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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Tilly Dec 2012
●^●                                                              ­                                                          
Mistle­toe with berries red, chestnuts roasting, kids in bed.                    
        Glass of eggnog,cheeky kiss, how I live for times like this!                          
     Wrapping done, and stockings filled, brandy warmed                        
and champagne chilled. Baking done, put up our                
feet, and sip the drips from lips so sweet x       
Turkey thawed, ready to roast. Cards      
all sent by last nights post. Treats
left out for old St Nick,
but maybe add a carrot,
quick! Snowman built,
and robins fed. So now
hush my love, it's time
for bed. Midnight
bells, and wicked
grin, as one last
glass of port and gin.
   Maybe, dear, before they rise
        you could unwrap just one surprise?
                       If you can't find it 'neath the tree, then maybe,
                                  baby, your gift's ME! So Merry Christmas, all
                                                 my friends, as with a bang
                                                   this poem now
                                                     ends
                                                     x
To Mr D.Embers, for the mantlepiece of you & yours ***

Merry Christmas, dear friend :)
may all your wishes come true x

I thought your poem would look good this way,
I hope you like it ..
Anna Dulaney Feb 2016
He was an alchemist,
Turning my lead tears to gold,
Because to him I was beautiful
To him I was worth more.

He was a metalsmith,
Fixing my broken copper wings
With tarnished feathers
Because to him, I could still fly.

He was a clockmaker
Resetting my fragmented cogs and beating pendulum
Spending hours and hours
Because to him I was fixable.  

But I am a just broken clockwork angel
With lead tears, broken wings, and severed insides
Rusted away by time and life
And no amount of mending can save me
He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Embark embargo extraditions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s id conclusions
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically  phatic  propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix's vertex vortex
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s synthetic synthesis
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Elan-vital's apotropaic apotheosis
importunacy
Nigel Morgan Jan 2014
Today has been a difficult day he thought, as there on his desk, finally, lay some evidence of his struggle with the music he was writing. Since early this morning he’d been backtracking, remembering the steps that had enabled him to write the entirely successful first movement. He was going over the traces, examining the clues that were there (somewhere) in his sketches and diary jottings. They always seem so disorganised these marks and words and graphics, but eventually a little clarity was revealed and he could hear and see the music for what it was. But what was it to become? He had a firm idea, but he didn’t know how to go about getting it onto the page. The second slow movement seemed as elusive today as ever it had been.

There was something intrinsically difficult about slow music, particularly slow music for strings. The instruments’ ability to sustain and make pitches and chords flow seamlessly into one another magnified every inconsistency of his part-writing technique and harmonic justification. Faster music, music that constantly moved and changed, was just so much easier. The errors disappeared before the ear could catch them.

Writing music that was slow in tempo, whose harmonic rhythm was measured and took its time, required a level of sustained thought that only silence and intense concentration made properly possible. His studio was far from silent (outside the traffic spat and roared) and today his concentration seemed at a particularly low ebb. He was modelling this music on a Vivaldi Concerto, No.6 from L’Estro Armonico. That collective title meant Harmonic Inspiration, and inspiring this collection of 12 concerti for strings certainly was. Bach reworked six of these concertos in a variety of ways.

He could imagine the affect of this music from that magical city of the sea, Venice, La Serenissima, appearing as a warm but fresh wind of harmony and invention across those early, usually handwritten scores. Bach’s predecessors, Schutz and Schein had travelled to Venice and studied under the Gabrielis and later the maestro himself, Claudio Monteverdi. But for Bach the limitations of his situation, without such patronage enjoyed by earlier generations, made such journeying impossible. At twenty he did travel on foot from Arnstadt to Lubeck, some 250 miles, to experience the ***** improvisations of Dietriche Buxtehude, and stayed some three months to copy Buxtehude’s scores, managing to avoid the temptation of his daughter who, it was said, ‘went with the post’ on the Kapelmeister’s retirement. Handel’s visit to Buxtehude lasted twenty-four hours. To go to Italy? No. For Bach it was not to be.

But for this present day composer he had been to Italy, and his piece was to be his memory of Venice in the dark, sea-damp days of November when the acqua alta pursued its inhabitants (and all those tourists) about the city calles. No matter if the weather had been bad, it had been an arresting experience, and he enjoyed recovering the differing qualities of it in unguarded moments, usually when walking, because in Venice one walked, because that was how the city revealed itself despite the advice of John Ruskin and later Jan Morris who reckoned you had to have your own boat to properly experience this almost floating city.

As he chipped away at this unforgiving rock of a second movement he suddenly recalled that today was the first day of Epiphany, and in Venice the peculiar festival of La Befana. A strange tale this, where according to the legend, the night before the Wise Men arrived at the manger they stopped at the shack of an old woman to ask directions. They invited her to come along but she replied that she was too busy. Then a shepherd asked her to join him but again she refused. Later that night, she saw a great light in the sky and decided to join the Wise Men and the shepherd bearing gifts that had belonged to her child who had died. She got lost and never found the manger. Now La Befana flies around on her broomstick each year on the 11th night, bringing gifts to children in hopes that she might find the Baby Jesus. Children hang their stockings on the evening of January 5 awaiting the visit of La Befana. Hmm, he thought, and today the gondoliers take part in a race dressed as old women, and with a broomstick stuck vertically as a mast from each boat. Ah, L’Epiphania.

Here in this English Cathedral city where our composer lived Epiphany was celebrated only by the presence of a crib of contemporary sculptured forms that for many years had never ceased to beguile him, had made him stop and wonder. And this morning on his way out from Morning Office he had stopped and knelt by the figures he had so often meditated upon, and noticed three gifts, a golden box, a glass dish of incense and a tiny carved cabinet of myrrh,  laid in front of the Christ Child.

Yes, he would think of his second movement as ‘L’Epiphania’. It would be full of quiet  and slow wonder, but like the tale of La Befana a searching piece with no conclusion except a seque into the final fast and spirited conclusion to the piece. His second movement would be a night piece, an interlude that spoke of the mystery of the Incarnation, of God becoming Man. That seemed rather ambitious, but he felt it was a worthy ambition nevertheless.
Zoe Sue May 2017
Single sneaker rolls down a road
As the dog barks at empty room corners
Limb shaking winds replace august heat
With an off key church hymn humming heart
And
Two toned makeup, matching stain on new---old shirt
Animal tested
Cheap
Incomplete
Like a José guzzle, airy gag
Shots of half assed smiles
Across an empty bar
Read half assed headlines
Bury corporate hatchets
In pocket or timepunch
Wish we stood for more
Alice Trew Jun 2013
A yellow envelope holding all our hope
Hurts in reaching sense to future sights.
Feel the twisting paper burn in ardent
ache for carpets, roads, and kitchens past.

Knotted floors I know through my bare feet
Folded tight, escape the closing clouds
crescendo to the turning out of time
traced into the edges of the light.

Let water drip from sodden sleeves -
skinned tea-towels dampen over cupboard doors.
Daylight stretched scrub clean in evening scent,
See the sky blush raw for both our cheeks.

Crisp winter-fresh and redness ripening soft
Silent clothes drip tangled to the floor -
Fresh shift in night, a darkness left to bare
before the morning shouts us out of sleep.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Reworked and resubmitted, and this time to stay.
Anything you say can and will be used...


excited utterances,
acerbic witticisms,
utter stupidities,
elegant inanities

can and most assuredly
will be used
evidentially, eventually,
about you
in the court of poetic
justice

as inspiration,
original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo
fathomed long ago, is
us

a Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for
future etch-a-sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than
me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper,
poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible
trash,

the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy

all your lovely revelations
of human frailty
and asininity,
most adorable,
(except for those scarface
treatises I despise as
never justified
self-pity)

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charmes de notre
humanité

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh
so hard
and yet again, even
harder

unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant and genetically improved
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we as the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright
avec expressions most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
funning underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his
protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny
and he will be
the one
future generations recall

when I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars

dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase

write tomes on the
catacombs, where in
jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes
of our mutualism,
your edicts,
pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  
in the year 2300

you err most grievously,
if you relegate
this note
to the dustbin of
simple ditties.

take these words
at plain face,
and
look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am
but a tragic,
empty vessel
for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur~extraordinaire,
street urchin,
word merchant,
all my verbally,
wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything
you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived
embarrassments

A fevered dream
you might say,
rumors and excuses of a
vision of drug induced haze?

a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions
will not conceal
that all my words
were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called
collaborative

this I pen
partly as apology,
partly thank you note,
written notice,
subpoena served,
for as long
as you emote,
my fingertips
will gleefully record
with love abundant
in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in-cahooting

right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
anything you say
that can and will be used...
to express our communitas

Written June 1, 2011
In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.

Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.

Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
since Carboniferous.
Samuel Lombardo Jan 2019
Stories, truths, lies, all these lines,
So confused as to what is happening.
Like riding a rodeo, Dust and rope, rain and shine,
Been a year thinking, and breaking bones,
Healing, taking bumps, watching phishermen
As they try to pick the lock of my heart.
The truth is no one knows my story,
No one knows his story,
They take letters, unscramble them to make a sound
A sound that is not yet proven to be true, either way.
I have time to think and make my move.
No one is rushing it, I am not, he is not,
We are on the same page, but the healing begins.
The only way you will get the answer is not by words, Understanding math, and finding the common denominator
Is the only possible solution.
I am the solution to the problem, not the problem.
Math can sometimes be difficult, because
There are ways to finding the solution,
But if you're not careful, there may be many numbers
Not useful, and the remainders will have to be
Reworked until there is a clear denominator for Solution to this equation.

Rumors have it that I did not show my right to him.
However, truth says that time and space heals wounds.
I do not have to doubt my love,
Because I see where the common denominator is.
Rumors have it that I drove him crazy,
Truth is that I feared love and he opened me up to it.
Rumors have it that I am not right for him,
Truth has it that solutions are sometimes painful,
But only the one can be the solution to my problem.
Rumor has it that I think I am the one,
The truth is the only common denominator that seeks
To make the math problem whole is the one.
Rumors say, that I will not feel loved again,
Truth says, it is love that is opening me up from a distance. Rumors say I do not belong in his life,
The truth says, I already exist in his life,
I am the one he suffered to fix me, and I accept it.
Rumors say I have no peace because I have no love,
Truth says he is the one that opened me to love.
Rumors say I am a broken dream with no hope,
Truth says I am the hope that brings peace to dreams.
Rumors say I am nobody and fat and ugly,
Truth says, my heart opened and my ugliness has Moved on to peace, love, and understanding.

Rumors say, why you like younger people?
Truth says, my youth is what brings me the joy I seek.
Rumors say leave it alone, you will never have him,
Truth says, I already did, and now I am more open.
Rumors say you will never last,
Truth says, true love, lasts a lifetime.
Rumors say you caused the separation,
Truth says, my heart was inseparable and I will prove it.
Rumors say, distance ruins relationships,
Truth says distance is what heals obstacles and barriers.
Rumors say I have some many barriers to open love,
Truth says love is what opened my barriers to freedom.
Rumors say the foundation to my heart is broken,
Reality says brokenness is the foundation of fixing
The broken pieces that will show the one
Who is the one in space and time to fix my brokenness.
Rumors do not believe in love but fear that love exists,
Truth believes that love exists and hope is the key.
Rumors need a reality check,
The truth knows where it is heading on this journey.
Biz Aug 2018
I find most of my comfort in the dark.

I remember turning off the lights and lying on my carpet. It was stripped of color and made with bamboo. I’d take a throw pillow, covered in bright green and blue paisley, from my bed and sink it into the earth. My left cheek pushed down on the cushion until it could not go lower. My eyes closed and my knees bent to my chest. And I was back. Back in my most comfortable and trusted space.

My doorknob was round. I knew every inch— my hand got to know it every day. It aided me in shutting out the light, keeping me confined in a space that had proved to be so safe.

Today, when I seek my old space and companion I reach out for my doorknob. Instead of my round ****, it’s now a broken handle. Instead of the carpet, it’s a woven mat made out of banana leaves. I find ways to mirror my past because in darkness, there was evident light and with light, there was abundant darkness.

It has been 7 years since I met my old space and companion and I still reach for my doorknob almost every day without fail. It's with whom I think I can find my lost inspiration, and it's with whom I can cry without seeing my tears fall down my face. Nothing in the dark counts. Not the hours of TV I watch or the hours of sleep I fall victim to. I like spending time that doesn't count, and how sad does that feel to admit in written words.

Starting today, I'm forcing myself to count all my time. Companions, as great as they can be, can also sink you lower than you can imagine. Goodbyes are hard but are also promised in every stage in our life, and to use a goodbye to aid in your health is a beautiful way to practice.

So, dear darkness, thank you for all that you have given to me over the past 7 years. It was a comfort to know that you were always waiting for me, whether it was in the middle of the day or when the sun had already disappeared. You're a constant friend when many have not been. Your respect and loyalty does not fall short of my appreciation and consolation. Thank you.

With a loss comes a hole and with a hole comes a desire to fulfill. A companion itself cannot be replaced but its hole can be reformed, reworked and remolded. I've chosen to shape you into a healthy alternative, one that feeds on light and on counting time. Your new personality is beautiful and worthy, and here are its most essential parts:

(1).     Spend time near water. Water reminds us that we can indeed fly. Gravity exists but so does buoyancy, and there are times when our mind feels trapped in gravity, making buoyancy a critical healer to our bodies and our minds.

(2).    Take so many risks knowing that with risk comes inspiration, and with inspiration comes life. I've existed both in a safe and comfortable sphere and in a world of unfamiliarity and uncertainty. Learning in the former is difficult and confined. It has been done before and it has been exhausted. The latter is unique and fleeting. We have all the time to be safe and sheltered but less time to let ourselves fall into the opportunity of learning about ourselves when we are uncomfortable, the state that teaches us the absolute most.

(3).  Build endorphins every day, whether than means walking for 30 minutes or dancing for 2 hours. Do something. Get up and out. Allow yourself to create a healthy environment to cradle your brain.

(4).    Read words that feed your soul, like Emily Nagoski's Come As You Are, one of the most fulfilling and rewarding texts I have ever read. Give yourself permission to transform every day, in the smallest to largest way possible.

(5).    Turn your phone off. Studies have shown us again and again that social media can be unhealthy for our minds, so why do we engage every hour of the day?

(6).    Write something. There are stories I can only say in written word. Write them down because you and everyone else on the planet will never live today again or ever.

(7).    Allow yourself to be so vulnerable that you weep. No one is how they appear. Admitting this lets us exist near the earth, so close to nature and so connected to each other. This, you will almost never regret.

(8).    Let yourself connect with someone for the amount of time it is meant to fulfill. Nothing lasts forever and some people will occupy short times in your life and that is ok. It's more than ok. It's beautiful. Every relationship shapes our future, and our future should always learn from our past. Hold every person in the space they naturally occupy and thank them for the time they have passed with you. It is invaluable and you will never experience it again.

(9).    Exist with people who aren't like you, whether than means people who have different political opinions than you or people who grew up across the world from you. Exist. Because you are the smallest part of the story of the universe and not recognizing that will limit your world immensely.

(10).    Meditate. Practice mindfulness which will allow you to recognize how you feel about your feelings (one of the most important life lessons you can learn according to Emily Nagoski) and what feeds your soul and what doesn't.

(11).     Eat two different green things a day. You are what you eat, after all.

As long as I occupy one piece of this new personality a day, I believe the grief I feel for darkness will fade. And with its fading will come light. So much light that I can't believe I have been living without. And one day I hope you will choose to join me.
Tilly Sep 2012
.
                 Carving me
          new     heart . Mine,
           that   won't be  
                 morphing
         & bleeding              knowing
you. Fragility,       reworked     into  a               pyroxene  dragon
       of ancient. Gemstone             of hard, changes
                to beauty over                       time.
Watching the Singapore Grand Prix, to inspire the theme! ;)
Max Reinhart Aug 2013
Plotted, charted according to popular theorem,
meticulously fretted over,
worked and reworked--confirmed.
Follow the order and find the balance.

But, variables.
Solve for x where x is an unknown.
The question may yet have an answer--
a suitable conclusion to prove the proof,
but has the problem a solution?

At rest, we are simple equations,
rounding ourselves to the nearest whole,
adding fractions of a percentage,
drawing a line and calling the bottom number
-------------------------
TOTAL

But, variables.
1(x), where x is an unknown.
And all the fractions we add
leave us fractured,
divided from the solution, the end sum.
remainders to be rounded off,
estimates of ourselves.
ciannie Nov 2015
a girl found a crown on the street
clink, clank, and rolling to her feet
cold gold touched her pinkish toes-
during inspection the jewels bit her nose

she wore it all day long, in strength
found her chores list lessen in length
people blinded by it's brilliant glint
it gleamed eyes away, replaced the print

each precious stone reworked memories
envious green glass once enemies
now pink, mirrored, singular, hers
to match the crown, she wore silver furs

her cloak dragged upon the ground
other children picked it up, and found
themselves wrapped inside and gone
the village became smaller, the cloak became long

the elders dug deep at the edge of their home
while the girl was away, living alone
they discovered bones, gnawed to stumps
bugs and beetles, full, in mounds and humps

they fit the girl's old clothes perfectly
renewed dead flesh, but hurtfully
her eyes were gone, the crown's centrepiece
the flesh left again, puddled their knees

the girl had died and was eaten, long ago
it took some time, they cried, but now we know
the metal melted her fat and skin and sinew
pock-marked her bones, rotted right through

replaced a monster with her spirit, living dead
used her soul as the cloak's first thread
vacuumed others, knitted them close and thick
a pretty trinket turned poisonous trick

the elders chased the monster away
along with their children, that day
they cried and created new children, then
never let them wander again.
story-ish
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
As you may know, I continue to collaborate with other poets here, most frequently with Helen.  Below is a poem of hers that I have edited and reworked, her original notes to me are contained in the notes section below.  So if you like it, tell Helen. If you "choke" on it, tell the editor. That's why they pay us the big bucks! So, send me your scraps yearning to be free...

I am choking
on words.

chest clogged,
throat seized,
as I await to deplane,
when I will perforce,
speak these words,
but for now, held in a
prison garb of my own design.

organs can be donated,
the broken heart,
the shattered liver,
the kidney failing,
eyes for the blind,
lungs for the breathless.

the human psyche
is not replaceable.

I need a mind of titanium,
will gladly settle for either the
Tin-man's heart, or
Cowardly Lion's courage,
both, too much too hope for...

but they are not sold at the airport shops.

perhaps my unseen editor
will accompany me,
hand firmly on my writing elbow,
guiding, refining, selecting
les mot parfait...

How come?
How come everything
inside a body can be replaced
so artfully, artificially
except words inside a broken mind?

I cannot get these words out,
who can transplant a soul?
Limbs recoverable
an Arm, a Leg
Titanium, strength
a missing part replaced

Organs can be donated
The broken heart
The shattered liver
The kidney failing
Eyes for the blind
Lungs for the breathless
Every part of the human psyche
is replaceable

Except for the words
trying to exit
from a chest that is frozen
from a throat that is clogged
from section 38C Row B
where they sit, waiting to deplane

How come? How come everything
inside a body can be replaced
so artfully, artificially
except words inside broken minds?
Trapped like birds with broken wings?
Are all parts that are replaceable
externally, more important
then what's dying internally?
Not just inside our skin, but inside our soul?

I think about that a lot because I'm choked!
Helen   10 hours ago
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2015
~for Ernesto, with love~

these last days, so recently arrived
to nag/remind, pre-commence,
the celebration
of mine fast approaching,
significant other mileage marker,
the day that is the in-between mid and seniority,
finds me asleep by nine,
only to be turned hard a starboard,
startled and startling,
sharp awoken at midnight,
a headful of dreadful and most colorful dreams,
my ever faithful midnight alarm clock

so I find myself alert and inclined to be
urgently communicative,
answering queries from friends,
catching up on comments and likes
to my poems that once penned,
are then penned by me themselves,
surrounded by fences,
put away to be ignored and enclosed,
my flock of sheep unshorn

that upon occasional re-reading
then become hairless, all pink and white skin,
newly denuding of me
by the reminder of public exposure

this travelogue
through heart and mind
is journey for journey's sake,
I have discarded older outdated notions
(the "outdated" conceptual
begs for a poem all its own)

of commencement, beginnings,
ends, finales, terminals. even periods.

instead I conquistador land upon a new
plateau, familiar but confusing,
where my muddled thoughts
have lain for several days,
cloudy in a accumulating cumulus of realizations,
the "compare and contrast" of
life and death,
their gravitas diminished,
understanding them to be but modest signposts
upon the path of this
stewing, brewing, yearning to be free
poem
~~~
The In-Between

all day, I too,
am penned in a museum auditorium,
listening, hearing, applauding a gorgeous gaggle
of writers, musicians, doctors and dancers,
security guards and comic book authors,
falsely accused death row prisoners,
sons and daughters
and yes,
even a poet laureate

all assembled to contemplate this connective notion
of curator-as-written
with capitals and hyphen (most appropriately) as
The In-Between

of course dear Ernesto,
everyone defines their personal in-between
personally
but all these artists corral my thoughts
onto and against a canvas blank,
awaiting the portrait painting
slow cooking in my oven

of you,
who lays dying in Texas
surrounded by family and
the notions of reconciliation
and thus birthing
in me
these words,
something new ironical,
if only to prove a point

You,
my self-appointed
mentee
ex-drug addict, father,
self-savior of yourself
make

I,
your mentor, cheerleader, steadfast critic armed
with
just encouragement enough to give your self-propelled
poetry an occasional push
of your hand-carpentered, tree swing

but this is a poem about
in-betweens

two words,
separate and equal
but when combinated by a
hyphen,
a dash that leaves no spaces
in-between
making two into one

for you and I
are both

in
and
between

each other

two-in-one

only a few weeks ago we talked about
you coming to my new york city,
and now life deserts you,
and you,
me?

here I pause and smile
for I hear you thinking,
natty, too long, too much,
wrap it up and connect that special and peculiar,
in-between,

-

*but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment
this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
us

the poet laureate talks of spaces,
the poem she reads out loud,
is emitted light from her body's mind
exhaled into the room,
and now designed to be placed
in-between
her and us,
purposed to successfully connect
our in-betweenness

I do not like this notion of
rest in peace,
as if peace was a desirable end in and of itself

prefer rest in pieces,
for what follows and precedes peace,
is pieces of ourselves
torn from the notebook
where we write down our poems unique and
secrete our secrets

rest in pieces!
connected by the in-between
which like
the
s p a c e s between  e a c h letter  here,
are the connective tissues of two parts
one, new
and the other,
created-crested by the transference
of every old reworked

I think of spaces differently

the gap between two fron teeth,
the space between two violin strings,
the V separating divider of the space
between our legs that is the baseline
of our torso entire,
the re-appearing and then disappearing space
between two bodies making love

all now remind that the
in-between
is a place of its own purport,
a parapet to stroll across from
one castle keep to another

so more and more,
mere mortal
are these discards,
I forsake these antiquities:

commencement, finale, terminal, ending,
even new beginnings

and all attention paid now to the recasting of our
happenstances and events
as a series of
in-between's,
the most valuable of our possessions,
connecting the only-seemingly
disparate days

but I must now return once more to the
in-between
of us

we uncovered something of ourselves
in
each other,
creating a causeway
between

for you and I are one big
differential,
so unlike in
life's
temperamental,
that
given the down easy to the shock and awe,
most happily easily,
our so very differing poems bridged the
in-between
us

the in-between us,
seen incorrectly as the timeouts
separating the fifteen rounds we fight

that is the thing,
the rub,
the main event on the fight card,
is not the fight itself,
but the crossing over

come quickly to our in-between,
my brother-in-words,
do not leave me
bereft and bereaved,
disconnected and despairing

let's follow,
both of us,
the trail
of dividing and connecting hyphens
---------------

I, given every advantage,
you, given every ghetto gang disadvantage
yet your voice soars
while mine aches and creaks
and breaks

I am better now
understanding existence as
a series of connected in-betweens,
but the not knowing when we will meet again
for the first time,
stretches me thin,
for without you
in
me,
between
us
the space flickers wider,
and the next in-between far far distanced,
further for farther,
and I worry,
who will love my poetry as you did,
who will be my encouragement now?

your passing shall not come
in-between us,
this I swear
~~~
in your honor of
your cellphone misty typo pings and compulsed hurried style,,
I do not edit this edifice that. I have lain down just now,
it was writ in slow haste and
fast forming eddies of ideas,
full of typographical errors of
omission and commission,
just
put out down as it was born,
just as you and I
we were put out as born,
only to cross and combine
to be a single
in-between
3:24am
Sept 26, 2015
------
The DedPoet
5 hours ago      3 hours ago

A Final Poem
Though I stand at the precipice
Of eternity's brimming cup,
Filled with hymn and speech
Alive like a livid wound
Gasping for more heavy minutes,
I wonder at the things left unsaid.

The sun mounts the coast
Consuming the resurrection
Of my forsaken throat,
The penetrating odor of certain
Death,
Still in this fragility
A certain voice I still call
To in dreams that come ever stronger
In the gentle atmosphere
Where night is born
And the dawn of her smile,
Here destiny can be seen
With continuity of life.

In this memory
I feel the calm of a faraway star,
My journey to he taken among
The densities
Which petrifies the brilliance
Of my shining fear,
My great love like my life
Should become an omen
That flies out of my hand
And becomes an actual presence
While the world is suspended
As I leave for the transparent skies.

And my life with her was a harvest,
My memory drinks of her
Forehead lit by the moon,
My lost time in a repugnant solitude
In my unmajestic life,
I arrive at forever
Because I loved her,
And yes because she loved me back.

The world is a mystery to me,
And I will leave as a question
Filtered by words
In a journey of galleries
Visible by the days I was alive,
Among the corridors I will see her
Face,
Among the words I will
Have given to poetry
What life had given like pillars
Of magic,
Taken by the arches of light filled
With enduring gratitude
For my greatest sorrows,
Simultaneously my greatest joy.

Like a song in the wind
I voyage the flames
Fanning the fire of words,
Because she loved me these words
Were born,
Because I loved her,
I birthed a poem.
And upon my death
Collect my fragments and place
Them under the tired sun,
Swept away by the ocean tides
Full of anguish under the flowering
Of my death,
I will be a poem remembered,
Nostalgic and scattered.
Here in the flesh,
My eyes see,
My hands touch,
I seek the say to live as a bird,
I search without finding,
I pace the shadows off the lonely
Walls ,
The day ends, the minutes end,
These heavy seconds
Of walking onward to the next life.

Where is my life without her?
And the poem absurd and short,
Death makes one know the worth,
The drowsiness of these poets,
Awakening when something ends.
Unleashed is my word,
Flawed and with no center,
I am a dying man.
Angry and bitter,
Tempered by the words
Never spoken,
The words I will never say,
Though I die and go to a body
More golden and transparent,
To a land with tiger lilies
In undying meadows where the sun
Dances on the outskirts
Of the night,
I know I have lived,
I lived because she lives now,
And she loved me.

My persecuted ways are done,
I relieve to you all
This final poem,
Filled with her grace,
The love of my life,
A final verse to say nothing more
Than goodbye,
Where the writing is done
By living,
Death shall remain but a word.
martin challis Sep 2014
A vista
spiels with neon
Non-essential conversation repeating
Humanity hovers at the entrance
In this shopping centre every need seems urgent
Mouths pause their chatter
To sip at coffee or chow down burger
Gestures are reinforced with nail polish,
jewellery on many fingers
and small change passing across counter tops

In here the weather is neither warm nor cool
and everything seems designed to stimulate my mediocrity

Reflection in the shop-front is on sale at bargain price
but today I cannot afford to buy on impulse

I turn away to blend
With colourful  blah


MChallis © 2009 (reworked 2014)
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
I was standing by the window
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw the hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away

Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky

I said to the undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For this lady you are carrying
Lord I hate to see her go

Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky

Oh, I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hide my sorrow
When they laid her in the grave

Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky

I went back home, the home was lonesome
Since my mother, she was gone
All my brothers and sisters crying
What a home so sad and alone

Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky

We sang songs of childhood
Hymns of faith that made us strong
Ones that mother maybelle taught us
Hear the angels sing along

Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky

____
"Can the Circle Be Unbroken (By and By)" is the title of a country/folk song reworked by A. P. Carter from the hymn "Will the Circle Be Unbroken?" by Ada R. Habershon and Charles H. Gabriel.[1][2] The song's lyrics concern the death, funeral, and mourning of the narrator's mother.
Alyssa De Marzo Apr 2018
To all the people I could never love
I wanna say it wasn't me nor you
the trial and error sent from above
forgive my words regrettably untrue

To all the hearts I never accepted
I cannot forget the minds I have changed
To all the souls I never defended
Forgive me people who´ve become estranged

For each of the tears I have caused to shed
I have come to replenish our due peace
I know I´ve left you stranded in your head
let the raging hurt in your heart decease

Remember it was you who taught me so
There´s a forgiving grace in letting go
Poignant prose chucked out and recycled by morning.
Turned out trick repeated til boring.
The local band just started touring.
Sonnet's blasted until the ladies are 'whooring'.

...

Roxy Music dropped David Byrne.
For Ellie Goulding and a remix of burn.
Robert Johnson's been reworked.
Ratatat rap as interest is perked.

Dylan picked up the silent game.
Making ambient noises which all sound the same.
The Rolling Stones joined the church.
After buying some of Hoosier's merch.

Nicki Minaj claps her ****
Laying down a tribute for Terry Fox's stump.
Benefit concert soon to be run.
By the played out Glee Club composing Fun.

Beach Boys dragged in with the tide.
...And Stars Collide.
NOFX has gone clean
Fat Mike's gone and become a dean.

Tom Waits stomps out to Kendrick Lamar.
Hacking up bits of blunt induced tar.
Bumping out in Steve Ellison's car.
To Captain Murphy's karaoke bootlegged from a bar.

...

Less than 10 good tapes a year
Even fewer if referring to those others actually hear.
Jack White's gone third eye blind
Getting over run by his drug free mind.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
the thermometer's rising red mercury,
a truest signal-fire of  the
approaching well-fated
army of summer days,
their inevitable return
prophesied and more accurately foretold by heated degree,
than any solitary red X penned,
marked upon an island's
dog-eared firehouse kitchen calendar

the imaginary sounds of their solacement
inside the heart beats louder
than any timekeeper's ticking clocking counts,
mechanical reminders of a return inevitable,
comforting but impoverished upon compare,
to the warming solace of hearty silent sun sounds
far louder in the mind, than that of measuring throbbing metal

for nigh, nigh the hour's of your carriage come hither
does near approach and laden heavy by
the long time distanced poet's exhausted hopes,
a labored long voyage, soon to be ended,
yet worthy-word laden,
promised peace, carried within it,
a steady straight forward rolling gait heard,
that, it's Paul Revered lanterned combined signaling,
one if by land, two, if by sea,
for I will come back, traversing both

"return, return poet
to where thy fellow musketeers,
wind, sun and sea
have impatiently waited,
we, your corporate grayed chair's guardians and protectors,
memorizer's of the poetry of our yellow scented,
electric conspiracy, rusted silent, now too many months,
your voice transmogrified
by sophisticate urban airs,
man's unnatural pollutions,
we woo and will you, make over"


Ah, that Adirondack throne,
my summer body's glove,
magical wooden carpet
flying the mind's eye
to places where unfriendly times,
give way to reworked words
in a refreshed world, that makes sense again,
the joy tears that layup on and in it imbedded,
know only of the comfort of a
nature's shelter never withheld

"the winter's pale thrashing has skinned
and stripped your voice of its true timbre,
you gaze only inward, obstacled your vision,
seeing only whitecap seas of internal distress


come hear the seagrasses waving windy welcome
listening rapt  to your summons of convocation,
and the celebration of your traditioned blessed evocation,
a combine of old poems, old tears, and fine oak memories,
new candles lit, new waves crashing but soul soothing,
let us cleanse the taunting taints that inhabit,
our duty to inhibit the unforgiving stale self-reproach
of winter's ugly poems and slushy fears


we are folk honest, your summer companions,
acknowledging that what haunts your interior,
to the task of cease and desist we are inferior,
but in your chair, by the bay, the old words refreshed,
and the new poems of hope and scents
of yet better days promised


of that, of that
we do not promise,
of that that we bonded guarantee
a pledge of mutual fealty


we smell you and taste you in every old recirculated breeze,
as you inhale us and exhale toiled tribulations,
we will be married-vow renewed,
a new peace of sorts imbued,
far far better, than no peace at all!
"
I write more and will post less,
but this weekend I hope to journey
my own one hundred miles, across three isles,
employing bridges and ferry,
to get back to where I write a different kind of poetry,
and the bad, the surface cracks within welded shut,
the winter's road ruts,
filled and sealed,
melded by nature's lighter than air cement

though the cracks within cannot be
filled or healed
by them alone,
a lush quietude invades
and does the best it can...
the photo my winter's hairy tale,
scissored and dispatched,
and an old memory restored, replaced,
my new island audience and followers,
who disapprove or approve of what I write,
by leaving, or honking OK!

if you care, search my old summer poems,
and discover the story's of the chair, the island, and it's unforgiving
demand to write...
ottaross Aug 2015
Catch the one
You beckoned to fall
Down to you.
It came easily then
Out of the deep black sky.

Too hot, unless you played it
Quickly from hand-to-hand.
Too bright
As it glowed and sparkled.
Too beautiful;
Blinding, rare and exotic.

Quickly, you find,
You cannot find a ladder soon enough
Nor tall enough
To replace the jewel
Back from whence it came.

It was better there
If only you had known.
James Rives Apr 2019
The clay mug fell, shattering,
the water inside staining
the floor with its murky
paint-infused hues.
Brushes lay, wet and askew.
Blankly, the artist stares,
the sound of his breathing
emphasizing this moment.
There is beauty in small things.
A major rework of an older poem from my high school days. I will also upload the original
Ian Beckett Nov 2012
1 simple set of instructions
4 heavy flatpack boxes
5 square aluminium legs
27 painted pieces of wood
100 ridged wooden dowels
101 white plastic ***** covers
102 blister-causing screws of various sizes.


Assumption that no unter or ober
Equals drunken waves of shelves
Sadly means finished is unfinished
Reworked masterpiece complete at last
Male ego boosted by admiring plaudits
Value enhanced by effort expended
Flatpack frustration in 4 easy pieces.
Clone re Eatery Jan 2015
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"*

I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree  
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!


Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?


Original ('Humility') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator
This is the fifth in a series of reconstructions of the drivel of "Thee Artiste" aka Logbrain Crappó which has been previously posted on HP.

True, nothing could possibly make Thee's mindless nonsense less lousy, but at least it can be put into a neater, though still steaming, pile...
zebra Oct 2020
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl

she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language

the regression to Lilith
**** *******
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world

***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good

give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy

right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed

a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails

a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish

death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******

steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality

are you gonna eat that?

pass the ***
collapses time
lust  
custodian
of human archeology

**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******* and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you

a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in ******* farm country
Deigh Walker Nov 2012
Where do I begin?

Should it be at the height of fog hours,
doping up infallible images of affection,
among sifting smugness,
end over end in my sun-stroke mind?

Should it be it all tore down from closed doors,
every imperfection, every cyst, reworked by
some sort of Mortician,
consumed by grandeur for his practice?

Or should it be at the exact
moment
that all was realized– astuteness to
how fragile every meter of my unused offal really is?

Second to sick second, and day to well day,
all woven itself into a tapestry thats harder and harder to recall

Sew the squares, and caress the texture with tips of printless fingers
Each inch calls– no, howls –out into the basin where I sit

Howls of pain
                                 howls of stone
howls of criticism
                               howls of analysis
ripping through the brail that's sung to the bone

Tell to beg, where do I begin?
betterdays Jul 2014
Moirai
sits
with
the
cat's
cradle
of your
life
in
her
supple
hands
and
never
still
fingers

she
thread­s
kismet
karma
fortune
and
potluck
into
wonderous
configurations
­
and in
order
to
keep
the
threads
pliable
yielding
and
graceful
she
dips
them
in
puddles
a­nd
oceans
of...

lust
laughter
love
joy
hope
and
sorrow
fear
ange­r
and
everyday
madness

all
of
life's
fibres
and
oils
scents
and
­tastes
mingled
together

deftly
worked
and
reworked
as she
deems
fit

and
in
this
thread
a
knot
that
joins
birth
and
death

Moirai
sits
forever
patient
and
twiddling
until
knot
is
l­et
unravel
and
you
are
left
to
hang
dangling
at the
end
of
fate's
frayed
and
ever
fraying
thread.
from a three word prompt
death,love,fate
thank you. n.h.
Clone re Eatery Jan 2015
Thee Artiste Carvó's "I Went Berserk Today"*

I went berserk today...
They locked the cell again...
And I started to pray...
That they didn't forget my meds...
And pray...
Because my cell was filled with horrors...
And a fine **** came...
It passed through the hole in my soul...
And the fine **** was my art...
That I had made...

It smelled...
Oh oh...
Oh so good...
A truly fine ****...
My meds now no longer needed...

The visions reappear...
Tomahawks...
Fly in flock...
And are dropped by the smell of ****...
A fine, fine **** from Thee Fartest

Dust storms...
Stay in a rut...
Between the frail cheeks of my divine ****...
And are expelled with my next fartistic emission...

I...
I stay stay on top!
Floating upon the winds of ****...


Original ('I Went Home Today...') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator
This is the second in a series of reconstructions of the drivel of "Thee Artiste" aka Logbrain Crappó which has been previously posted on HP.

True, nothing could possibly make Thee's mindless nonsense less lousy, but at least it can be put into a neater, though still steaming, pile...
Gabby O Apr 2015
I know how to read
thinking, interpreting,
it's all fresh in my head,
yet writing is different.
I have a penchant for using used words.
The phased out phrases,
the reworked rhymes ,
the secondhand sentences that fly over pages upon pages of my poetry,
that's the writer I am.
Someone made of words written so many times before,
captivating carelessly.
Literature made from the same recipe yet turning out different each time,
new art made from recycled paint.
They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,
yet I wonder if i'm simply the lowest form of fraudery
as an imperfect wordsmith writing over printed pads
and old book pages.
Touching on topics tactlessly,
Living through artists vicariously,
weaving with words i could never properly pronounce.
But in thought
looking back
I can only write what I know,
and if I know not the world beyond novels,
beyond poets and artists,
at least I know how to read.
Clone re Eatery Jan 2015
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Embrace Thee Blight!"*

Thee Artiste's **** once more is freed!
Oh! Wandering fumes do flatulence heed!
Bubble forth! Through waters so impure!

Thee's ***** **** is near!
Bowwow to Thee…
for Thee's smell's a doggy's dream...

Embrace Thee blight!
Gasses new, gasses old…
pass through Thee's dual manifold…

Thee's thee fartiste of forever…
Cro-Magnon man who's mentally spent,
******* on creativity's flames

Oh perfect ****…
exudes from Thee who seeps…
for he is Thee who sets the winds of fartistry free.

Only Thee (the no one) knows!
How true fartistry blows...
like Thee who is the evoker...
of the fartistic flow...

Oh Thee who is Logbrain Crappó is master of the fartiste's blows!


Original ('Embrace The Light') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator
This is the eighth in a series of reconstructions of the drivel of "Thee Artiste" aka Logbrain Crappó which has been previously posted on HP.

True, nothing could possibly make Thee's mindless nonsense less lousy, but at least it can be put into a neater, though still steaming, pile...
Theia Gwen Feb 2014
My whole life is a battle between heart and mind
And you always send them both
Barrelling in overdrive

Despite the hits my heart has taken
The childlike state hasn't died
The one telling me no one will hurt me
And that everyone can be kind
But i've built a cage around my heart
Barbed wire trying to stamp out feelings of love from the start

And my mind is no more reliable
The things it whispers to me always keeping me in the dark
Fear and sadness keep me rooted to the spot
Always replaying peoples cruel remarks
No end to the horrid thoughts tattooed in my brain

Somehow you've gotten through the barriers my heart has put up
And for some reason you deal with all the demons my mind has ingrained  
My heart wants to believe you when you say that four letter word
How you could love someone who hates herself is an idea my brain can't comprehend
I think it's time I let my heart free once more
And silence my brain screaming "You'll only get hurt!"
Despite the fact that it's only hurting myself
It's time for my mind to be reworked
And now that my heart controls my mouth I can finally say
"I love you too"
Clone re Eatery Jan 2015
The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"*
                  (Another Crummy Acrostic)

T is for ****, I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...

G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******...
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for *******, I posses the gift of ****...
T is for ******, I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ******, My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...

F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****....
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...

A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...

This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.

Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator
This is the fourth in a series of reconstructions of the drivel of "Thee Artiste" aka Logbrain Crappó which has been previously posted on HP.

True, nothing could possibly make Thee's mindless nonsense less lousy, but at least it can be put into a neater, though still steaming, pile...
Clone re Eatery Dec 2014
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Maggot O' Pus"*

I open my fly
I beat

I close my eyes
And seep

Watch me now
To see the art

Thee art of a master-bater

I read your eyes
they show horror

They reflect Thee MasterPiece-of-****

Thee art of a master-bater
Thee art of Loghain Carvó

I open my lips and ****
For all these works are Thee Maggot O' Pus


Original ('Magnum Opus') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator
This is the first in a series of reconstructions of the drivel of "Thee Artiste" aka Logbrain Crappó which has been previously posted on HP.

True, nothing could possibly make Thee's mindless nonsense less lousy, but at least it can be put into a neater, though still steaming, pile...

— The End —