"archway" poems
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.
The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.
A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.
© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
She took my hand and followed me
through the trees,
under the archway made of ivy
(flanked by pristinely carved hedges)
into the vast, open field
which met the ethereal red sun
on the horizon.
We sat in the fresh grass,
cool in the evening air.
All the while we stayed silent,
just admiring the untouched space.
Each blade of grass before us
swayed gently,
tantalisingly...
Time had stopped
but everything was still living.
Still moving.
As if this place were not included
in Time's perseverance.
I didn't want it to be,
it was too important to me.
It occurred to me then
that it wasn't this place
that I valued the most at all
It was this moment.
And I captured it.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 2:50 PM UTC
Inside the Rainbow Forest
Where unicorns are born,
And fairy dust floats on the air
From sundown until dawn,
There dwells in royal splendour
Yet very rarely seen,
The king of all the pixies
With his pretty pixie queen.
His palace is a mushroom
As tall as any tree,
With bright red spots upon it
That will make you squeal with glee.
A winding golden staircase
Stretches to the very top,
In a mesmerizing spiral
That you think will never stop.
All those brave enough to climb it
Would soon chance upon a door,
With the most enormous knocker
That you really ever saw.
One hard tap summons the butler,
A polite and friendly gnome,
Serving tea and fondant fancies
That will make you feel at home.
Through a maze of vaulted chambers
Each more lavish than the last,
Passing walls lined with the portraits
Of kings from the distant past,
That dear gnome shall gently guide you,
With much merriment and song,
To the Great Hall of his master
Who resides there all day long.
From beneath a silver archway
Set with precious gems galore,
You will enter to the fanfare
Of ten trumpets, maybe more.
Dainty apple blossom petals
Shall be scattered at your feet,
As you bow your head in homage
To the king you are to meet.
With a heart bursting with wonder
You will hastily be brought,
To the throne of his most highness
Far across the royal court,
Threading through the marble towers
Of an ornate colonnade,
And a troupe of prancing dragons
With their riders on parade.
Seated high upon a pumpkin
In a matching orange gown,
Curly shoes of bright green velvet
And an elderflower crown,
The king shall bid you welcome
With a beaming toothy grin,
As he beckons to the minstrel
For the music to begin.
With his beard like cotton candy
Waving wildly in the air,
As he slides down to embrace you
From atop his lofty chair,
Both your arms shall link together
To the fiddler's merry tune,
Clicking heels and laughing loudly
As you skip around the room.
In the magic of the moment
You will give yourself to fun,
As the mischief making monarch
Tweaks your ears and cracks a pun,
All those cares your heart now carries
Shall dissolve and simply be
Lost in wondrous celebration
Of a pixie jamboree!
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements
Honeycomb
...the remnants
Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
________________
This-- chair
is his
I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....
I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--
Paradise is Lost....
_______________
This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared
Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...
Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine
quaking quiet in her corner
Aunt Nell,
as blind as ******** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale
Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Lady you stand at the end
Where entrance meets daylight
Under the red brick archway
Between the buildings,
A white cap hides your hair
And the Dutch costume
Is of yesterday.
Silhouetted in geometry
Your profile senses thought
Far out in the distance
Where hopes and dreams reside.
You are as ancient as humanity
Womenkind contemplating
Their singularity,
Waiting for time
To eclipse this solitude.
Love Mary
From Pieter De ***** The Courtyard Painting
National Gallery London.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC
I haven't ****** much with the past
But I've ****** plenty with the future
Over the skin of silk are scars
From the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed
A stage is like each bolt of wood
Like a, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure
I would measure the success of a night by the way, by the way I
By the amount of **** and seed I could exude
Over the columns that nestled the P.A.
Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off
With a skirt of green net sewed over
With flat metallic circles which dazzled and flashed
The lights were violet and white
I had an ornamental veil, I can't bear to use it
With the way my hair was cropped, I craved, craved covering
But now that my hair itself is a veil
And the scalp inside is a scalp of a crazy
And a sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of skin
I wake up, I am lying peacefully
I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun
I desire him and he is absolutely ready to seize me
In, in, in, in, in heart, I am a Moslem, in heart, I am an American
In heart, I am Moslem, in heart, I'm an American artist and I have no guilt
I seek pleasure, I seek the nerves under your skin
The narrow archway, the layers, the scroll of ancient lettuce
We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly
The mole on the belly of an exquisite *****
He spared the child and spoiled the rod
I have not sold myself to God
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
I straightened my tie,
my noose of choice.
I surveyed the nerves,
boutonnières,
cuff links and best men
dressed then stressed
over punctuality.
**
I am late in my white dress,
my unstained reminder.
I rehearsed the vows,
poses, held my roses
and had my ladies
in waiting,
waiting.
**
I wait at the archway,
stiff, starched and
looking rented
for the occasion
**
I wait for my turn
to walk the plank,
the aisle spans oceans
and I am unsure.
**
I am unsure
but it is too late.
She sees my face and
searching behind
her veil for sympathetic
shared fear.
**
I give my father a mechanic kiss,
I twist and face my future.
**
I smile and wince,
I take her trembling hand,
I find her eyes,
I see my future.
**
I smile and wince,
He takes my trembling hand,
He finds my eyes,
I see no future.
**
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 6:34 PM UTC
..
Violation seeps in through every pore
The girl feels like a common *****
As men poke and **** with joy
Manipulating their new favourite toy
They sneak close enough to callously drool
Then further, breaking the cardinal rule
She feels an unwanted touch
Then begins to cry, deeming it too much.
..
With a purse brimming with cash
And a covered sceptic rash
The pretty woman walks casually
Sheltering any notion of tragedy
This was her first day of vacation
From her new laid back vocation
Though if a client was to approach
She wasn't beyond reproach
..
Horizontally gifted
An archway lifted
Customized displeasure
In any kind of weather
Morals slowly give way
To the luxury of good pay
Loneliness takes a back seat
To those with a thing for feet.
....
Stepped in late
A darkened slate
Crippled by fate
And a desire to be great
She felt like a clown
On her long way down
Then she lost her place uptown
To the notion of a gown
..
Poor girl
She had quite the whirl
Had five long years
Which left a few souvenirs
One being a harsh complexion
and the other being a hollow reflection
Now she has the rest of her life
To wallow in the footsteps of a wife
..
Soon her son would ask what she used to do?
The mother would reply, to who?
Ashamed she would pace
Trying to save face
Confused her son would leave
As the woman ran off to heave
Sick from the thought
That one day she would be caught
..
Sitting at lunch
A bully prods on a hunch
Displays an image
Of his mother's visage
A picture of an awkward pose
Featuring the woman in no clothes
Others began to taunt
As the poor boy went gaunt
....
Over the years some would knock on the door
In a meagre attempt to score
A run in with a *****
Who would take it on the floor
Of course they'd all be turned away
But the pain always seemed to stay
It was shown in the light of day
To be many needles in a sole piece of hay
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
Under prickled probably-a-berry-bush
overhead the scented magistrate and the muffled cough
of one emberassed to be viral
she's somewhere on the a-scale, but she is so very divine
zero public humility, whopee cushion existentialism
'I didn't do it, you did it.'
Oh right, thanks for putting your hands up
now turn around and lay your chest on the front of my squad car
sleep again and I'll wake you like Royalty once woke the jester.
jam your front toe on the archway
so you can be the vocals in my band
we'll be jamming next week, if you care to join us?
I understand.
It's not as much effort as sudoku
if you ask me.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
i.
Cometh hither darling, passeth through the enlightened pergola, seeith how ourn moniker's, art carved into the archway thither ourn bower; A chivalrous Noble tower.
ii.
No worrying mine dear, a buckler shalt be close to mine grab, for the attacker's shalt tryeth to invade, steal, and get all in a duetimes hand; though the circlet I shalt place upon thine top, shalt giveth thee shielding, from the Creation's that mock.
iii.
Artista, mine chosen of coëval; chalcedony balconies shalt giveth us visibility, up close we shalt toast, in thine calligraphist theory, in intimacy we'll float.
iv.
The eaves of ourn citadel, shalt be engineered by thine geniusness, none better to build ourn protection, as thou art a stalwart of the age, a queen aloft all name's, an angel upon a seraph's stage, as I wilt espy thee from the window inside thine midst.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
She is night and day
She will run and play
She is confused and lost
But she knows the cost
For when all is said and done
She is the only one
Who will give it her all
Even knowing she will fall
Because who’s to say
What’s beyond the archway
Of fear and love
Of what you’re free of
To be standing halfway
Between what you can and may
Is a lost path to walk
Don’t be so shocked
When you find it alone
You have always known
It would turn out this way
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
I remember the first time I laid eyes on him, that
emotive whirlwind within at the sight of him
I swooned inwardly, blinking...
overtaken by the moment, a radiance connected us;
his visage emanated strength beyond his brawny
physique and his handsomeness
our dawning...
love awakened at the sight of him; keeping bedroom eyes
mentally closed, but, longing to feel him against me
became a resting place in my heart
his eyes were so, tender, I wanted to finger trace his lips,
slowly, allowing him to taste the first breath of our moment
one moonlit night...
he approached, another swoon moment, I melted in his
arms as he whispered in the arch of sultry heat uncovering
the fabric of my being
love aroused...
and our essence melded; one breath...ours mingled,
became precious as wet stained kisses rained
upon upturned pout
taste of him left me adorned, in naked shadows of midnight,
love found; bound by blushed sighs, in demureness I lean
into manliness breathing shades of his love
lost...
in syllabic whispers, drenched in poetry of us, where want
dawdles at the door of need as desire entwines igniting our
flame and I melt between the folds of Him and I
evolving...
in the archway of love at first sight
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
My last Thursday class is over - my class-week is over.
Looking back at the science building we’d just left,
the hallway looked dark, like the throat of an animal,
the people snaked out like a tongue, the archway
seemed like a mouth - I shivered and looked away.
Lisa laughed, and my senses returned to reality.
The clouds on high, hung like fresh linens on a line
being dried by the sun in its Egyptian-blue heaven.
The air smelled rich, clean and ionized and ever
the inventive stylist, it periodically rearranged my hair.
Leaves rustled, sounding like a buzz of conversation,
as they rushed from place to place, as if late to class.
The breeze was working hard, in jerky flourishes,
like the strokes of an indecisive artist.
The afternoon seemed as bright and brash as a shout
as if it wanted, no demanded, our emotional attention
and I gave it, smilingly, ready for the weekend.
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 3:41 PM UTC
It happens
more and more rarely
in my ankle
run, run, run
catch the streetcar
named desire
(I cry with you Tennessee)
decanting the hours,
a rush into nowhere
in honeycombed memory
the dregs of days
set my teeth on edge,
deepen the archway
of naked irises
hurled into midnight
It happens
lighter and lighter
in my left shoulder
pierced with sunset
lost in a sparrow
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
A game of mini golf
between the tombstones
bouncing the ball off
the trellis archway
knocking into a tree trunk
on the perimeter
to put the ball back into play
Greyish black
skeletons wielding
irons and woods
Their sunken eye sockets
A perfect place to insert golf *****
then they pop them out
grab them to their palm
slap them to their mouth
and **** them back
like Jaw Breakers
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
*And through the archway
to the field -
I saw what one would see
what one would see if they could build
build a world of free and blue
flowers on the grassy land
while the wind blows eastward
and takes the green-leafed hand
And under the bridge
to the lake -
I saw what one would see
what one would see if they could make
make a world of wonderful
birds that sing
while the wind blows eastward
and a present it does bring
And over the meadow
to the sky -
I saw what one would see
what one would see if they could fly
fly to the clear skies
atop the heads of all
so through the clouds so white and tall
I saw what one would see
What one would see if they had all!*
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
The dog who watched us take off our shoes
on the steps before the laying Buddha,
this is for you. You were at ease,
not guarding, panting from the heat, warming
your belly on Bangkok’s stones.
Our shoes in a bag, passports strapped to us,
photographing the twenty foot high
resemblance of the man who asked not to
be praised - cast in mother-of-pearl the
man who shook off possessions - I
suppose to a dog looking up,
gods and humans are the same, barefoot idols
shuffling through a hotbox corridor
looking up at another barefoot
human with an immobile face,
downy eyes and nearly a tear.
Later you found shade beneath an
archway at the end of a long
line of Buddhas, almost identical,
decreasing in age towards you.
Some ideas are so respected
they need repeating in the same
manner every year, the same sculpture
carved beside the last, an echo,
a silent chant, and you lay there
at the end, the chant becomes your
visible panting. For a moment
you look into my eyes because
you recognised my feet, because
you know you take the place of the
next structure, you know that busy
hands will build upon where you sit,
that where you go, humans follow,
as they do with gods, with shadows.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
The house was big,
Too big for a divorced family of four.
It had sickly, pale yellow siding
With cracking paint and a long archway
That led to a round, asphalt-covered
Backyard.
Most days the trees
That rolled out into the little valley
Alongside it were barren and spiny,
And you could see through them, all
The way to the quiet road that cut
Through the growing houses
Below.
If you were lucky, you would have seen
A few kids shooting airsoft guns,
Running through the fallen leaves,
Leaping atop all the muddy mounds of dirt
Next to the creek, but they
Have lost contact
Recently.
If you were to climb up the little green hill
That rose just next to the mouth
Of the house’s driveway,
Cresting along the edge of the cul-de-sac,
You would see a greenhouse,
Brown, with splotches of dirt
On the windows.
If you opened its flimsy door,
Which was usually locked,
You would see all the uncut tomato plants,
All the sage and spices,
And you would probably wonder
Why they were not harvested
Yet.
But the people who owned it
Usually bought their groceries
Rather than grew them.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
The old,grey cobblestone
leads to the archway
in front of the church
that supports the bell
which rings at seven.
How many footsteps have touched it's surface?
Footsteps that carried the dreams and sorrow of many.
At seven
as the bell rings
the lights start to glow
dangling from their cord
like a vine over the street.
People casually walk through the courtyard
peering into windows
talking and laughing
graciously being.
Voices slightly heard
through gradually darkening air
voices carefully crafting verses
in Spanish.
Life is easily seen
from the second floor terrace
peace in it's purest shape
trust and truth.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
her bare feet touch the cool surface
of the kitchen linoleum floor
soft sticky sound
a pattern set upon itself
with her one wrist wrapped gently round
the hard coarse thin metal
engaging its tension with a tender grasp
bending it
to the form she dreamed
carnival horse and wire wood fence
separate her from the thing she hears
she watches it with her minds eye
as she leans nervous into the encircling frame
leans with one bare foot in the dusty gravel
the broken weeds a thin line in the rocky soil
mirror her stance darkly
in miniature echoes of the intense soft lines
of her delicate face
her sorrow etched clearly in the unnatural sunlight
her voice echoes soft and trembling
a voice ethereal but rich with meanings
that she endures but
that she is alone in the false dawn
so to save herself she has bent the
convex of the lens
bent the pattern into her figure alone
and as she wraps herself in the thin metal
gauze of shallow breathing
she seeks to behold not be beheld
to mask her feelings
to leave the thoughts treading shallow waters
to leave the intense moment
in the open ocean of the linoleum
where her footprint leads to my gasping eyes
the swirls of sand with slight breeze
mask her passing
and leave little trace of her presence
but her presence remains
in this image
powerful and sublime
full of the imagery dark musics
filled with the scents of burning
this sharp clean image narrowed focus
like a shutters thick sound
in the silence of a lone fan's endless drone
which reveals a thick sadness
in the shadow slivers in her hair
in the soft line of her lips
in the casual line of her arm draped over the hoop
i sense her assuage her hot tears in the starlight
in the backwoods of a small town
from the edge of wooden bridge
her sounds echo in the kitchen
with soft edges to their thought
the archway door
its hard bricks lean into the wind strewn alley
into the the narrow gaps
between the perception of
what is and what she creates
with crafted line
with slow depth exploration
the wire wood fence hides all matter of beasts
their rabid shadows are narrowly seen underneath its edge
but their faces are only in my perception
are only in my vision of the images edge
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Your nose scrunches up in normal conversation. It makes you look a little bit like a piglet.
Trust me, that may sound like a backhanded compliment, but it's adorable.
When you yawn, you sound like you want to cry.
Nothing freer than you transposing your tears for the sake of singing sad songs,
To Children you've never met, as if you've never slept.
We're both a little too sure about what we eat, and
The times you sit on your hands are the days when your guts moan...
[Others would call these imperfections, but the little things are always the best parts...
Birds flapping their wings (hollow arm-bones)
Tree-roots burrow and anchor (lungs)
Grass pets your eyes]
Always busy, the words form on the tip of our toes, everything I say
Is written with our silhouettes.
Outlines pigment the natural world...
Like a horror-show,
Hallways stretch for hours
(I can not currently see out this window).
Your open sockets spill waterfalls of true understanding from a crimson sunset of genius scars,
Like open wounds of the best silence, only the sound of teeth clashing
Between stretching lips
You hook your palms into my cheeks, bones creak
Gazes reflecting thoughts, unity in unmerited shame,
Our legs conversing softly, hair intertwined (snakes on our necks), and all night...
I keep playing a triplet between your ribs
A simple arpeggio archway under moans from dead skin in light,
I hold you by the red skin, carve you, for just one moment
Until we're living art. Skin static, roots spreading wings.
No expiration date for us, just a point when our bodies no longer parallel
But after that, we speak in clouds
We paint murals for each other in abandoned city parking lots
Or empty train halls.
The moon is our vanishing point,
All eyes on craters.
My language is something undiscovered to me,
I don't know if I want to let all these words go.
You mean Reincarnation to me,
Some jaw of life, some whale's mouth.
I am snow.
Everything loses focus but the stars...
Like teenagers.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
Tender
As the flow of water across a light reed
Flowing, gentle as the soft kiss of sunshine over the morning dew
Like the fireflies lightly glowing
Through the night of passionate embraces
Every dance, every smile, every secret meeting
The waves crashing around us, the sunset glow on your face
A slow dance of love in the rain
Sparkling eyes and water lightly disentangled from your lashes
The distance and the soft voice, like music
Stirring deep within, calm, a melody
Every night, the closeness through the distance
Your laughter, in the archway of dreams glowing
Alight in my universe, wild goddess with the quiet smile
Yet mad, a force invisible, powerful
A gale of passion and emotion
Raging, pulling together, night through night
Alight. My Eos, sweet dawn, shy as a deer
Sweet as the morning dew
Curtains of dreams that I walk through
Brushing my eyes lightly,
Making them water by their sheer beauty
The elegance of emotion, of caring
Of silence, and of sharing
The hour of departure
A moment of distance and
I return but the river has flown
The winds have gone
To a distant land
Where a melody lingers
Quiet
Hush child
You cannot cry
You’re no child
This is how it must be
It was (\not\) your fault
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC