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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)


am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024
predecessor:  https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4861638/lord-im-one/

(1) the proper pronunciation and,
ish is “man” in another tongue
(2) would I be less abnormal if I only wrote during daylight ?
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
40
,000 drafts of poems proposed,
some but a bit, a title, a bob,
some wondering why are they kept
in suspended animation, the fire of exiting
from placenta to screaming baby, most,
patient waiting, over the undivided divide,
the Cumbersome Attention Gap to cross,
to the state of hallelujah completion

this race should be an Olympic one,
it is unwinnable, but only open to poets
who willing to go the unlimited distance,
every finished oeuvre, spawns bornes two
more, so you, fool, even a fifth grader,
intuits the higher math of you’ll never
catchup, but rise invigorated to meet,
greet the wonderous sunrise challenge…

and the promised ones, “next one for you,”
the unconditional incompleyedy poems
so overdue, the muses send an armored truck
to collect just the largesse of fine fines…
as my old West Village friend sang, you poet,
“might as well try and catch the wind”

this leads me to observe a new day’s first
birthday, even as Leonard sings Yom Kippur
hymns of mortality, and all the ways humans
can pass thru the gap in the morn clouds that
is the passageway to the Higher North…

you see, this is this poems day of naissance,
one day, one candle, now extant, but sooner
to be a not, one more poem sent heavenward
after a  brilliant brief coexistence with the
innards of my mind…
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
in my accustomed position
edge of deck, facing Northeast,
sun rises on my left, it’s  an
early barely warm,
a hopeful leading indicator of a
summer’s day coming resurrection

except? but! it is a windy 68°F
now redefined as effin’ freezing,
to an old navy man’s seasonal attire
well worn droopy and holey
t-shirt & shorts,
but overlaid, today in a wrapper-ed
of a wooly  blanket, purchased on
Amazon,
(whom neglected to advise,
that it will shed
like an eight year old
who has just
embraced the efficacy
the greatest of ease
of telling tiny
white lies frequently)

the ancien regime of erstwhile
(what is that exactly?)
better known as yesterday’s glory,
when pores poured forth streams
of coppertoned stories of
caramel vanities,
lead old fools to contemplate
perspective, something they do
with increasing frequency,
when
they remember
when
etc.

you dishonestly write of the vagaries of a 68°F perspective?  

a heaven for a mayday,
now a cursed starter, inhibiting,
predicting a wintery foretelling of
dreary dregs of a Great Lake
never-ending, graybeard
eternal winter’s sky
(sooo depressing)

and even though the
acorns of August(1)  are
plentiful. a surety that
back to school sales are
soon starting, i grasp my
summer vibes in a
tight forlorn of
yellowing old newspaper
wrapping of pleadings,
“stay, stay just a bit longer”

and though you would
think, believe, with aging
brings the perspective
to accept the changes
of seasons, body, technology,
and the wisdom not to write
foolish poems

but the Zombies defer,
making me deep recall,
the ones that got away
saying perspective is
a second cuz to perspicacity,

and even though,
“She’s Not There,”
reliving pain,
any many of the gone but
variety kind,
it is a necessary
to qualify if only
to be reminded
a necessity for we
old, only humans

no matter the degree
we live through our
perspectives
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
~for old, recovered, & new
tunes ‘n friends~

Lord I’m one…
<>

the lovely old tune ease on in,
infiltrating, harmonizing, my soul with
just-the-ice
of another
glorious
sunrise,
inching over the North Fork

soon enough, the body~mind continuum,
will ask me to slide~glide,
move over, make room
for a new tune,
here, asking you to call me,
if you need a friend, find place,
a chair & navy cushion,
  to We observe as
one

mine own carnival of animals,
do their morning exercise,
jumping from here to crazy, squirrel~crazy,
the flitting flighty birds, back and frothy forthing,
pointless lyrically zooming from tree to tree,
their AM calisthenics

an ancient crooner sings of knowledge
of how lonely life can be, and I soft retort,
this morning forbids lonely, come to me,
you my dear ones,
who welcome me into your hearts…
kiss my words
with affection, stating
everything will bring a chained love,
linked by tears of pearl drop-down,
a necklace of joy,
& everything is and will be alright

yes there is something happening over here,
so when you ask,
what’s it  all about Natty,
my reply is easy,
how sweet it is
to be with
you,
my words unrehearsed,
and I brim with
anticipation of Us together,
sipping our coffees,
giving Our silence to be
part & parceled out to the
superior quietude of our surroundings, where
the sounds, well,
they infiltrate our conjoined beings,
I think~sing-enjoy deeply,
that old tune
“Lord I’m One”

800am
Mon Aug 12
2024

by the Sound…
and the drum  we march to,
synced,
and only
some supreme being
smiles knowingly
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
~for old, recovered, & new
tunes ‘n friends~

Lord I’m one…
<>

the lovely old tune ease on in,
infiltrating, harmonizing, my soul with
just-the-ice
of another
glorious
sunrise,
inching over the North Fork

soon enough, the body~mind continuum,
will ask me to slide~glide,
move over, make room
for a new tune,
here, asking you to call me,
if you need a friend, find place,
a chair & navy cushion,
  to We observe as
one

mine own carnival of animals,
do their morning exercise,
jumping from here to crazy, squirrel~crazy,
the flitting flighty birds, back and frothy forthing,
pointless lyrically zooming from tree to tree,
their AM calisthenics

an ancient crooner sings of knowledge
of how lonely life can be, and I soft retort,
this morning forbids lonely, come to me,
you my dear ones,
who welcome me into your hearts…
kiss my words
with affection, stating
everything will bring a chain love,
a tear of joy,
& everything is and will be alright

yes there is something happening over here,
so when you ask,
what’s it  all about Natty,
my reply is easy,
how sweet it is
to be with
you,
my words unrehearsed,
and I brim with
anticipation of Us together,
sipping our coffees,
giving Our silence to be
part & parceled out to the
superior quietude of our surroundings, where
the sounds, well,
they infiltrate our conjoined beings,
I think~sing-enjoy deeply,
that old tune
“Lord I’m One”

800am
Mon Aug 12
2024

by the Sound…
and the drum  we march to,
synced,
and only
some supreme being
smiles knowingly
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation

the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination

Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full  comprehend

“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”

Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,  
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?

there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?

let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…

thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…

Wed Aug 7 2024
even I write nonsense when no sense
is available
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
~a unconscious commissioned poem~

<>

La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur

advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede

we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those,  we are
best at
confessing in

first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams

Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end

the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding

is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations

morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness

Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…

and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)


<>
commissioned by Pradip

7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds

<>

music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion
8/5/2024
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
My First Anniversary…
(August 3, 2024)

This title, this poem, a wholly unexpected,
never thinking this path,  
this particular tango existential
would/was needed,
to be added to
my dance card

an early exit, a poem unplanned,
second chance was not a poem in my long
list of titles awaiting a turn to be written

a year ago,
they sent me to the surgeon,
who had prepared, with no hesitancy declared,
informed that we needed to start
all over again,
my poor heart
was waxing and waning,
and I was currently stuck on
the dark side of the moon,
with no jitney making stops theron

by the way,
the accumulation of damage had attained
a level where heart was
nearly exhausted,
( I believe he mentioned 98%)
that attention must be made,
how about
tomorrow we asked,
he laughed no can do,
but the day after would be ok,
and was I an earlier riser,
a coveted 600am slot available,
my name could be penciled in…

One tear ago, 
 wheeled me in, cracking jokes,
thinking what’s the big deal,
laughing hardest
was me,
for my motto was always leave them
(oops, poor choice of words) laughing…
fear was not in my lexicon, nor in my heart,
nor was
a ferry cross the
Rubicon

so many changes, so many poems 365 days later,
the life marked by many a Cain scar,
the big one, a pencil thin ****  hesty reminder,
plus assorted scars scattershot all over, where the “borrowed” veins and arteries, like pieces of twine, mighty fine,
(no, I never slashed a wrist, though it looks like it)
moved to different places,
repurposed, for I was now a used car
but with an extended warranty…

do not think on it much, but as markers come and go,
you think:

oh! I’ll never forget this trip, event, celebration,
and a week later your mind has nearly deleted it from the
critical events memory synapses, just another
day in the blah blah blasphemy
of a insignificant man’s unremarkable life…

but when I shower, the scars rise to the surface,
all over my body’s map, they come out shouting,
“look what I did for you,” from places weird,
they tingle, insuring my never ending surprise,
at that Olympic trial,
they raced, earning a piece & place
on my gold, overall medley team medaling,
or meddling
(when I tease them…)

so, let us bring this to a close, one man’s life,
ain’t making much a difference to most everybody else,
but the question that needyfor asking,
have you changed, how have you changed?

Less than you think, still write you poems with head and heart,
with humor and wit, sweet revelations, reverent with feeling, somehow a
bit original, leaving you laughing,
or maybe even better, smiling…

my mistakes all shared, and my burdens, some shared,
some too dark to be ever revealed, and I’m guessing I’m pretty
((much😉))
the same as I was before, older, not much wiser,

but these days, I surprise myself, for I sit outside
overlooking the wide waters surrounding,
embrace the sun at its earliest morn appearance,
love me the whipping snap of the
sound of great continuous wind gusts,
all the while surveying the world,
while winds are flowing all over me
like vibrant caresses, excavating my creases,
the ancient and recent
lineage
upon my face,
and sit in utter peace
thinking about everything,
and never tire,
staying for longer than a man has a right to do nothing
but to
reassess,
evaluate,
judge,
convey…
and
always
refresh
and confront
today’s

tally…
music
“Blue” by Joni Mitchell
“Older” sung by Ben Platt
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2024
it is the place each day, before it,
I morning sit,
but technically:

A sound is
“valley that has been filled with sea water sound
is usually formed by the flooding of a river valley…
This means that the topography
is usually less narrow
and more gently sloping than a fjord, but it is no less spectacular.”

it is my vista blessing, that a quiet Sound,
my Sound, asks daily,
this reborn morn body & soul for their
exchange of blessings
in a give and take of
purity of greatness of
restoration gratitude…

the days is early maturing,
the day but a
toddler growing up too fast,
the heated warmth of the
not yet adult noon sun is exactly
that, a teen warmth that penetrates the
cell’s nuclei, with the casual breeze
perfect offset cooling, waving the branches,
with a gentility genuine, even
the tree  swing swinging
is of a mind, moved to a gentle rocking
in preparation for neighbors children to
later come and make it raucous rocking!

the shore opposite is a deep forest green
population of thick trees, that
thankfully
masks most
of the human pollution, the mega mansions
and their trending markings of grown-up toys…

This is my morning ~

Vista and I
recreate the earth’s rough edged birth,
but celebrate with a flooding quietude that only
that word,
Sound,
could so capture and continue to captivate
and
re~
form me
anew,
not blameless or innocent,
but cleanly reopened

and willingly, desirous,
of being better, doing better,
and shed betterment,
to any all that understand that
this momentous but momentary
miracle of a soundless Sound
roars with clean, white glowing,
of a thirst slaking
hope

<>

oh i wish u were beside me…
the neighbors flag majestically dances to the breeze, as if it was solely purposed for its non-to our history, and the sound is perfectly quiet Nerd boat in sight in the distance. I see a small sailing craft, but it makes no noise to disturb to disturb the waves melodious crash
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2024
Friday’s Fumble Crumble:
writ/wrote /needs/work

the WR juggernaut,
of write/writ/ wrote
and associated WoRdy derivatives,
a vast complex,
the crossover
from notion to lively potion,
the ****** of completion;
a tricky *******,
1st an  enticement, inevitably a
first unsatisfactory shot,
the dispiriting recognition
that what you got ain’t good…

a dissolution of resolution,
the look back~try again,
picking off the fleshy morsels
from the Valley of Bones,
that demands a really funereal
and t. swift
sea burial,
thus energized by seawater ,
or the slapping (s)hit from *****+ dirt

comes re~energy, a burst of a covert  coverup,
then comes a gleam,
the light of a beam in the seams
of your fingertips,
a repeating  secretion of ideas that refuse
to give in to a ceremony of deletion,
a prescrip for a sad~glad emotive repast,
a look back,
longing glance, but with a new hope of
rejiggering, that sticky secretion ‘pon
dying, yet enervating,
dancing fingertips,
spewing gobs so fast of wordy worthy
battered batter,
throwing in some Heath bar crumble,
soon enuf the oven is cooking!
baking and the smoking aroma of
over~heated sheets of paper
of soon to be crisply delivering cookies extraordinaire,
but alas,
‘twas all in the mind and is unjustly
a recipe, for ashes of a burnt dreams

and the tenses clench/de clench
when the writ is wrote,
but never,
not ever
is it ever just rote…

@nd that’s what ya get when you witty-gritty-wrote
@

2:06am
7/26/2024
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