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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2022
Something’s changed.


6:00 AM Sun August 16 2022

The temperature today will baby step
up the kitchen ladder, careful, senior slow,
to hover at a pleasant 79 Fahrenheit.

But, I am unfooled.

‘tis the birthing of the
changeling of mid-Augustus,
June’s initiating summer solstice,
an intimate longing now a long
gone forgotten memory, now a
calendar X a valedictorian graduate.

But of late, the sun has lately been
heisted by late afternoon by a batter
thick grayish cloud cover, right here,
hovering upon this godly place on earth.

there is a underlying fragrance, familiar,
an unmistakable chilling odor of cool fall.

an urgency emerges, hurry up you,
pluck the blueberries, harvest the peaches,
because trace hints of crispin fall apples,
falling browning foliage, curling leaves,
pumpkin flavorings and yellow gourds
is unjustly barely there, a definitely discernible.  

Back-to-school ads replace banners proclaiming
bargain prices for summer necessities, vin rosé.

Even the squirrels are enjoying a Sunday rest,
after mornin’ worship, no feverish acorn collection,
a subtle hint, winter supplying must be nearly done.

dare not superstitious say out loud, the **** geese,
have made themselves scarce going on two weeks,
having learned a trick or two from the Ukrainians,
I chuckle to think that we may have regained territory.

But, I am unfooled.

Morning boats of all ilk and demeanor ply-plow the
bay waters, but all seem less hurried, savoring the pretense
of forever long summer days, beyond-belief sunsets, soft white
ice of creamy calming waters, no impasto^ seas wintry rough.

Return-to-bed, coffee mugged, I await the Dumps early call,
the sorting done, metal, plastic,compostable, so easy to bring
order to our daily detritus, thinking if only one could sort the seasons then I would be a forever summer man, here,
on this godly place.


But, I am unfooled.

7:06 AM Tue Aug 16 2020
Shelter Island, N.Y.

————————
^Impasto is a technique used in painting, where paint is laid on an area of the surface thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting-knife strokes are visible. Paint can also be mixed right on the canvas. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears to be coming out of the canvas.
neth jones Apr 2018
Reliving and Preliving
may all my signals ghost to sway
Just falter information
i shall be spirited and a weather
A clamour among all my houses
an assault laid upon my understanding
Tired
in knots
combing out the fantastic
a floss upon a sea
and not a wound
; Misplaced I shall better be.

and then I breathe
this is no longer to be
I am in practice
; unfooled to better be
She is like a siren. That is not to say that she is some sort of sea witch that lures sailors to their graves, do not misunderstand me, but rather that she possesses the kind of beauty that sinks ships. Knowing full well that if we stray too close we will be dashed upon the rocks and our merry vessel will be torn to shreds, we press on ever further in her direction, arms spread wide like sails, and I will proudly shout from the crow’s nest, “Oh, my captain, we have run aground again, and this time I fear we shall never break free!” For it is surely madness that drives us; that makes us happy fools if not dead ones, that we would brave a sea of treachery for only a chance at her hand… No, there simply must be more to it than that.
     She is indeed an artist; keeper of both artistic promise and foolish ambition, and yet she is wise enough to tell the difference. She is unfooled by serpents, yet kind to their lovers, for she knows they suffer too. Her womanly charms attract all whom lay their eyes upon her, and yet her modesty captivates, beguiling me like no other. Her eyes shine like tide pools, yet they possess all the wonder and depth of the seven seas; and it is for this reason I fear to look upon them too long, lest I be lost within them. The flow of the tides are in her hair, and as I run my fingers through it, one moment it is a soft as the wind in our sails, and in the next it becomes thick and coarse like my own, and I open my eyes to find that I have been dreaming; Asleep on the deck dreamily running my hands over the tangled fibers of an old rope.
     But even now as I sit in the warmth of the sun, pen in hand, the cold spray of doubt falls upon my back and I am beset by the question, “would anyone ever read the tale of the siren and the crow?” You see, it is not the sea that I fear, nor the serpents or sirens or any other creature of the deeps; what I fear most is that if she knew I pursued her she would flee, leaving me and mine alone in her wake. Surely mine is not the only vessel that sails this route, and surely there are others more fit to weather the journey, but what good is there in jumping ship if even a thread of hope yet remains?
     **** the dangers and let the course unfold; I’ll not give in so easily. Storms, serpents and shipwreck, let them all come. We will press on full speed ahead, and if we should be so breached, I will doom myself and rob my captain of his final honor, for I, I must go down with the ship.
Cursed be this website for not allowing me to indent on that first line! My frustration with the website aside, this is my first attempt at the "spoke word" model, which in my opinion should function like a monologue. It's about a girl that I've known for as long as I can remember, yet she's always been just outside my reach. Perhaps it simply isn't meant to happen.
neth jones Mar 2020
time drops me
thief by thief
i am subliminally indicted upon
and catalogued
cell by cell
tatted into data
i spool..
                            ..unfooled
but unable
flicka-flicka-flicka
biopic-ed
used all up
in some Great Spell-hounding
tired and aging
Caroline Shank Nov 2020
There are things that I have done.  There are songs that
I have sung.  The Beatles
said it best.

I have been pregnant twice.
It was a long time ago.  Now
my grandchildren are grown.

I have held a few jobs. I did
them well.  My bosses were
pleased.  Well not Tim. He
was a *******. But Joyce was Amazing.

I have been friends with
wonderful people.  All except a few have left of no accord.

I am lonely in old age, barren
of thought. Yet still I write you
my phantom friend.  I hug
myself and long for the cigarette days.  The nights of Tia maria
and wine.  Do you still put
your lips around the bottle?
You said not to spill a drop.

The summer's by the lake.
My tan self at home in the
suburb of my youth and
middle age.  I was startingly
free and loud in laughter.

Everything in my plot of
Summer smelled of you.
Years ago when you lied
lovingly so as to keep me
in the cocoon of your
conversations.  I was
unfooled. I remain in the
mind of Narcissus, your
willing amanuensis. X the
night of unremembering
all these years of you.

Caroline Shank

— The End —