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Nat Lipstadt May 5
Dear Carlos: Poet & One Man Band,

have heard these words so many times,
always bemused, trace~smile appearing,
but this time, it hit me like a Blue Mountain
extra hot, micro~window-waving cup of java Jamaican,
that is me, this was me, always, even before
I knew how to poem to music that I had always
head-heard, before I understood that these,
my songs were soul~pieces escapees, my…legatees

I leave them them in puzzle form, surely a piece,
or three missing, but no matter, each piece an
individual composition, standing alone, but the
big picture no one will ever see, understand but
that is the poet’s audience, his own one man band,
no bandwagon attached, a solitary figure quiet
contented with his disconnected discontentment,
a lifetime spent in refining, defining…refinishing

2 poem themes crisscrossed cross in my head,
interweaving themselves instead of becoming
two cells, one split apart, I call this process ruefully
reverse me~mitosis, blending that coffee with
a quarter cup of white milky, leaving me a caramel
colored confection, perfect in unity of trinity, that
combined cuppa plus my insides warmed, cozied,
the heat combined with the fire inside to write…one more

on the “two-to-write list,” in the “draft”y attic chamber,
were two titles, twins, now conjoined; the first, an
expose of why I choose to write these poems, and
the other, why I have a life of few friends, the few
chosen ones; the inherent conceptualizations differ but
cross the same forests and deserts, hid in my own Northwest Territory, rugged and inhospitable, where to survive, it required 
accepting lonely solitude, with a ragged welcome, & an honest mirror

an unequivocal, no equivocation permit, that telling yourself grand lies was pointless because you were a criminal on trial, prosecutor, defense lawyer, judge  and jury of your, ha ha, peers all rolled into one, there will never be a higher court wanting to grant an appeal, what is…well, is; a sad bliss but after decades of trial and many errors, wonderful and awful partnerships; it was modestly
perfected, dis-satisfyingly…satisfying

this goes on too long, like an intolerable avoidance of
answering, there, a phony confessional declarative; the whys un~provided, so fall back on that all encompassing
defense of temporary insanity that was locked in those
self-same sealed cells, carriers of my tainted DNA,
looking like bagels~donuts with holes, no, voids,
a central, air pocket of emptiness, with no surface to fill full,
or to adhere to, a drifter, an observer, never, a full participant

these empty holes, were just fried dough, sugar coated,
a fleeting life~lies of no substance, that I’ve spent
a lifetime trying to fill with worth, and I’ve written a few
moments of kindness, unqualified unreserved loving, but
too few to justify my existence to myself! That’s what
happens when you judge yourself, no defense strategy
can succeed, the fight is fixed, but I write on vaingloriously
hoping that there is yet, a flawless poem waiting within,
that a one man band, can both play and enjoy…

fav poets: Whitman, Hafez, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Pradip and so many countless others on this site…
Sun May 5th, a birthday lipstadt
JA Perkins Apr 2020
And just like that, it's over -
like it didn't even happen.
Traded the rest of his life
for a half a gram - went out
noddin' like he was nappin'..
My heart cries for the family,
Aaron, I miss you, fam.
And, if I could, you know I'd
buy you back for that half a gram.

Just like that, gone forever..
Like he was never here,
a sudden change of weather
we often see this time of year.
My heart cries for your kid,
I'll never forget you, man.
Why men would rather ****
than build, I'll never understand..

Just like that, forgotten..
The girl had gotten sober
Bought some birthday
presents and ******
and just like that - its over.
My heart cries for your baby
Carrie's never coming back.
I wonder if she wore the
bracelet I gave her when
she faded into black.

Just like that, we're praying..
for God to heal our hurt..
a few words about his life and
then we chunked him in the dirt..
I tried to tell you, Bill David..
That girl would get you killed..
Look to God to do the healing
You just be the one who's healed.
When does it ever stop?
Tragic.
missy brown Apr 2019
This is just to say
when i gave you that poem
I had no inkling

Of what was to come -
all the pain awaiting us
The ancestral sin

Temptation, assured
We were manicured, shared prose
Dog-hungry for plums.
None of us are without guilt or sin
Truth Sep 2018
So you all know...this is THE alter ego of a friend I burried ....ring ....ring .....ring.... .aw ****...my best friend Carlos just snapped me out of hate
My man Chuckie....my brother of 35 years....I love you....thanks for the rescue
A T Bockholdt Dec 2017
Jorge

still in the night he
does not remember why
—sounds of her sighs

her small ears
pressing into the tight
space of the day

or the tenderness between
him and her
held in the air

the repeated denial
of the time set chained  
to hold their plans

were revolting against
trysts
spent in another’s gaze

2. Sebastian

the tenacious sense in
arrangement
lets slip imitation

how I could possess
your breath
and bear it

delicately freeing
my stances
I strained

in celebration
at the sanctification
that you’d
granted to Saint Sebastian
in Irene’s
blessing

will healing hands make
poetry
or trap the shaking  

of my languid silver pens  
taut but not
ready

3. Carlos

the sweet words
brought
for the lovers

that beats hard
each
hesitance

leaps
without fear
regarding

that
their time is
now here

the shape that
your
sighs take

suggesting
as if
limits don’t exist
This is part of collection for a senior portfolio project at CU Denver
Project is intended to represent the stylistic distinctions of great American poets through the imitation of their poetics and/or their subject matter

In this three section poem, "Enacting Imitation," I work to closely mirror William Carlos Williams poem "3 Stances." Williams uses enjambment to subtly infuse multiple meanings into his sparse lines. Williams poetry also enacts a metaphysical level that allows the reader to see the poet's space of thinking and anxieties in writing which we see in "Danse Russe," wherein Williams finds freedom in writing for himself. I also use his ideas of the variable foot to employ certain rhythmic tones and speeds into this imitation.
Joe Thompson Oct 2016
You ate them?
You ate the ******* plums
that were in the fridge?
God, you're a selfish *******.
Wuji Seshat Oct 2014
So much depends upon
The open sky cut open by the trees
By the rain by the lives that we led

Upside down we stood as if for years
Waiting to become the person
We were meant to be
On the back trails of our open heart
So much depends upon

Listening to Bach in the dark
How poets undressed our sympathy
In clothes of the absolute

So much depends upon
The sound of Mandarin like
Circumstance, and stillness that never dies
These were the cries that we reached
Out for, as if we could grasp the light

So much depends upon
The dreaming of what is possible
And prowling around the people
Whom we let hurt us in order to
Learn more completely how to feel.

— The End —