
Hector Aug 2018
I will learn to love all the rainy days

if you let me stay,

if you let my arms wrap around your waist

and simply hold you there,

I will learn to love from your lips the taste

and from your lungs the air

that sustain your heart,

If I cannot dare

stay one beat apart,

I will learn to love you every single day

if you let me stay.

-
H.O
Nov 2014
-
I still love rainy days... even after I couldn't stay...
~
“At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain.”
― Pablo Neruda
Arshia Qasim Nov 2017
There is a certain romance of incomplete stories
and unrequited passion....
A certain heroism , in unfulfilled ambitions and sacrificed wants ...
(There is also
Selfishness in altruism,
Mockery in humility...
Fragility of pretenses,
Deception of senses,
Armors of sensitivities...
all those nitty gritties,
paradoxes that haunt
etc, but then...)

Sometimes this happens,
love stays and we go.

Sometimes this happens,
there is no beginning, nor end:
through “ifs” and “buts”
priorities distend
the space between, what is seen and what has been.

I picked your hopes with my eyelashes
and thatched together a shade for us
You caught my fall in the web of your thoughts,
softening for me, the landing, and thus,
we built a dream.  

Sometimes this happens
the stars are buried in the desert sands
the lines dissect though you’re holding hands
but for the heart that understands....

it’s all divine. Not yours nor mine.

Sometimes this happens
one understands, but it’s not enough
one knows, but accepting is still pretty rough

You may have all ingredients
but you still need a “here” and a “now”
no question of why? or what? or how...

Sometimes this happens
the wait becomes unbearable
so remember that you know....
time is deceptive
and it’s already tomorrow in Tokyo

Arshia.
Nov 26/27, 2017
Tammy M Darby Nov 2018
Where cold the bodies lay
Pledged their loyalty and honor to a lie
They shall nevermore say

Sacrificed their lives for the red,white and blue star covered flag
While covetous politicians  
Piling high their spoils
Washed the blood from their hands

The children mourned the white stones
Where the cold bodies lay
Little boys and girls tears flowing down their cheeks
Throughout their lives remember this day

The proud American died for his beliefs
He shall nevermore say
Vanquished
Silent
When the sun rose orange
Sleeping quietly in marble grave

The widows mourned the white stones
Where the now cold bodies lay
A few loving words by those close to the heart
They shall nevermore say

It was their duty to act as they swore and pledged
A soldier they follows commands
Leaving their souls forever in the golden deserts
While politicians
Washed the blood from their hands

@ copyright Tammy M Darby Nov. 8, 2018
Anne Nov 2018
47 days left
into the year.

but i still
can't figure out
who he is
as a person.
I believe getting to know the real "self" of a person is not something we can find out really easily nor is it something a person would reveal fast.
Tommy Randell Nov 2017
I'm taking my time getting started today
Today will be a lazy day for sure
I've loved the busy weekend yes
But I'm a Thinker not a Doer

It's been great don't get me wrong
All the Music Joy & Laughter
But I really really need
The quiet silence that comes after

You just can't beat a silence
The quiet sort of silence more so
It lets all my little molecules
Find out where they need to go

It lets me think stuff over
Gets my messy thoughts reordered
Letting go the world and its schedules
While I watch stuff I recorded.

08:00 13th Nov 2017
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