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Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)

Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.

The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.

Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.

To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!

Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!

My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.

My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!

Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."

The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.

Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
* see "Men Going Off To War (a/k/a Washing The Dishes)"
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
early risen,
life's au courant
contextual issues
are all bad bus driver dream driven,
visualizations of sonograms
of erred memories,
road forks, unwisely chosen,
incorrect in retrospect,
look back notion thoughts,
and fears of the
good works in process
never finished,
these are all the best ****
too early,
highly reliable,
internal/infernal
alarm clock

waken only to plod the dark,
upon the cool wood floors,
without any slippered coverings,
closet buried unavailable
(no treasure noisy hunting
in the dark permitted,
while the party of the second part,
yet sleeps)

the floored bottom chills
do not succeed
in comforting a mind
instant awakened-enflamed
by a long lived life recalled recapped,
of inaction and interactions,
thrones lost by
choices guided by fear and not
risk,
that in summation,
too many debtors-in-possession
of rose colored
minus signs

so the companions constants,
these well-worry-worn floors,
now refuse me,
no more to repeat,
what all too oft
they have before,
wisely spoken:

too early, man,
too late, fool,
the answers
required/sought
upon our ashen wooden countenance
cannot be elicited nor derived,
go back to bed
there, perhaps,
find what you need,
somewhere,
between the day's rising orb,
the Lady Luck of
a woman's heat,
the grand canyoned
Pachelbel cannon,
the Bach adagios
soulful sweet,
the answers could begin,
the endings,
perhaps can find
you and show
the restart signs positively
new directional


yet obedient to the old nether-wisdom
of these inanimate intimates,
(that are classified now as
sourpusses &  ex-best friends),
off to
back-to-bed,
self-dispatched,
arriving amidst the departing darkness,
being infiltrated by new day
dawning light suffusions,
with coffee armed,
pillows plumped,
all done with
church mouse quietude,
lest I wake the
party of the second part

into bed returns
the prodigal son,

uh-oh,

the poem ***** stiffens

cannot be refused,
it offers me
this challenged relief and a challenged
pleasure:

Subtext

commandeering and commanding:

dispense what you cannot say,
but wish for all to understand,
teach them how to write the literary
subtext
of one man's life


his fantasies *******,
thoughts of world-over trips
upon which his poems trip,
thinking thoughts
of meeting you
first time and fittingly,
reunions of longtime knowing
mutual souls, the lovely perfection
of the guarantee of
better days past
and better yet,
of better days
yet to come,
of first embraces,
longingly overdue,
but happily
familial familiar
even upon initial conception

motioned potions notions
of what he would do
when that lottery ticket
comes true,
seeing hazy
visions of loined, coined children babes naves
as someday adults,
from a future past of
a collection of visions
happily well imagined

now in bed,
dancing (quietly) to a Strauss waltz,
all his sisyphean tasks unmasked,
and peace in his heart,
returning to supreme reign,
re-gifting it all forward,
in a subtext contextually
poem within herein

the coffee now cooled,
the mental dispensary instead,
has issued
a scrip
prescribed and commissioned

write yourself,
one poem,
overly long and rambling,
as always,
(knowingly he smiles at his own critique)
this poem
to be issued
from his ******-brain,
amniotic-bathed,
anointed and by appointment
to her majesties,
The Queen of Hearts
and the
Red Queen,
entitled:


Subtext

the scrip reads:
"take once a day,
life clarity should return
sooner than later,
which is to say
medically and medicinally
eventually,
which is far, far better
than never"

the meds imbibed
the coffee reheated,
and while
waiting for its effects,
the subtext of a man
who drinks drams
of lives of poetry
for all
sees his future dreams
and happily awaits
their completed execution
Vincent JFA Mar 2017
I felt my pulse stutter when I spoke of you
long before I met you, back when
I was marooned on the Island
with a bunch of sourpusses some years ago,
who told me it would have taken
a pipeline chilled on dry ice (with a faucet installed)
for all the people in Hell who want iced water,
and a meteor the size of Mauna Loa
tearing through every layer
of realistic expectations to discover you.

and that the meteor would still end up
the size of a gumball by the time
it hit the pavement, and the first drop of water
would get to the ****** warm as ****,
and they almost had me convinced,
crossing fingers and predicting meteor showers
before I learned of you by name,
swore Hell's patrons could stay parched
for all I cared, and headed west for forty-two miles
until I found you in a part of the Island
where those sore losers must've never bothered to look.

since then, I've made a list of reasons
why nothing's felt more profoundly simple
and beautiful to me than each instance
where I could have sworn your signals synced with my pulse.
and they're all worth explaining, but I've grown
more timid at twenty-two, and mostly stare
at the bottle of Magic Hat, the roof of the shed,
the scruff on your upper-lip or the creases in your shoes,
just to avoid making eye-contact
(though you don't seem to mind it.)

speaking of then, back at the shed,
when you were tapping your foot
to one of Twain's records, I was going to mention
something about how I love the sound
hard-heeled shoes make when they click against vinyl,
tile and hardwood floors, because it's soothing to me—
the same way the tone in your voice was
when you saw the Sour Belts on the candy rack,
when you thanked the gas station clerk
on the way out, told me you were having fun,
and softly brushed my hand
before you asked to borrow my lighter;
it's just a sound I adore.

though I wouldn't clarify whether I meant
the click of heels or the sound of your voice,
because I know it's going to sound silly either way,
so I speak to you in Morse code
and send the signals to myself
to remember there are things that
will always mean more than
they probably really do—

to you, to the world, to the psychic
who guaranteed simplicity and tenderness
for me when I was nineteen, and
probably laughed her way to the bank,
bought a gumball-sized rock on a silver ring,
and will be in stitches by the time she gets to Hell
to buy a round for the ******* underground
who are placing bets that I might be wrong about you,
and that I'll lose your signal soon
whether or not I want to.
Morse code always fascinated me; it's one of those sounds that calm me when I listen to it (much like the sound hard-heeled shoes make, haha.) I've also felt this strange affinity with the complexity of it, and how cryptic or even ambiguous it is when someone doesn't know how to decipher it.

I often find that, as a hopeless romantic who isn't exactly brave with being honest when I'm fond of someone, I tend to somewhat water-down or keep my sentiments vague when I try to say how I feel; I get petrified by the thought of something mattering to me more than it probably should, and experiencing the disappointment when I am reminded that might be true, whether by a person I am fond of, or a friend/family member when I share my struggles with unrequited love.

It never really stopped me from believing strongly in that adoration when I feel it (or having good expectations because of it,) even if I find myself too afraid sometimes to try to realize my ambitions for love. That idealism has often made me gullible.

Five or six years ago, a "psychic" promised me a lot of things would happen within that year; I'd find love unexpectedly, come to a windfall of money, become successful, etc. Well, I ended up broke by that December, I still don't have a 401K, and while I've found love a few times since, it has often been unrequited. So the psychic probably bought herself something nice with the money she made cold-reading me.

Needless to say, it was one of the few things that reminded me realism is just as essential as idealism. However, being torn between them is why I tend to be taciturn in love; never sure if I am being too idealistic or too realistic.
Yenson Jun 2020
They call the winners losers
because they just didn't have a chance of ever winning
so its unfair to be a winner
as there are more losers and only a certain number of winners
so its wrong democratically
To be a winner who has more qualities than all the losers combined
we believe in Democracy
No we're talent-less, envious, under-achievers, twisted, jealous
resentful, lazy, weak, unambitious, nanny-ed, narrow-minded
bigoted, prejudiced, blame-gaming, ignorant, vapid, vacuous
belly-aching, jaundiced, hedonistic, spoilt, vandalistic, immature
indulgent, petty, lying, selfish, wrongly opinionated, pretentious
neurotic, back-stabbing, underhanded, bullying, discriminatory
self-serving, hypocritical, narcissistic, chavistic, deluded and depressed sourpusses this side of the world
Hey, we have Democracy and the best sense of Humour
God knows we need it..........hahaha   hahaha

— The End —