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 1798° 
Nat Lipstadt
I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, like your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day,
too bad your schedule
is fully booked,
but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees,
for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put,
not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand,
my resume is absent of
razors and pills,
poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths,
here are my sums


If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones,m my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command,
by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...


If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself,
parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged
the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011
hard to believe this poem will be 8 years old, soon enough; I well recall writing it and willx return to the sunroom soon for inspiration and an afternoon nap.
 772° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
The world at peace.
Will it ever happen?
Perish the thought, you say.
Are you happy with killing?
Kisses are sweeter.
But bombs deal death instantly.
Sorry, but love lasts forever.
Why this bizarre dance?
Dizzy dances, you say?
Why not lifetimes of love,
glorious days, dreams of delight?
Why not kiss a bomb turning it
into red roses? It's not magic.
It's love everlasting.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 681° 
Moo
Everyone is dead, I think.
Be it morning or night, I don't sleep a wink.
In thoughts, I retire, I rebel, I transpire.
This spring holds none to miss,
This air, to me, holds no bliss.
I think of sanity now and then,
But overpowered, I run back to my den.
The sky embarks upon the fairest hue,
And I sit patiently for death to ensue.
How loyal I am to this greed —
To have my insanity freed.
 605° 
Nat Lipstadt
"everything in the cosmos was going to be drawn into the poem,
nothing must to be laughed at because it was already laughing,
nothing was too serious because it was already grieving,
the ache and the flirtation,
all this range,
this massive Spectrum ,
what a...what a thrill"

Bono
on Allen Ginsburg, Poet
<>

gotta tell ya,
every time I read this
quote,
two things happen:
get a headache and must
lie/lay down

and no. 2,

people who took a lotta drugs
write pretty good poems and songs


so where did I go wrong?
keeping good company...
 531° 
Nat Lipstadt
flux.
a word whose very sound connotes its meaning, a sloshing state of change

a liquid moment,
for we solids,
of bone and flesh,

though
we may be islands of stolidity,
entrenched, focused, organized,
when the surround sounds
of change are all about
you too are
fluxed

the serenity of splendid isolation
is not an impervious shell,
close eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth
these liquid times we abode,
inescapable from the roller coaster of
crashing storms of our
environment

try as I might,
cannot recede into a
white sealed envelipe,
cannot secede from
the froth of current events,
in the age of no distances,
and the rotational revolution of
but one lever,
a single beating wing
can disrupt the
the supply and communication
channels of our normative existential machinations

let me retreat unto my poetry trance,
but that choice
is currently unavailable

be wary of the calm of routine,
we live in a time of
the olympics of change,
and we cannot walk
on water,
nor tread forever

flux.

the liquidity curse of our
ever curving intersections
The year of 2025
don't touch me
i'm scared of what will happen
if i forget to not feel

and if you get too close
and you pull away
i'm scared that i'll finally break
i wish i didn't have to protect myself this way, but hopefully you'll understand, even if you never see this
 326° 
Oceara Miedema
She’s ready for a new chapter.
But is the new chapter ready for her?
She’s punk again as expected.
The cuts are holes for light to shine, from the lightning and thunder inside.

The plasters are lovers covering the wounds.
The Avocado for comfort and health.
The only way in which she takes care.
The rest is filled with beer and pain au chocolat.

For the pain, the discomfort, uncertainties.
The chains.
The chains remain.
The brain and tying ends together, pressure.
She’s getting ready.
Always getting ready.
But is she ever?

At least for the new chapter, the moment, she tries.
But it doesn’t feel right.
A little better after getting it together, over and over.
She’s never done.
30-06-25
 283° 
ADoolE
It’s no surprise
that kindness feels so sweet
when you’ve been starving ,
even crumbs are a treat.

It’s easy to miss,
but the truth is this:
a little kindness
can feel like bliss
 242° 
sir humbug
wear gloves on your hands,
leaving your eyes free to speculate
and your mind to record
the life of the plant;
and the life of the one who nurtures and tends

follow-from the fallow soil
to my edible plated consumption,
from the baby bud nipping
to sharp crack shot at picking,
to my tongue licking
both your produce and you

you may feed me poems
when the real harvesting is done,
grown in your own private plot,
from you, my good fellow,
follow with love delivered to
my expecting fallow-soul,
awaiting your seeding me,
and I,  
you...
 194° 
Blue Sapphire
Every tear
is a precious treasure,
each drop carrying
a moment of pain
life hands over.
 190° 
V3NUS
i've been clean for a month
because my box cutter is on the moving truck

i'm back in baltimore
but im not home
not really

everything's normal for two weeks
except it's not

i texted three friends to see if they wanted to hang out while i was back
only one responded
said she was going to be in connecticut

i wanna ask more people
but i dont wanna sound desperate

tell me i dont sound desperate
guess how the move's going!!!
 172° 
lizie
i wish people told me they were proud of me

i wish i deserved it
 165° 
Robbie
I write about everything but I don’t even know what I wrote.
I sleep too much that I don’t even know what is reality.
I put too much sugar that I don’t even know if it’s still a coffee.
I put too much love that I don’t even know if it’s real or just an ecstasy.

I smile at everything — I don’t even know what I like.
I notice everything that I don’t even know where I’m at.
I have so much to show that I don’t even know what to display.
I have so much in my mind that I’m afraid I have nothing to say.
 154° 
Arpitha
Art
Medley of patterns
Flow onto the paper
Sorting through the mess
That is my head

Colors dance on the sheet
Never skipping a beat
Both Performing for me
And speaking for me

Feelings reborn in hues
Color and colourless
Let them flow
Together let’s grow
I love drawing mandalas
 136° 
Joshua
The Jazz specialist
A rhymer of great languish
A great polished soul
 131° 
Brooklyn
Embarrassed
To speak
Shame
It makes me feel weak
Hate this feeling
I want to bury it deep
Hide in the shadows
So I’m not seen
I cringe at myself
And wish to run free
I have so much shame
It’s eating at me
Help me escape
Before the shame defeats me
 120° 
Rose Yet To Bloom
A fuel that drives me:
fear —

That a decades-long novel,
etched into the riverbeds of my veins,
might be erased by
a single chapter's
acid rains.
This is just a chapter :)
 116° 
nova
I cradle this love like a hidden blade — gleaming, silent, and buried deep beneath my ribs… beautiful in its pain, deadly in its silence.
 115° 
Laura Claes
My love
If you don’t want
love and respect me
then let me go
I have no energy anymore
to argue
cry
fight
in the morning
evening
and at night.

L.C.
Un prêtre de Jupiter,
Père de deux grandes filles,
Toutes deux assez gentilles,
De bien les marier fit son soin le plus cher.
Les prêtres de ce temps vivaient de sacrifices,
Et n'avaient point de bénéfices.
La dot était fort mince. Un jeune jardinier
Se présenta pour gendre ; on lui donna l'aînée.
Bientôt après cet hyménée
La cadette devint la femme d'un potier.
À quelques jours de là, chaque épouse établie
Chez son époux, le père va les voir.
Bon jour, dit-il, je viens savoir
Si le choix que j'ai fait rend heureuse ta vie,
S'il ne te manque rien, si je peux y pourvoir.
Jamais, répond la jardinière,
Vous ne fîtes meilleure affaire :
La paix et le bonheur habitent ma maison ;
Je tâche d'être bonne, et mon époux est bon :
Il sait m'aimer sans jalousie,
Je l'aime sans coquetterie ;
Aussi tout est plaisir, tout jusqu'à nos travaux ;
Nous ne désirons rien, sinon qu'un peu de pluie
Fasse pousser nos artichauts.
- C'est là tout ? - Oui vraiment. -tu seras satisfaite,
Dit le vieillard : demain je célèbre la fête
De Jupiter ; je lui dirai deux mots.
Adieu, ma fille. - Adieu, mon père.
Le prêtre de ce pas s'en va chez la potière
L'interroger, comme sa sœur,
Sur son mari, sur son bonheur.
Oh ! Répond celle-ci, dans mon petit ménage,
Le travail, l'amour, la santé,
Tout va fort bien en vérité ;
Nous ne pouvons suffire à la vente, à l'ouvrage :
Notre unique désir serait que le soleil
Nous montrât plus souvent son visage vermeil
Pour sécher notre poterie.
Vous, pontife du dieu de l'air,
Obtenez-nous cela, mon père, je vous prie ;
Parlez pour nous à Jupiter.
- Très volontiers, ma chère amie :
Mais je ne sais comment accorder mes enfants ;
Tu me demandes du beau temps,
Et ta sœur a besoin de pluie.
Ma foi, je me tairai, de peur d'être en défaut.
Jupiter mieux que nous sait bien ce qu'il nous faut ;
Prétendre le guider serait folie extrême.
Sachons prendre le temps comme il veut l'envoyer :
L'homme est plus cher aux dieux qu'il ne l'est à lui-même ;
Se soumettre, c'est les prier.
 100° 
Moo
When the moon soars abloom,
The God rests the doom,
Like a hand that guides a spoon,
Moon that nests alone fresh and unborn,
Slithers its way,
The purest ache of yearning's sway,
As the cloud take heed and veil it away.
 97° 
Neal Burns
And old is the dust that flows
Through city veins
The stampede of time like footfalls on concrete line the furrowed brow of a 45 year old man in profile in the fading light of day
 94° 
badwords
When your phone falls down
The screen is already cracked
There is no hurry
 88° 
LL
I have grown restless
thinking how you don't find rest
in me
anymore
2025/105
 87° 
Rhiannon Clayton
Write from the heart. Write with purity and until you have bled every ounce of passion from your pen. Write until you have exhausted the limits of your creativity, until you're free..

-Rhia Clay
 84° 
Xander Holden
I would say that I'm just treading water
But i enjoy swimming and this
Is so much worse
 83° 
William A Gibson
At lunch I bought a pear,
its shape: a quiet joke.
I cut it clean and slowly,
the blade, the slice, the poke.

It tasted like a breather,
not sweet, just real and right.
Like silence in the stairwell
or breezes late at night.

The afternoon unknotted,
each task a gentler climb.
I fed the cat. I folded shirts.
You’re not here and I’m fine.
 77° 
Eric the Red
I know you’re thinking of me
Because all of your songs came on
The playlist
Randomly
All in a row
.
I think of you too
Constantly
Hoping my songs
Are playing in the order
That we loved each other…
 77° 
Selena
Under the shimmering sun,
fingers intertwined,
We looked at kids with water guns,
running in the blind.

dancing in endless laughter,
Our eyes were drowned;
Yet I can’t  see the color
that paints you around.

Alas, I found myself in bed
mourning for the hands;
The ones that were in my head
turned into the sands.
 71° 
Mariah
Risk flirts with defeat
Beaten doesn't mean you're beat
Some plans trust retreat
My hope includes the worst case scenario.
 67° 
Elena Rosi
When I can’t write
And still I wish to.
Thinking all night
Hoping to see you.

Writer’s block isn’t for me.
But poked eyes, tonight I see.
Paper and pen, Keyboard and screen.
Either way, words fly from me.
 66° 
Jennifer
In dusk-lit fields where shadows lean,
The sunflowers bow, a sullen scene
Their golden heads in somber trance,
Charmed by the storm’s relentless dance.

They wear the rain like cloaks of night,
A lover’s touch both fierce and slight.
They ache beneath the tempest’s breath,
Bound to a beauty carved by death.

Roots entangled, darkly tied,
They crave the storm yet long to hide.
Bending close yet standing tall,
Bruised by the rain but enthralled by the fall.

When morning breaks, they tilt toward dawn,
But hold the night in petals drawn.
They shine by scars no sun can see
A love that’s forged in agony.
 65° 
Donall Dempsey
FIRST LOVE

I am new to
this

"love thing"
read about it in manuals

of course
but this is

the real thing.

Ok..ok so
she is just a dust bin.

I love her
rusty dents

she so very very tin!

Oh the metal of her.

The way she wears
her lid.

Her name is Tin(Sn) &

she has 10...10
stable isotopes!

I know the humans will
never understand.

A robot never forgets his
first love.

*

Broken toy robot sticking out of a rusty tin bin....I wrote them their love story.
 65° 
Jenny
She was loud but quiet .
She rebelled but yet repent.
She was snow yet fire.
She burned yet burnt.

She was one, yet two
Duality lived beneath her skin,
She was possessive, cruel
yet detached, aloof.

She prayed with eyes
She yearned in silence.
She screamed with tears
She dreamed of violence.

Her energy wasn’t radiant
It burned low, too quiet.
She loved the glow,
The beauty of  ice.

Made bonds, not deep.
She preached,
Not presence ,But soul.
Not me, but Bond
Not me but bond...


---
Its about a friend of mine who always gave importance to bonds rather than the person themselves
Marie, à tous les coups vous me venez reprendre
Que je suis trop léger, et me dites toujours,
Quand je vous veux baiser, que j'aille à ma Cassandre,
Et toujours m'appelez inconstant en amours.


Je le veux être aussi, les hommes sont bien lourds
Qui n'osent en cent lieux neuve amour entreprendre.
Celui-là qui ne veut qu'à une seule entendre,
N'est pas digne qu'Amour lui fasse de bons tours.


Celui qui n'ose faire une amitié nouvelle,
A faute de courage, ou faute de cervelle,
Se défiant de soi, qui ne peut avoir mieux.


Les hommes maladifs, ou matés de vieillesse,
Doivent être constants : mais sotte est la jeunesse
Qui n'est point éveillée, et qui n'aime en cent lieux.
 56° 
Nat Lipstadt
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne

<>

these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,

you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up  in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,

the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught

and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,

"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,

and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I

lay down with a lie?
No one would notice
Even if they tried to focus

Everyday I would put on a smile
But in reality, I’d be in my room crying for quite a while

No one could even tell
I guess I masked it so well

I never really enjoyed my life
All I ever wanted was someone to call my wife

But I knew that day would never come
It left my heart feeling ever so numb

All was feeling the same one day
My heart and mind left stray

That was until I saw you
The very moment I knew love was true
This goes out to the love of my life, I love you so much.
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