#heavensent - Hello Poetry

Life contains many flaws that's beneath the skin, like a touch to the hand or a cloth to the face. Bullets never had a name, but the target did, why must every action involved hate or deceit? People blindly dismiss right for wrong as if every problem will be solved with a blink of an eye, but the thing is; to really be free, we must let peace roam to the center of the heart in order to be stable again with one another.

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Jan 12, 2016

Jan 12, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC

BWill

Peace

Life contains many flaws that's beneath the skin, like a touch to the hand or a cloth to the face. Bullets never had a name, but the target did, why must every action involved hate or deceit? People blindly dismiss right for wrong as if every problem will be solved with a blink of an eye, but the thing is; to really be free, we must let peace roam to the center of the heart in order to be stable again with one another.

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i. Sacred art ourn vow's, forever I wilt be thine cloud, To soak the rainstorm's up when they cometh; I wilt forevermore be thine hari, We shalt maketh a distant story, On the patience we do hath. ii. We shalt showeth ourn children The merriment of ourn smile's; Being parent's of better style; Freedom paint's us as the wild, Godly carved into the rock's. iii. Husband and wife Connecting bones, Ourn abode, just One stone's throw; A castle of kingdom's, With a yellow rose; Laughter echoes, ourn Warming nose, touching As primal kitten's. iv. History remembered, Amour' notes written; Jewel's around thine neck, Tenderness, with full respects, Thanksgiving given, Alive, once dead Blossom's risen, From ourn tomb's, We serenade in- tranquil invention, Didst I mention? This troth is infinite; Surely soon, mine queen Of soothe, we shalt meet- In a Heavensent. ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poets poetry ©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose dedicated)

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Nov 26, 2015

Nov 26, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC

brandon-nagley

Caelo votum scriptor ( Heavensent vow's) latin tongue

i. Sacred art ourn vow's, forever I wilt be thine cloud, To soak the rainstorm's up when they cometh; I wilt forevermore be thine hari, We shalt maketh a distant story, On the patience we do hath. ii. We shalt showeth ourn children The merriment of ourn smile's; Being parent's of better style; Freedom paint's us as the wild, Godly carved into the rock's. iii. Husband and wife Connecting bones, Ourn abode, just One stone's throw; A castle of kingdom's, With a yellow rose; Laughter echoes, ourn Warming nose, touching As primal kitten's. iv. History remembered, Amour' notes written; Jewel's around thine neck, Tenderness, with full respects, Thanksgiving given, Alive, once dead Blossom's risen, From ourn tomb's, We serenade in- tranquil invention, Didst I mention? This troth is infinite; Surely soon, mine queen Of soothe, we shalt meet- In a Heavensent. ©Brandon Nagley ©Lonesome poets poetry ©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose dedicated)

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What is music? The heart rendered? What life Is to a dream? The eyes object in rapture? What is the soul's shell, but a half note hollow Contained with music? Art is cold— Echo, mute repetition, poor traits for nine Dead muses of memory, a fiction after The fact, nor can there be a shelf for credence Without cadence. And though the painter's eyes Remember rainbows colour, his hands forget All, save black and white. Though the sculptor sees The vein of nudes within the sparkled rock That stone, still, looks back with grieving half- Heartedness. The chambered heart is beating, The droning gales are sighing, but like the one bird Who flies three ways— before and after song, My middling wings pronounce two kingdoms part Music. The felt fingers of rain consort with well- Tempered earthly quays and everywhere there is There is the bright organic instrument— And actuality is sidled with dead metaphors. Music is but purest feeling given air to, The mind soothed, the spirit seduced and a quell For ache of heart, music is pure making— Existence itself, another plain, a well dressed Traveler, a border with life— Body and spirit, who hand in hand and each With each, are bound as wings are paired; One flyer soaring.

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Dec 29, 2014

Dec 29, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC

ormond

Ode to Music

What is music? The heart rendered? What life Is to a dream? The eyes object in rapture? What is the soul's shell, but a half note hollow Contained with music? Art is cold— Echo, mute repetition, poor traits for nine Dead muses of memory, a fiction after The fact, nor can there be a shelf for credence Without cadence. And though the painter's eyes Remember rainbows colour, his hands forget All, save black and white. Though the sculptor sees The vein of nudes within the sparkled rock That stone, still, looks back with grieving half- Heartedness. The chambered heart is beating, The droning gales are sighing, but like the one bird Who flies three ways— before and after song, My middling wings pronounce two kingdoms part Music. The felt fingers of rain consort with well- Tempered earthly quays and everywhere there is There is the bright organic instrument— And actuality is sidled with dead metaphors. Music is but purest feeling given air to, The mind soothed, the spirit seduced and a quell For ache of heart, music is pure making— Existence itself, another plain, a well dressed Traveler, a border with life— Body and spirit, who hand in hand and each With each, are bound as wings are paired; One flyer soaring.

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