"battlement" poems
1347
Escape is such a thankful Word
I often in the Night
Consider it unto myself
No spectacle in sight
Escape—it is the Basket
In which the Heart is caught
When down some awful Battlement
The rest of Life is dropt—
’Tis not to sight the savior—
It is to be the saved—
And that is why I lay my Head
Upon this trusty word—
3.5k
i
She isn't thy average
Typical being;
She sit's upon a loft
Only made for a queen.
ii
Her bedstead is mine
We shareth ourn pillow;
I've never been so happy
Her love, pure as a meadow.
iii
A battlement coordinates
Wherein we shalt be protected;
She's spiritually awoken me
Hari and his reyna, ressurected.
iv
I shalt beget her, from her painful sleep
Now she's awoken, her face none more weep's;
Other's shalt Bestir us, from what they can't get
Though we shalt prevail, with love, forgiveness, them to forget.
v
Brigandine silver, shalt dress me in battle
For If beast's cometh close to mine queen, their boot's shalt rattle;
A Gilbertese I wilt carry, known as a shark tooth weapon
Mine Filipino empress is mine all, no faltering, none question's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/Filipino rose......
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
398
I had not minded—Walls—
Were Universe—one Rock—
And fr I heard his silver Call
The other side the Block—
I’d tunnel—till my Groove
Pushed sudden thro’ to his—
Then my face take her Recompense—
The looking in his Eyes—
But ’tis a single Hair—
A filament—a law—
A Cobweb—wove in Adamant—
A Battlement—of Straw—
A limit like the Veil
Unto the Lady’s face—
But every Mesh—a Citadel—
And Dragons—in the Crease—
1.8k
the meaning of an apology:
echoes of a thousand I’m Sorry’s;
the silence of deceit, its awful slink;
the humbled hope to atone,
to pay amends where due,
to mend the maimed,
and trust renew.
forgiveness is a sad word:
it bears the scar of a wound;
to forgive is to hope with hurt.
it is to trust in tide to wash ashore;
for in lack of trust and hope,
it is noble to sink with the ship.
it is bolder yet to hop asea,
and let tide be guide.
the parable of the builders:
the wiser built his house on rock,
the rain came down,
the floods came,
the winds blew,
and beat on that house;
and it did not fall,
for it was founded on a rock
the foolish built his on sand,
the rain came down,
the floods came,
the winds blew,
and beat on that house;
and it fell — and great was its fall.
determination's downfall;
for, is a house still not a house
despite its foundation?
fortune's fortress looms;
our sandcastle holdfasts hampered in comparison,
but home is neither keep nor battlement,
neither moat nor bailey,
neither portcullis nor drawbridge;
home is where you touch the ground,
where you choose to grow...
the rain will retain its hiss;
but the rain is still the rain,
the floods remain the floods,
and the wind is just the wind.
~ Inori
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC
Service station blues:
another meal beside the news
station stand, and as Tuesday
clicks into Wednesday
I wait in no queue to be served
by no one.
From behind the
confectionery battlement,
decorated with the money-off-percent
products below,
a professional service station stalker
walked closer,
(hopefully to queue in the no one
queue beside, behind, next to and near
me).
We waited together for some
service in the service station queue,
as midnight became morning,
black sky to blue.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
Trees and the menace of night;
Then a long, lonely, leaden mere
Backed by a desolate fell,
As by a spectral battlement; and then,
Low-brooding, interpenetrating all,
A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky,
So beggared, so incredibly bereft
Of starlight and the song of racing worlds,
It might have bellied down upon the Void
Where as in terror Light was beginning to be.
Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night
(Night and the wretchedness of the sky)
Is it the hurry of the rain?
Or the noise of a drive of the Dead,
Streaming before the irresistible Will
Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land
Between their place and ours?
Like the forgetfulness
Of the work-a-day world made visible,
A mist falls from the melancholy sky.
A messenger from some lost and loving soul,
Hopeless, far wandered, dazed
Here in the provinces of life,
A great white moth fades miserably past.
Thro' the trees in the strange dead night,
Under the vast dead sky,
Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead
Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell,
And the unimagined vastitudes beyond.
1.4k
It's hard to know from where you rang out, and how the tone changed from memory to sorrow. Perhaps all those little cuts from the knife of Aristotle came with a price. Or maybe the polygraphic wildlife detected in your letters, enough to stir the inner fabric of my womb, drew out the scent. This is more than obligation, child. This is about the seasons of force or choice. And how the aural disintegrations from your mouth sound so effortlessly submitted and submerged. I fear they've turned to acceptance, their floral remnants as besieged as a Sarajevo Rose. My love for you will never live on the margins. This love is a tree-lined battlement. An endless voyage on the barometric sea.
It's so hard to know from where you rang out. But worse, I suppose, to hear nothing at all. Nothing until ambulance day. And the words a mother should never have to endure.
Jul 3, 2023
Jul 3, 2023 at 11:43 AM UTC
Sepia wind runs through forgotten hands
Around a fitted frame, beneath a door;
Too like a battlement of local lore,
Too like an estuary of white sands.
And wind continues on and eastward past
A café built by Orpheus to house
The hungry lovers that would look, would louse
Eurydices by looking on at last.
And all to meet a rail upon a coast
Where sits a flower and a god of earth
Exchanging looks that burn the stars' bright feet.
She drinks the inks of valorous repeat,
Where fails the poet's hopeful hand at birth:
Exchanging all the words that leave us most.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
But tonight I decide to take the back way
with my single bag of groceries buckled in
for dear life with a white receipt fluttering
from between the battlement of butter and bread.
Tonight, the evening will swallow the sun like a pill
without water, as the late night trains sleepwalk through
the city humming, pondering the unanswered question—
ummmmmmmm, umm, umm, umm, ummmmmmmm—
and the mixture of cloud, locomotion, and sky
will remind me of the cannons and the rifles
and the smoke that bounced back and forth, and I couldn’t
have been more sure that someone was going to die out there
on San Jacinto Day
And eventually I will turn within this forest of street—
Hickory, Elm, Oak, Maple, Spruce, Pecan, Cedar—
to see the red capitals of my reflection, crucified
upon a metal grid for every fatigued citizen to see:
MORRISON'S
CORN KITS
with a light on top that pulses and breathes.
And all I can do is picture myself inside, working along
the assembly lines ******** slip-resistant shoes
onto the ankles of Mexican pubescents,
or painting old men’s faces with sweat,
or filling the bags under teachers’ eyes,
or doodling veins on the legs of ladies who
stand standing to stand, and stand all day, they stand.
And I’ll remember how my crying sister screamed
at every loud thing she heard, and how my
mom was like a parrot on her shoulder saying
‘It’s not real, honey. Honey, it’s not real.’
And I’ll watch how the smoke that endlessly vomits
from the stacks wearing the sky like a wig
distorts the fanned out walls like fun-house mirrors,
and dissipates into the night like a long, drawn out, exhale.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
Looking on towards the struggle,
She smiles with knowing eyes.
Her voice is a calm fierceness,
Holding others at bay by her call;
Who could stand with that fearfulness?
Her arms display the might of her judgement;
Wielding a weapon, sharpened of mind and pointed knowing.
Her commanding presence is known by those who would heed the call of her battlement, by the who would heed the moment armed in their own courage;
Behold, the Goddess of Victory!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
022217
Build me with Your woven Words
Of a truth, of assurance, of hope, of confidence.
Build me and I am destroyed --
Let my fortified walls collapse
Let the Throne be Yours
Let the aesthetic boast Your sovereignty
As I become dignified
By Your coming glory.
Build me again, for now, I refuse not
Build me now w/ Your own battlement
May I not hide anymore
And so I welcome You as I open the gate
Let me enter unto Your rest.
Let me not be ashamed of my Designer --
A Jewish Carpenter who left the Throne of Heaven.
There's no god greater than you
Even Zeus can hold no power
No other Greek gods can sustain You.
Legends and historic beings may increase in numbers
But You alone, the Beholder of everything --
The Beholder of my being.
I'm not a skyscraper
The curtain wall was a display of Your affection
The facade was Your intricate details
It was Your design -- from inside out.
It's never been a theory, but of truth
Of how "Form follows Function" has fed my soul --
Dying inside without purpose
But there, I found my worth
In the Cross, You defeated death
It has no power, it has no pride.
I was told w/ pages of history
Marked with blots of the blood
Of those who later on contributed
To the land's freedom and victory.
But all those flags of advancement & uttered security,
They're all fair black in the background of mystery.
I can see myself waving another flag in white
As I wait for the coming of the Giver of Life
I can wait til forever has come to pass
Until the only Hero, I ever saluted will face me at last.
I can easily be broken or damaged --
It seems I am fragile
And so I let Your hands mold me
I let Your love fills me
Complete me, finish me.
I am still in the process,
"It is finished," I heard Your voice
The melody of pain yet gain in the resurrection
Finished -- but I am still in the process
I am still a BUILDING to be built
And I can only boast of one thing:
That You are my BUILDER.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC
Some poor sod
had it up the line:
his nerves went
or lost his way
in war's battlement,
was charged and shot
against some wall
by other soldiers down
from the Front.
But he'd been quite brave up
until then, boys in half a year
turned into men; bombs, mud,
lice and rats and all around
death in dark colours,
yet he'd seen and shouldered that
and sat and smoked and joked
like the rest- then something
turned him or he lost his way
in noise and shell.
Some poor sod lies
where other bodies lay
waiting silently
to be moved away.
Albert said no more on
that memory of war,
but sat and smoked
and waited for the chime
for dinner as he had before.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 2:57 AM UTC
The little bird flew down toward my heat,
it took a present for it's starving child.
A throne I made upon a rocky seat.
The trees let loose the whistle of the wild,
against an azure-crimson battlement.
My nose awash with nature's verdant scent.
Before I sleep I promise no respite,
as clocks tick-tock in counting away light.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
Yonder lies the barren stone
well placed. The howling wind now
shuttered in, a captive stripped and bound.
The parapets and walk- walks rim the edges of the stone.
a deathly shrill of spirits still confess the ****** sin.
A postern gate squeals soon and late
The children of the wind.The howling specter
whips about from battlement to Bailey.
Soon to fade and serenade and finally to sleep.
The centuries bound now place the crown and shackles dug in deep.
Now take you heed the spirit's need to rest within the keep.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
Let us hope these wings can fly, for they are all that I have.
Let us be prey to the sky, and hope these wings be dashing.
Let me wish for one more second that stillness will be granted.
Battlement to battlement let man soar.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
paint me this picture, sonorous color
clutching the quiet ****
pressed against cloying scenes,
a loose hand bannering a bayonet.
rivet me waters, and much of the Earth
tightly groping inlands,
thatched in the branch nowhere alone,
is the song of God lullabying cities.
again the whole sky with its keen eyes
manifests a gleam worth knowing a cherub,
and sooner than it is later, when the seasons
postpone their flamboyances, chiaroscuros of smoke,
deceit, uncared for and unheard shrieks bounce off careless corners
and the song of God is but static with little wings clipped
and tossed into vicissitude:
song or no song
bearing a fruition of attrition:
resounding far-away: a comatose of cars,
a scuffle of powerlines, a melee of battlement and tranquil
continually fluster the child
in metronomic dance.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
cracked cement ramparts,
a less than mighty bastion,
swamp cooler overflow,
drool down the battlement.
behind the stockade walls,
faceless generals barked
orders to their private troops,
drilled their little soldiers.
“welcome to my castle.”
you call this a castle?
heat throbbing off the
parking lot convinced me
to chance crumbling stairs.
and there, step four, flight two,
i bumped into my white knight.
okay, maybe more like gray.
i’ll compr with silver.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
If truly it's known,
By all hearts like tone,
Our love shall be immortan
we shall be free of slave dark groan,
And pious to the hell of love gew-gew.
Drive me whereever you want to settle,
And heal the incurable disease you've done,
To sell the chain-of-rock to our bones,
And leave the pain in our flesh,and around the cruel fireof hell.
In fart,utter a deep rumbling in a distress;
We preffer to be left alone in peace,
But?love had come to soar our peace.
Where's our destiny?sourrounded in evil aure,
we seldon see throug the mist;
The scene on a tall summer that so pale,
Across the blue sky,the white cloud float shoals,
Or?disapper and quitly sail,the wast time;
Swell and fell into dream's haze,
Where eyes look long like a lover's gaze
What time in mists shall we tast?
Calmto the battlement of enternity of love;
Unknown!
Till the sun be set;they are all gone.
Maight the timid heart ,quiet dispassionate moon?
When the agony of nightmare caurse begin,
Or,a devil that rides human soul?
Shall wondered around our souls?
AH!It's too late to goven the kid of love's soul,
For the day evil-light shouted daze,
By hopes and fear,cried our souls,
Like the shadow's flames which the sun throw,
Even,more like the shadows of lives than life's blow.
In move,yet with something beauty very rare,
Traced,do they live on slop,
Pearhaps,be of noblest hopes,
The trace of intention that maight have been fair,
For purpose,each man's action must be hidden from scorn,
Hope like nature,oaktree man's saddest,
We loom in the world without watching time,
A wast so far,dark night is near,
To flash us back to the hell,where no wind breathes or ripple stires
We wish we were given a chance to restore the unwanted past!
Oct 27, 2024
Oct 27, 2024 at 9:26 AM UTC
when the need overwhelms your capacity to act
a time for four walls, a castle all your own
a cardboard box under a blanket
within the voices that tell you go hide
the memory of the womb you foetal curl up
******* your thumb eating till it hurts
staying out of sight to save your mind
your body your drawbridge pulled tight
walking the battlement of revenge
its a heartache kid
something you slowly learn to live with.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
i.
this is such graver in silence when all of
the sound has conspired in the multitudes:
hands like machineries
and the groaning of the bones, when such desires
are but thirsts intimately quenched
ii.
all is but silent as brookwater:
the image in the surface is surfeit
amongst the froth of passing images.
iii.
what strangeness shall we inherit
when your face is but melded into
the many? when your name is but a passing
utterance with its immense battlement?
when your dance is but offbeat and my song,
clenched?
iv.
you are silent. and I began to speak you.
which days pass on in the flutter of your eyelids
whose nights fractured by distant shrieks
and of no delight,
what deeply-plunging moon scathes itself
with this riveting quietude,
v.
I am all but answers and you are enigmas.
my voice is young.
let my mouth be ripe.
let my teeth gleam with light,
let my all be tender with your name
that the feel of you under me,
and I over you,
like bridges stoic, steel with stillness,
will never utter a word
and only the loudest of quietness
the world will ever hear.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC