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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2023
“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are

strong at the broken places."

A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway

<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend  

understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever

cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me

getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”

I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry

And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!

But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.

but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry

thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,

but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future

1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow  
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells

2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.

so here is our truth:
when,
The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!*

our whole blood will replenish us
Sabbath Eve
Fri Nov 17
10:00am
in the ***** of my birth
If you look into a woman's heart
what will you find
do all the scars grow
faint over time?
Or will they be rebroken
with each new hurt
No one really values
a woman's true worth
If you could count
a woman's tears
Keep track of the
things she fears
Would you respect her
maybe just a little more
Finally understand
what she was fighting for
Just a sense of belonging
nothing more
If you could see behind
a woman's eyes
Would you see the truths
in the things she hides
Today shall be a talking day
a walking day
and I shall walk and talk and say things
to myself and maybe others too
and if I do
it may make this day seem okay.

At times the rhymes that stymie me
those unreleased
I will set free to walk and talk along with me
another piece of poetry.

Others look and wonder why this man that mouths words passes by
with spittle dripping from his lips and tips of cigarettes unlit
just waiting for a light to rip into his eyes and slip a match into his hands which make the shuffling of the pack
another cigarette and back to walking
talking
stalking through the rush hour crowds which pass like clouds around my feet
and will I ever find a seat
to sit?
unlit again.
'Hey mister have you got a light and if so might you give some substance to the nicotine'
and I,unseen
the haunted of the haunting dream
lit,unlit and barely time to clean or clear and my oh my oh dear
the heavens open up and fill my begging bowl which in actuality is a Starbucks cup which in the breaking makes a better place to put my shamefaced
unlaced misery.

A cup another cup of steaming tea
sweet,delicious and given to me by a sweeter looking lady who maybe felt a little pity,sadness too
but who am I to know what goes on in the minds of those that throw this sausage dog a bone?

I howl and I can howl and how I bark
but not when I am in the park sat by the swans and ducks and in being somewhat of a lucky man
which I most assuredly feel is what I am
feed the wildlife with stale bread and talk the words that flow in seasons round my head.
I'm sure these birds appreciate my soft spoke words but they don't tell me so, and so I go into another walk and talk
with skateboarders,
talking tall orders as they whizz and skid along the concrete tracks
on which the local councils with their tightened schedules close their eyes and turn their backs.
And back to City
unmade streets
leaking drains and leaking brains that leak through walls and wall street halls and madness ramparts
broken and rebroken hearts
false and even falser starts until it falls apart.
The falling I can understand
another matchstick in my hand and one more cup of tea
I've had enough of lunacy and lunatics
I shall go home to egg and chips
retire and
sat by the fire will watch the flames that flame out names and burn the corners of those pictures that I carry on the inside
another fireside
an ash grey day
a walking,talking time today
tomorrow
who knows?
SG Holter Feb 2015
No matter how dark the bedroom,
I can always see your eyes
Seeing mine.

Sometimes your hands follow;
Find my face or other
Skin.

Mine may reply, reach to
Feel, draw to kiss.
And there is fire in this.

No matter how dark the day.
Clouds heavy with rain promising
Thunder:  

A child with a toy on the floor,
Undaunted; preoccupied,
Leaving worry to us grown-ups

Gathering pillows from balconies;
Seeing a storm as more than it is.
There is fire in this.

I've held shaking hands over a
Keyboard wet with tears, trying,
Trying to put words

On the burning within; the
Heart broken and rebroken
Until it needed

Stitches and staples
To hold together, finally
Finding faint flickering flames

Deep within the darkest darkness
Of that abyss. Whispering relieved:

*There is fire in this...
improbably divine, it happened still.
reborn, rebuilt, rebroken and rejoined,
like grass that grows across the asphalt scars,
some different kind of me with changing will.
adapting. morphed. you know, sometimes,
the thing what hurts you so, so much
can turn into a blessing in disguise.
or so I hope.

took out the glass shards from my feet,
then stepped one time, ignoring pains,
covered the road with my blood stains.
it hurts, but so important still. and so,

I'm ready now to step again
and re-discover
and i'm trying to make sense of it
cool summer night
no fourth of july
but in your eyes
i see fireworks
laid up by your side
under a very empty sky
guess it was my time
to learn how a liar works

ever explosive
swear you'll control it
and in the moment
i believe it
and of course you blow it
heart rebroken
trust eroded
guilt deep-seated
history repeated
you say i love you
and i think you mean it

flick of a match
fire licks the fuse
eating away whats left of it
about to get a special view

beautiful disaster
waiting to occur
waiting for the show
still trusting in your word

staring right at the light
naive to how this works
you get to have your fun
i get left hurt

a knocked over rocket
destroying everything in it's path
you did this on purpose
and you'll never take it back

— The End —