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  Apr 2018 Lorenzo Neltje
Alexandra
She was the kind of girl who believed in true love.
She believed in the fairy tales.
She wanted to believe that was enough.
She just wanted to get out of this jail.

She wasn’t pretty.
She was magical.
She had the heart of the city.
She was angelical.

But her mind was dark.
She would sit in the park.
Watch the little kids go by
Wondering why.

She was a little girl who grew up too fast.
She lost her innocence when she was only five.
When she cried, it was the last.
It was the water, where she dived.

She would hold her breath.
Open her eyes.
See a flash of death.
And in her heart, she dies.

She grasped for air.
This life wasn’t fair.
And yet for some reason she cared.
She was so unprepared.

She wrapped her arms around herself.
As she put her mind back on the self.
In the depths of her mind.
She was undefined.
  Apr 2018 Lorenzo Neltje
Mary-Eliz
I dreamed that I was old: in stale declension  
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat-nimbleness, and green invention,  
Before time took my leafy hours away.

My wisdom, ripe with body’s ruin, found  
Itself **** recompense for what was lost
In false exchange: since wisdom in the ground  
Has no apocalypse or pentecost.

I wept for my youth, sweet passionate young thought,
And cozy women dead that by my side  
Once lay: I wept with bitter longing, not  
Remembering how in my youth I cried.
Sharing a favorite poet.
Lorenzo Neltje Apr 2018
If I was looking for beauty
I wouldn't look in the mirror.
If I wanted to see a pretty perfect face
I'd look at some cousin's old dolls.

If I was looking for perfection,
A face unspoiled and clean
There would be a thousand places I could look
But I will never look at myself

If I'm looking in the mirror,
I'm looking at an injury
Or a stain,
Or a wound
I never see anything remotely beautiful in the mirror
Not unless someone's standing next to me
And it's funny,
People have called me beautiful before
Only for me to snort so loudly
For me to laugh in genuine confusion
And sarcastically agree.
I don't call myself modest
I'm simply asking for honesty
I've never cared about
What my face looks like
How ugly I am
or how pretty I'm not
Surely, there's something more important
To compliment someone with
All a face is
Is a way to recognise a friend
All a body is
Is how to describe the guests to expect

The only disadvantage to not caring
Is that I doubt I'd care
If something were truly wrong.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say.
  Apr 2018 Lorenzo Neltje
Mary-Eliz
You have
without knowing
reached inside
and
touched my soul
awakening it
with urgent
pulsing
like an electrical
surge

I yearn to
connect
with you
completing
the circuit

My soul seeks
yours
for a rendezvous

to mingle
in an ethereal
embrace

to share
a repast
in the soft candlelight
of awareness
and
the sweet scent
of the roses
of incorporeal
passion

filling plates
with
the words
and
cadence

wine glasses
with
the music

of poetry


You speak
the language
of my soul

whose words are
garden
          flowers
                     unfolding
                               pathways

sojourn
                   reflection
                              struggles
              ­                             life

whose syntax
is poetry
and
song

You
more than most
have taught me
to heed
and
understand
the language

to recognize
the melody

and

to dance

its rhythm
This was written some years ago upon discovering a wonderful poet, one of my favorites, Stanley Kunitz, who was also an avid gardener. I think he was in his 90's at the time. I heard him reading a poem on NPR and I was "smitten".  I bought several of his books of poetry. The one I love best has a lot of pictures of him in his late years still working in his garden.  He died in 2006, just two months short of his 101st birthday.  He's a beautiful soul. You can see it in his face, in his garden and in his poetry!
  Apr 2018 Lorenzo Neltje
saige
i stared at the pinecones
until they were ants
ants that were
falling
falling on my face
in little armies
to kiss me goodnight
and then eat me alive.
on the first day of spring
my mother died

she had always loved flowers
and had turned
our interior hallway
into a luscious greenhouse
   father was not always happy
   about the falling leaves

in her later years
when skiing was no longer hers
she hated winters
   their long nights
   their waning sun

she was always longing
   for spring
waiting for the day
the morning sun lit up
the kitchen desk again
in her parents’ house
where she was born
   and had grown old

the night before
I had called and told her
that here in the south
the first flowers were already
   dotting the gardens

she had smiled on the phone
   almost inaudibly
speaking had become difficult

   maybe her last images
   were of colorful spring meadows

today at 7.10 a.m.
my mother died

spring has come
On the occasion of the 10th anniversary of my mother's unexpcted death.
  Apr 2018 Lorenzo Neltje
Jaslin Goh
If I speak my mind
I unleash my inner thoughts
You must promise not to get angry

If I do not
I cease to be myself
You are content

If I speak up
I unleash the demons that whisper to our thoughts
You must learn to silent yours

If I do not
I cease to understand you
You fail to connect my mind
(now read it bottom-up/replace ‘you’ with ‘I’)
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