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This coup
A new nation
Loyal dedication
Its classification

‘Species procreation’
Prevents us from facing
A human cessation
selective mutation
Gestation
Creation

It may help explaining
The reasons
Behaving
But not the foundation
Or actions
We’re basing


A simplification
is “continuation”
A checkbox
left vacant
Fulfillment
We’re chasing


We sweat
Eyes are gazing
A slight
palpitation
In need of hydration
Complete excitation
Without
hesitation
Intense stimulation
Deep urges
Heart racing

Driven
By sensations


Unbounded fixation
Pelvic
Undulations
Clothing
Perforations
Time no longer wasting

This capitulation
a Sanctification
****** gyrations
Hint of *******


The bedroom
Safe haven
For what
we are craving
Once out
and displaying

It all had been taken
Before
Feeling vacant
Freed imagination
A resuscitation
Indulged depravation

A rhythm
we’re setting
The giving and getting
Destroying
the bedding

All else I’m forgetting
Entwined
with each other
Like entangled netting
Both
on the same trip
In a unified heading


Now comes
the summation
A true
Revelation
Final
culmination
Smash all expectations
Volcanic
eruption

That lasts the duration
Loud gasp
We unlock

Filled with gratification
Written: July 8, 2018

All rights reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized

<•>

there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
morning-thinking,
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth

the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,

have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to

word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
like
father, poet,
American,
even,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,
a
Jew

the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
I,
the harshest marker
of all

once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself

nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
when
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers

"Don't know what kind of
Jew
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
Jew
all my life"

so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally

taking all my terms,
reordering,
re-prior-itizing,
what was prior, first,
is no longer

decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me

nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and 
son of
 writers,
son of proud
Jews
rewrites his list

today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for

"a bunch of folks in a deli"

proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth

those
happenstance-not,
bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me

no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis
JE JUIF

*"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Just google that phrase

Obama’s slur
patty m Sep 2015
The woofers and tweeters
stood ready to commence
the cool cats stage center
had sounds to dispense.
A hot dog up front was ready to wail,
but the crowd closed in and someone
stepped on his tail.

A basso profundo swept out of the bog,
while a haunting aria was performed
by a frog.  

An eerie mist hovered, but the moon
tried to peek
as a mother bird warbled her babies to sleep.

A huge shaggy dog, a lumbering brute
serenaded the moon with his magical flute.
A cow in the field uttered a refrain,
while a horse in the paddock sang a
chorus from Mame.

There were dancers and singers
an acrobat or two, a cowboy cat
and a dog named Blue.
They jived and jammed
gave a hoot and a howl,
driving critters wild and waking
the old owl.  

There were rock groups
and folk singers
musicians and bell ringers

The grass was eaten they preferred it that way
because animals aren't people
so they munched the night away

The show was a success
it received great acclaim
the performers though amateurs
enjoyed their moment of fame.  
I'm here to tell you in this final summation
that the audience gave them
standing ovation.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled

get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?

skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-****-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the

absent women

no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating
just  humanism-isms

and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Songs of Oregon  No. 4
James Floss Dec 2018
A scratch of me is from him
Carved from current’s flow
Glows in setting sun

Life as summation
Illumination of
Striations cleft

The bereft
Must instruct
The rest
Fullfreddo Mar 2018
“the ones that feel everything already know...”  Harlon Rivers

curse this blessing. leeches leach this blessing.  
this summation this summary judgment
this sum of my addiction addition
where from this mark of cain upon my eyes, intended to drown
a brimful poet in a wellspring of their product?

blood sweat and tears the tea my quill is
in the rivulets that drown the scarred pathways perforce dipped

walk the streets and all secrets to me betrayed
yours not mine for in my possess but one
feel everything

every scowling every halved smile the ecstasy of belly laugh
I know I know
the libretto of a thousand operas
that do not all reach a final act

a-few cogent my x-ray ability aNd and the most
desperate  with out the disparity of no partition
despise

curse this blessing bestowed, I rather

die
Connor Oct 2018
"In Heaven
The Water
is Shiny Gold"

In approach of a clearing /
Vernal-Volcanic-Bagpipe-Intimidation-Collapse-Arise-/
empty hopscotches fade with rain, remembrances of my foiled return
lent to after-rather haze mingling line by line
with eyeglasses fogged up

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)

This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all it's various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -
I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.

We curate and amend – understand
each other's impossible profundities

(Shh! lights go out unexpectedly ! Your remainder hovers by the door for just a few secret and sacred seconds/ gone...)

These poems have been as much for you as they were for me - But I must exit this vacated place of only peering into the beyondness of things that have outgrown their form
open, step - deliver myself to:
The last poem I'll be posting here or writing for a while. The end of a continuous stream of thought depicting the events and emotions of the last two years. Recent events have called to their end. I'll be ready to write again once this coming new state of mind and being has revealed itself - of which I am optimistic
Connor Dec 2018
I

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)


This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all its various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -

I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.
Eva Aloezos Jul 2018
It is actually fairly simple to explain the inner struggle of an addict  (of any kind)

when they are “high” they feel a feeling of euphoria, that cannot be felt by the sober mind

so they spend much of their sober time chasing that paradise, that will not be achieved without their drug of choice

their brains are prone to being controlled by the amygdala, and satisfying their primal urges, no matter how much they wreck lives

so, in summation they trade the benefits of self control for the rush of instant gratification,

but I know with all my soul and healing mind that this issue is salvageable

all it takes is deep self awareness, interpersonal revelations
and a passion for change
Zoe Mae Nov 2018
I came across a one winged bird while

bumbling through the woods

I asked her if she knew the way home

It appeared she understood

So I explained that at some turn or other I

must have went wrong

And it's become painfully clear I'm not

where I belong

Do you think that from your vantage point

you might see my path

I know that I'm a stranger to you

but I have no one else to ask

She answered with a song

more hauntingly pitiful than any I've

since heard

The summation of my life in

five

minutes with a bird
Danial John Aug 2018
I'm sorry...
I've been on one.
But just because I love you,
Doesn't make me awful.

One thing I've been,
Is hella thoughtful.
Pushing and pulling WAY too hard...
It's only cuz I want you.

No...
I need you.
At least if imma be complete.
I'm in desperate need of a redo I think.

I read you... And you me.
We run on a pair of graphic stories.
And the summation is:
Water circling down the kitchen sink.

Enough playing.
Are you willing or no?
Cuz I'm about ready to go.
Sooooo...

Do you wanna take a chance and let this whole thing unfold?
I could talk myself in circles... No... Spirals for hours if I let myself. I just wish I could talk with you, like we used to. I miss you.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”

~for Jean Fisher~

this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility

all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness

asking,
why,
do you deserve it?

the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden  
truths and trust

birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more

and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger


this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem

now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits
wrote this title down on May 23rd
whenever I stumbled upon it,
no poem came running

until  this **** September 8th
JaxSpade Apr 19
The first moment
Was divided by the total mass

The center of..

The moment of inertia
Rigid in body
How much more torque
Will turn this rotations
Secondary
                   In a moment

Notice the rotational axis
Of the earths fastest acceleration
Mass times the square
Of the perpendicular distance
To the rotation of our sphere
Can anyone else hear
Could anyone else here
Understand the scalar magnitude
Of a poets Newtonian mechanics
And the motion of macroscopic objects
Circling his metaphors

If the present state of an object is known
It is possible to predict by the laws
Of classical mechanics
How it will move

The spherical harmonics
Are a set of orthogonal functions
Yet periodic functions composed of sinusoids
Is the assumption of weighted summation
Discrete time fourier transformation
In relation to a quills synthesizing rotation
Is the explanation I'm trying to relate in

What do you think I'm saying
Need I explore the atomic orbital electron configurations
Their representation of gravitational fields geoids
Fiber reconstruction for estimation
of the path and location
Of a poems explanation

For the spin of its formation
Is just a calculation
Differing in interpretation
By the readers relation
Matt Shaw May 14
The sensation of separate complices
A summation of neural activites,
Wherein lies the experience,
Out of which unfolds an impossible self
Into which leaks a necessitated calamity

You are a walking catastrophe
Better stick to harmony
Best to learn some theory
Blue note, blue note, rest.
It's just a theory but it's really like science
Nat Lipstadt Jul 11
hapax legomenon “Texas Women”

(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)


for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ  & Cne’

once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially

this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate

your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon

akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance

so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction

I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me

an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient

have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance

they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!

ok.

the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter
Are you technically perfect,
  but spiritually weak

Are your words so well crafted,
  your soul cannot speak

Are your rhythms unmetered,
  your feelings unrhymed

Are you stuck in a format,
  that kills the sublime

Do your stanzas all end,
  their beginnings destroyed

Does your summation grieve,
  its parts overjoyed

Can you escape sophistry,
  your craft turned to art

Can you risk all rejection
   —to create with your heart

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
First of all, I'm interested in the cold
And a state in which you're living couldn't be washed away
Like a hopeless dream, that some of us stare in hopeless exuding
Of doing what can die and that, dies because of seeking ease as it lives
Truantly yours, a trunk full of things symbolizing complicated things in a box full of simple items
Whimsical farms o' yonder, serried
Happen, a dream they happen
Rye and risen' with the clement weather
Go ahead, miss your flight
To go breezin' in some lost serene time
When you'd really smother yourself in need
If you're deeper individualism allows that breeding, just by the essential summation of communication, by all means, go ahead and seek
Give a girl the right pair of shoes and she'll conquer the world.
Farhan Ahmed Jul 7
I could just deny the spoken words
But how do I deny what I see
Look how far the sky has touched you
The scars seem perfect to me

The definition of beauty might be the reflection and the refraction and summation of the eyes and the brain
The connection is surely the attraction on the actions making me insane

The actions of the tone of your skin
The biting of the lips squeezing them thin
The vulnerable heart out in the open to win
It is broken and pinned

Having all of it but I shall pretend
That there are no curtains, no end
To this play, to this epic, to this volume, to this ballad

I wish the words beg to be arranged infinitely, just to be you
Sit around every corner of the curves and the brinks of your body
And still feel strange
only in the words

— The End —