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Nat Lipstadt May 2015
from the beckoning nookery
a firework sign comes,
a warning bow shot
of summer commencing,
the ever present
natural elemental companions
sun, sky, water, earth and wind
in unison,
their voices commanding,
calling out

write!

poet has painted this vista~poem
so so many times,
all is as before,
yet nature's sirening,
   a compulsed fierce fire catcall
poet once more,
endeavor,

write!

poet resists
for all seems a priori,
impossible to change his older visionaries,
defending himself to them

"all is before"
(except for the poet)

the Nookery is
the poet's corner,
self-proclaimed,
in soul warfare taken,
oasis of composition,
truthfully, a
confessional
seclusion salvation place,
within it heard only
the voices of
twinning earth and water,
sun and sky
striking poet's fomenting
heart~throat beating chest

other poets have been invited here,
for their solacing arrival
this poet attends,
perhaps only  together he thinks,
two poets with luck,
in contra-unison can devise
new ways of capture of  the
unceasing harmonies,
unnaturally eternal
ripened to perfection,
a constancy of hope,
in the unchanging, island setting

river and bay breeze,
sun-warmed waters
bring to him once again as in the past,
Shaker Melodies of West Side Stories,
Air adagio's of rock and roll anthems,
Pachelbel's Canon

this, nature's subtle way
of edging him on,
beseeching the poet

sit, rest,
one more time
upon the Adirondack wood worn throne,
pluck poems from us,
about us

write!

the environmentals,
so persistent -
refuseniks of the tyranny
of the past shout

lay us down to sleep
on coverlets of refreshed verse,
ours to keep,
when to the must of the city,
you
must

the poet,
contented
with the written word of
what has long ago
been removed from him,
fears plumbing yet again
the unoriginal error of repetition,
a sin of cardinals and small minds

the unrepentant wind whips
insistent,
seering sun shines
consistent,
water waves lap speak
one continuous shushing sound
persistent,
all together
demanding, non-stopping,
new homages and sacrifice
deny past connectivity

all is not as before
maintaining, complaining
(even the poet)

poet sees
the elements,
sees that all appear similar
in last year's' form,
and the year's before,
lacking the comprehension
of subtle modifications

eyes uncircumcised
see harder, look closer,
perceive
new combinations of
varicose veined blue shadings
in the waterways and the
fresh waving-hello colored whitecaps,
updated saluting salutations
quite like those of
friends past, rewelcoming him,
more real
than the error of self-delusion of
unchained unchanged
all, nothing
is as before

these waters molecules
have never been here before,
newly flowing nouvelles arrivées
from the South Seas and Antartica,
the Yangtze and the Amazon

today's temperate breeze
so adamant,
boasts of having come here first time
from cold Canada,
or balmy Bombay,
melting as immigrants to his sheltered island

all speak now in
new tongues, new accents,
all a collective
here,
come to me,
all the same quest

write!

the sun same,
yet newly born daily
burnished with a forever glory
send fresh light
to the poet's eyes,
each ray politely suggesting,
this summer's novice poet,
pay them
poetic obeisance dues,
and

write!

all is as surface as before,
but all have changed,
new summer, new elements,
decay wiped away,
man~poet must now speak too,
using uncovered new verbal molecules,,
recreating the ineffable solace
of a new summer
brought to him in the guise only of
familiar friends

all of us
have changed,
though seemingly minimally surficially,
Poet,
self-taught,
acknowledges, he too
evolves

it is this tale then,
the poet proffers
as his first serving of
summer-only fruits,
owning up now,
though man and nature
revolve in planetary unison,
all things change,
even the poet,
when in nature's nookery,
his compulsion
is sun blood heated,
and
skin breathes differently
in the nookery,
his natural old time, revival tent

happily now, he weeps
in tenderest of embraces,
when old, familiar
changelings
charge him

write!

Shelter Island
May 2015
irinia Jun 2014
Something black somewhere      in the vistas of his heart.

Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood
to be a tulip and desire no more
but water, but light, but air.
Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued,
&suffocation; called, dream-whiskey'd pour
sirening. Rosy there

too fly my Phil&Ellen; roses, pal.
Flesh-coloured men&women; come&punt;
under my windows. I rave
or grunt against it, from a flowerless land.
For timeless hours wind most, or not at all. I wind
my clock before I shave.

Soon it will fall dark. Soon you'll see stars
you fevered after, child, man, & did nothing -
compass love to the pencil-torch!
As still as his cadaver, Henry mars
this surface of an earth or other, feet south
eyes bleared west, waking to march.

from  *The Dream Songs
John Berryman (1914-1972) was an American poet.
Mark Wanless Nov 2017
"What a Night"




a catapult of obnoxious
     you fling me
              into the night
        of a thousand razors
i abscond with your desire
              dangling
            sirens sirening in mind
   who's ?            or both ?
           neither cares ! !
       tornado is nature
           you agree
                  society is not
  a concern      schizoid 8 th  wonder
            pyramids lesser than a soul
                  any
                              anywhere
        a red flashing moment
            you are unafraid
Max Lewy Dec 2019
Keep your lips tight, 
Thus, you will remain pure.
Thus, you will remain white. 
Thus you will remain honest,
Thus you will remain alight.

Silence is golden;
Words are wooden.

“The less the merits of a man,
The more he will feel urged to proclaim
Them to the public.”

My friends and I,
We have not too much to offer:
Either to ourselves, 
Or to another.

We are a grounded albatross.
We are a tracked hare.
We are a poisoned well. Let our waters be still with no shimmering, thirst-quelling buckets fetched.
Swim wordlessly in the whirlpool of my eyes --ye deep, poisoned well... 
Until...-- ye deep well...art drained perfect and wise.


Think not anyone will come to save ye, my friend --
With loving sustenance, warm nourishment, 
And soothing First Aid Kit;
If ye should happen to send out flares.
“When the Ox is down,
Many are the butchers.”


Sully not the world, dear Mary, with thine brazen, importunate weeping;
Spreading your woes, like a ****** famished, bony legs, far and wide...
Sooner, fall into bed to mildest, most chaste of sleeping...


Being is but a magic mountain,
Viewed through mists,
soundlessly in the distance.


O, see how I bark & bleat unblest...
Ah, give thy nagging tongue a rest --
Thy poor, incessant, small, 
Senseless pest !
Sooner keep thy trap shut --
Until ye are at thine best -- !


Where did the Resurrection occur:
Upon the loudspeaker, public avenue? 
Or under the hidden coffin's most inward, SILENTEST of pall ?


I too am 35, 
And its not until we have been DUMB with dead...
That we finally become, most alive!
-- Gushing waters, flowing forth anew!.--
-- Rivers Of Eternity, perpetual youth! --

*
Nurse thyself now instead, 
Not with a desperate, Shrieking Call 
For Sirening Ambulance,
But with thine prayers:
Repeat them, with mute, motioning lips,
In the serene sanctuary of thine head, 
Yet inviolate and undisturbed.
(Ah, even your prayers also are far too loud!)
Rather save yourself,
And be quiet.
And finally, let this wan din of a hymn oblate itself entirely,
Like the Winter and its frozen lake, 
Giving way to crystal thoughts and Nothingness,
Negating all wild life...
In perfect, idyllic stillness and silence, 
Thine powers shall at last Return, my Self, my friend...
(Thine senseless, clamoring, noisy days be at an end!)
Becoming like a flower popping up thru' the cold soil....
(Flowers too are silent. Even our Spring must remain dumb on our lips!)
Let this Silent Spring -- this SIlentWellSpring! --
The Silent Spring Of Wellness! --
Outdo the birds for migrational majesty,
(Whose airswept flight to us is itself soundless. 
While the air reverberates loudly and brashly to your lips, my dove; 
But your eyes, your eyes are stagnant!)
Let this SilentWellSpring outdo the Birds Of The Morning
with its Silent Spiritual Secret Song,
Magnifying in praise and glory, my sweet thrush, 
With at last peaceful hush,
777x
...
(((Peace & Love, M. J. L.... quotations from the Jewish Holy book, The Talmud)))

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