"aureole" poems
i.
Fret not, mine antediluvian maiden,
For thine lid's art ladened with the
the encumbering of this last age.
ii.
Awakest, ariseth, mine filipina
of aureole fushae; for the
óres art numbered.
iii.
Yahweh's knocking at the
ventricles of ourn being's;
We knoweth the wisdom
That God giveth, which
Many hath searched-
From king's to Queen's.
iv.
For we art his offspring-
mine overwrought baby,
For there art none if's
nor maybe's; in his
Righteous path.
v.
Verily, yea, the Moon
Wilt turn ichor, the
Waves as of now art
Rising fast, the fish
Art washing to the
Shore's, the fowl of
the heaven's art
Falling to the earth.
As spoken in Hosea
Four-verse three.
vi.
Believeth in Yeshua
mine lady, as the thousands
Having visions and dream's;
Like me, im a testament to
The prophecy coming.
vii.
Don't be afraid of the mockery that
Mayest come, for thine
Blood like river's run
Into the kingdom of
the most high.
viii.
Soon O' soon we
Shalt fly, like sparrow's to their abode; fly-free-spirited
Gliding soul's, into the Dominion wherein we shalt know
All, wherein the bomb's wilt not fall, and destruction doesn't
Exist. A place of sworn bliss, where kisses art created
By soulmates of the creator's making.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedication
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
Arid desert
shimmering heat haze
shielding eyes, dazzling rays
blazing sun beats down.
Mirage
Crowned with aureole gold
you shine
strength, beauty
Being divine
Mirage
In your smile
sunbeams dance
In your eyes
Entranced
Mirage
Golden chariot
steeds of fire
Son of Titans
Heat, Desire
Mirage
Illuminated days
together
Sun God
Burn in me forever
Mirage
22/01/19
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC
Colliding; the collusion of day and night
Of things co-exsisting, theirs,
Light and darkness.
Blazing across the ethereal plain
An arch angelic inferno.
Infinite is the horizon
Confluently coloured; eminence
Transforming smouldering heat.
An auric aureole interpenetrating diverse bi-unity,
Illuminative transcension igniting
The charcoal black vast depths of heaven, space.
The eternal perfection ordained, twilight
Zenith sense turbulent like the oceans tide
Anthropomorphic legions, lingering shadows
In the purgatory of mischievous children.
Blood gushing like emotions,
Sacraments ordained for sacrifice
Canonised; Sepulchre
Immortal legions mortal as the knell echoes
This side of paradise,
Heaven an altar
A church altar, rapidly retreating
As stars disperse like candles fading-
Sacrilegious; sepulchre
Of angels fallen.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
i.
Certes, where wouldst I be, without the visitant who visited me, hallow and calefacient is mine sweet. Her camaca flaxen brown far east bisayan covering, like the wind upon her bones; Cling's on to wing's crystalline, hovering.
ii.
Many callisteias doth she hath, even in her most burdened of day's, light echoes the wall's of her laugh. Her nacre eyne, as a naos doth garnish the sign; spelling "ángelos mou".
iii.
I phlebotomized pond's of despair's tether's, I implored God for the mate of mine soul; even pictured this vasílissa in mine pounding blood's fetters. Thus one moment, in death's valley, undeservingly the Trinity whom always was and is; gifted me mine other-half, the woman from Asia's tribal secrets, the one with a aureole surrounding her chest.
iv.
Now, after generation's of awaiting, just to touch her luminescence I won't tire, nor debate the timing; for all
Cometh in good time, I just thanketh mine Yahweh.
For its his daughter he didst send, thus me didst he
Openeth mine eyen. O' blest divine, O' blest divine.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) Dedication
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
No was the night. Yes is this present sun.
If the rejected things, the things denied,
Slid over the western cataract, yet one,
One only, one thing that was firm, even
No greater than a cricket's horn, no more
Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech
Of the self that must sustain itself on speech,
One thing remaining, infallible, would be
Enough. Ah! douce campagna of that thing!
Ah! douce campagna, honey in the heart,
Green in the body, out of a petty phrase,
Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed:
The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps,
he aureole above the humming house . . .
It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.
2.1k
I love you, as a saint
with an aureole of gleaming autumn-burnt hair
an ecstatic shining and bright as the sun,
spilling forth with holy oil
with the face of a white-rose angel from Botticelli's brush,
with the heart of a tar-black demon, a serpent in the fiery bush,
a heavy pink blossom all dripping with honey
a sinuous and serpentine moth-silk scarf, fluttering in the summer air.
and I love you, loving and knowing that
I love you, as a painter
loves a streaked and bright tempura paint
here, sun-kissed as a yellow flower today,
revealing its thin translucent colours the next
and I love you, as one can only love
another who can only love a mirror
whether one made from moon-struck volcanic glass
or drawn from the lips of another.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
We think that
when a lover inflates his loved one
he or she is failing to acknowledge their flaws...
"Love is blind" we say ...
but it may be the other way around
You see ...
Love allows a person to see
the true angelic nature of another,
their halo,
the aureole of divinity.
Love permits
an extrasensory capability of looking deeper into the soul.
And for that reason,
Genuine love
could not be blind.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
This pond is where I will die,
Squandering in owl hours to ****
Still, the Ducks swim by.
The blue moon is a Julia Dragonfly
Haunted by a lethal, green dream thrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Threadbare Marauder Rooks squawk a cry,
The stickleback flakes its dithering gill.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Importunate possums chase ducks to comply,
How could my moon mother be so ill?
This pond is where I will die.
Bluebirds deflate their keels with a sigh,
I gravitate towards their beauty, I am still.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Aureole Sirius tip toes the sky,
Nimbus withers, Kamikaze men shrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Aureole...Manna's descent like showering
waveforms.
Eyes hungering...upturned, cloven in rapture.
Mouth slants open in a salivary click--
come the incantations...come the
anatomical sway of microcosm.
Intergalactic cynosure, pariah, shaman--
mangy interloper teaching wind to dance!
Tamer of the subconscious...mender of schism!
Anathema to Gaia's Satanic Stewards!
To be sought in the House of Aquarius,
haunting its foundation that it may uphold.
The roads to and fro are as anagrams that
alter with the perceiver.
It is the second look, of what's cross with
what Is...and ever shall be--that gives rise
to disorientation...reincarnation.
O grant dancer of self-evidence, grant your
sundry incantations... yearning for Gaia's heart
of hearts.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
dark leaps when
there is the frothing light
beaming a sizable aureole
on your face
this evening
and its palpable brigade.
dark is having your
inwoven dress free
from swaying
pressed against raucous
facelessness of things
rogue and renegade.
and when i have you
not, shining the light
and its intone,
wind felt like
stabs or
i in attendance
of a crazed vaudeville—
trapeze is the hinge
of the void
afloat, upstream, space-hovering;
a display of love
and not so much
is shown of the vertigo
trapped in a square,
a face
impinged in the seamlessness
of this fabulation
when you've gone
quickly fading out;
light is my remember,
o, dark my
forgetling.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
Our nights of assessing God,
With our heads conjoined to the windowpanes,
Our thoughts permeating throughout the glass.
Two lukewarm coffees embellished the windowsill,
The synthesis of our cognition and entwined fingers,
The soft touch of shoulders leaning upon each other,
Brought forth beatific vision, we saw God;
His blemished flesh, the formation of his bones.
It began,
His vertebral column, intangible lights, the Aurora Borealis.
His archaic vertebrae, stained in ethereal fluorescence;
The curvature, swirling, as the Deity writhes in euphoria,
A childish game,
Our God, content in the night.
His hands, formed from the dust of Bethlehem,
Grains of sand corralling to form flesh upon the detritus of Rome.
His Holy land, The Vatican; Structures of marble and stone,
Merely his cupped hands,
As his disciples' feet caress his palms.
His organs; The planets in orbit;
His heart, our sun.
The rays of light that adorn our skin,
Merely the palpitations of a hidden pulsating heart.
his divinity, subject of uncertainty in the petulant eyes of his children
walking in Terra Incognita.
His skin, Lo, to the stars;
Our hands yearned to touch the celestial freckles,
outstretched to feel the fibres of God;
And like our limbs, so did God outstretch,
his flesh, but space; suffusing within the translucent contours of the cosmos.
To be told we were made in the image of God, is to be deceived;
Our childish conjecturing, truly a theorem to be displaced,
Our augmented minds, illuminated;
An aureole behind our heads,
We became biblical as we touched lips by the mantelpiece.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
The gallows swing in my gown
how my grievous allure
axiom, snares me down
an appellative of harrowing quintessence
wearing lilies like an aureole
-crowned in by anemone and asphodel
the paraded gait of my soul
absence of faithful apparitions
cogent til their demise by my own dolor
nihility is my dear conviction
to dwell on dreamless sleep once more
alas lucidity comes abrupt
falsehoods pellucid in the eyes of divinity
tainted now i cite apprehension
bear garlands of wormwood, for i am corrupt
still gallows shall swing in my gown
whether in repose or in waking
the gallows swing in my gown
in knots the Styx shall be waiting.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
years elapsed since, I didst hawk
verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,
thy strong craven raven
doth still twitter and flip
sans thy testosterone switch,
where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
relationship nixed thee
as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip
service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
towing thru nested tulip trip
gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
after pants sigh did un zip.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
yar ******* mine gums did ladle.
Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
bird, who didst deign
as milquetoast guy.
Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
***** thatch, where
hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
def flesh tone.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
Enormous earth
Crawling over water,
The eagle's flap is a whirlwind
Across sudden forests,
Tops like pointed greenery
And formidable roots.
She is caught in the moonlit aureole,
Shimmering like waves on stars,
The wears her flattery,
The echoes of enchantment.
Stilled in a frame, through a window,
Adrift in the generations of home,
Wrapped in memory, a picture
Remains,
Visions like a poet in a new world
Held captivated by the blue sun
In the diamond reflecting reflections
In the depths of the endless Word.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
waxing, planetary
odd moonlight—
the faces are whetted to diamonds.
the paralytic shadow begins
to twitch;
benign light froths to full afternoon,
this sedentary creature in between teeth,
a clear consonant of dull air.
thereby gleaming, tapered to
a nightingale's song;
i take my place amongst the elements
of night: as if to say a new portrait in mausoleum crossed by grass and aureole
the laughter shattering its dull one—
a lurid memory, all to itself amongst
kindred of parks.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Let the moon bless this spell, let it drench these woods with its cold light. My glimmering stars, grains of sand washed upon the blessed shores of this universe. Sing for me your infinite song of time and hold off your bright and cruel mother until all requested deeds have been done.
Just what lies o’er yonder lustful future? Tender embraces from my purest loved one? A thousand strokes from a wandering counterpart? A declaration of emotion from my forbidden equal? If all goes as agreed, my heart’s greatest desires will be set in stone. And written in blood under the roof of this ancient bothy. Beneath the aureole of a billion stars.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
the car outside. you in your plain clothes;
I solemnize over this slow hill of flesh
when you lay down after the dredge.
it was your old automobile. somewhere in the
console, piping in the shell of night, your once
swift-footed self.
it was for Mico, you said.
this thing of time that was once early.
you in your white shirt with blotches of
yellow, like some aureole-bitten lip of bougainvillea.
some cold smitten flitter peering out
of the window of your gray head, your sage,
prattling about its conscious footing, this automobile.
are we but disputes and all that sense,
eluding us? somewhere in Malolos, the fatigued
machinery with its lilting rotor
modulates a once wild memory:
you, still in your white shirt. two bodies
drained of inertia – otherwise occupying song and silence,
our volition nothing but jarring (unmindful of its scathing dialect),
our terms to ourselves fabulated, the savannah drunk
in dappled light that evening – in front of the hospital,
mum as a nurse.
you pass on the keys to him,
learning new language. by the thousand strophes
of this lurching sea with its plodding delay,
your once bright bone, quickening in slow delight
now, as his face obscures yours with wonderment,
this evening – both of you in your denims,
all three of us in a huddle stamped
with heavy understanding.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
Winter rain -
dark aureole like raindrops
on leaves, drooping like *******
Mirrored in pools
trees blush.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 1:58 AM UTC
Holding the telescope
Of the past...
As I journey down the
Memory lane of my life
From the day of birth
Every action seemed serene
Until a certain moment
Behaviors changed to me
...Love was not aureole...
It was cloaked and serpentine
The chords that bond
Were now blanch and vile
The rain bursted upon us
"Pain and Strife"
Withholding the harmony
Of strings and lines
Enthusiasm was totally lost
And energy restrained
Brainstorming in vain
Seeking ideas for a change
Knowing I could be the
Catalyst who will pave the way
Though the visions seemed blur
Hope drew a "Bigger Picture" with faith
Imaginations I fantasized
Of my home soon arised
Thoughts spinning through galaxies
When we finally unite
To my family, a bond
That will never divide
Even through our broken hearts
..We Will Surely Be Alright!!!...
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
are we all but strangeness clad
in this feigning of wisdom? our whims
exeunt our graces and just pretend?
are we not all this caliginosity underneath furious light? are we not all
that spurious talk and no inimitable
quiescence?
are we all just nothing framed
to pithless flesh? before
there were shadows fitting figures
not their own — discomfitures rehearsed, contritions tell-tale.
we are something the moon or
if not so, then moonless
yet never the aureole truant — always searching.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
who shall then dare
dream the Sun to be a flower
or a new, keen city higher than steeples and umbilicus of wires
disavowed streets and herds of proletariats?
and if so then it shall be a flower
who picks itself from the unmoving Earth then what steady light
will it bring? who will join it in its revelry and who shall be
brave with trembling hands to hold it in hand taut like loves
divined and forever is spring and forever is winter endless with ephemeral whiteness
and bells are a-ringing and clouds are twitching so as to sail where
nobody has ever visited
always it is Spring
and in my hand is the Sun or the florid aureole
burning in my palm and the moon is my love
whose night is carefully a fraction
of flower placing an inch of sleep in my body,
always it is lovely
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
petty and pathetic,
insofar as when a wreathed breath
brings the being to the brim
of each death-defying word,
a woman. lying naked,
nailed to the Earth, burning
auburn-bright from windows
a wraith unannounced without a diadem
even, consoling the heavy lark
of the doused dark with something
weightless swinging against
the boughs — shuddering after a great
fall from presence to heart's pompous
flare. flat is the world
and light, the bendable one:
laugh, laugh, brave the hill
and behind the bramble, the dimly lit
foliage you are there
from the tumble: an aureole
simmering in the unbeknownst.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
our old appendages are our contemplation of our peripheries.
these minor playthings we do not touch
anymore. rusting alphabets moored
to the toppling refrigerator door. we have always been the curious kind;
before the sun sets, stills itself in unperturbed solace, we the lonely hunters of ourselves sift the word
and the ordeal: the last aureole perishes
and here flowers the nightly pulchritude.
our age are servitudes circling around
with elliptical utterances. we have no crutch but our brittle bones slowly chiming in the music of something we
avoid: only too well a mercy we cannot
bequeath nor receive.
so breakable and false, this what we
do, these that occur permitting desires
to speak blandly of themselves.
the hazards of the existing numerals
and their foreboding syntaxes:
how we burn bright and fade out,
all of this briefly shattering
after a colossal fall – its trenchant elegy
repudiates with contrapuntal music.
eyes, the contraband of visions and
stifled breaths reared in capitulations
like tailgating a beast on the tractable road
to snare it to its death, yet untold.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC