"burgeon" poems
i was born all naturally
formed in a lax factory
im actually
a hack with ******* in my nose, practically,
every day, haphazardly
stumbling home, half asleep
i cant tell whats happening
vision begins blackening
im whack like kriss kross
crack like rick ross
major brown boy to houston
be like, "yes, we have liftoff"
dont like me when i'm ****** off
cause ***** i'm bruce banner
or maybe i'm bruce wayne
either way, i got mad manners
tearing down walls like berlin
preaching like its a sermon
potential begins to burgeon
i'll cut you up like a surgeon
killing in place of coercion
so you better lower the curtain
my head and my body are hurtin
so tell me how quick does the world spin?
i'm taddling on ya, you can call me a toddler
but the snitchin n' **** is somethin im never fond of
and i never grow up, cause i'm the neverland smuggler
peter pan turns into one of my best customers
i never grew into my head, im not cocky
never had the eye of the tiger, im not rocky
growing up i never got in fights or caused a lotta ****
but presently im screaming **** the world", i've got a bone to pick
i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
you hold me captive, keep me trapped in your facets of laws
looks of repulsion are what cause me to brandish my claws
constant compulsions reminiscent of prodigal flaws
i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
see im a goblin shark i'll sink in my nautical jaws
im not a joker im a jester with lesser facades
wrought with insomnia cause drugs are american gods
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
You roll on
You gel on
No matter what the reason
You have a beautiful aroma
You gel on
You slicken propagation
You have a beautiful aroma
You make the senses burgeon with new life
You slicken propagation
Across the nation spreads, the cooling sensation
You make the senses burgeon with new life
You stop sweaty pits rife with strife
Across the nation spreads the cooling sensation
Cool underarms allow for a vigorous standing ovation
You stop sweaty pits rife with strife
You deserve an award for saving many-a social life
Cool underarms allow for vigorous standing ovation
So applause to you Deodorant
You deserve an award for saving many-a social life
You bring us together- no matter the weather- in a tank or in a sweater
So applause to you Deodorant
You bring us together- no matter the weather- in a tank or in a sweater
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
someday i’ll be too busy to notice the vampires
the sun wakes me up and i know who i am
maybe the chaos will always be there but
i’ll find a way to break it down into mulch and grow
pears and herbs and gardenias from what’s left of me
it takes a while to accept that the shadows matter
and i can’t pretend to know the watermelon lollipop
without the tongue that exists only to melt it away
to turn it into nothing until all that’s left is a paper stick
it might feel like freedom now but it can’t forever
i’ll pull down the curtains and never snooze an alarm again
the worst thing i can think of is writing the same poem
each day for the rest of my life and everyone knowing it
but me
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /
Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /
Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /
(—Se' lah)
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 12:00 AM UTC
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful.
The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun
They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done
For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run
Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly
Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly
Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly
Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh,
An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh
Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh
Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals
For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but they will forever hesitate to settle
They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle
As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn
For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn
I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
“You are a cynosure and I a modest demure man,
I cannot be accordant with the crowd you have,
You a cynosure beauty of elegance and wonders,
A woman of higher standards and I very simplistic,
Can such a person take interest in me what may it be,
Is she mindlessly judging me as an equitable man?
By sweet emotions thoughts reflected as irises burgeon,
From her head to toes I kept on admiring this divinity,
Is her heart for love that like a thorn with no rose?
Or mitotically lovely when in love as seen before all,
She would not be able to conform to me it would be I,
Could my simplistically standards sway her to me,
But why do I blame myself that she took a liking to me,
I imagine her hands touch the earth and the roots dilate,
Sprite knows deep quintessence of water and the earth,
We then conjugate together like an equation of loam”
By A. Guzaldo 07/21/2018 ©
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
A Mass Inversion.
I have lived to witness an Apple
become a juggernaut
see the followers nod their heads in belief,
walking segregated on the streets
unaware of their own worship.
We have not yet realized
that the largest religion in the world
is no longer faith based,
technophiles fill our rural
and metro quintessential sprawl.
Their numbers swell
and burgeon with new converts
that give funding rank and file,
whom are taught to know indulgence
in name only, mistaking desire for need.
This technology based obsession
is without age or gender restrictions,
without race distinction,
it asks not for ethics,
pride,
morality,
intelligence or privacy.
It is all-consuming
just as any ideology-
as any religion,
answering the same fervent questions,
demanding tribute and changing the way you think.
-
The View Outside.
Among the whole, the slow mass conversion,
there is occasional dissension,
some who glorify a golden era or fill with nostalgia
for something they may not have even experienced,
an immaterial escapism of the present
furthered by a childish inability to accept ephemerality
and our irregular morality.
Sometimes amid this denial,
this abstaining,
there is a seed of anger that grows with gnarled roots
that twist throughout with nary a cry or shout.
It is a quiet anger,
unconditional and baseless but for an intensity,
a burning sense of being wronged,
an infection that spreads without exception.
And when your self-righteous halo eventually slips to catch
in your now flapping jaw,
your anger will fade as you choke on hard etched resolve.
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 9:29 AM UTC
Calling Spring North,
Chirping buds to burgeon,
Teetering in rain that turns to sleet,
Clutching black, wet branches,
Feathers puffed against the chill,
Cocked heads seeking sleepy worms,
Side glancing carefully the neighbor's cat.
These red-breasted birds
Chortling in the morning sun
Precurse Spring,
Sing cheer to me.
Though I, no longer young,
My Autumn just begun,
Winter coming on,
Life's seasons only last a while.
I have a Savior,
Who has gone before,
Endured cold Winter's death,
Calls me to Spring,
Beckons me to Summer....
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
.
*she stood barefooted
and feeling so beautiful
staring out
the frosty
daybreak window
visible breath ,
enslaved by a kiss ,
a clouded waft
exhaled
between chapped lips ,
as smeared tracks
of dripping freshwater pearls
slide down the little pane glass
the downward trickles
stirring tingling goose bumps ,
pushing out
blossoming
fighting gravity ,
as the chilled air spills
upon
sleepy toes
and naked smiles
enigmatic eyes
penetrate through
the beclouding
sighs released
passion wanes gently
with night’s fleeting shadows ,
the sandman still lingering ,
yet gazing shamelessly
at intimate breaths visible rouse
starry eyes recycling blind hope
like the lightly arising steam ;
the glistening
frost heave’s sparkle
just outside the window ,
where the dawning light
a single morning sunbeam ,
enkindles a renewed shine
aglow
tantalizing
untamed diamonds
burgeon like splendor
faceted dreams* ...
Wild is the Wind
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
water's gravity
moors me to this dome's prison.
washing me to plush blue
is the dream of hands
that puts me out of my sleep's premises.
the bane of existence tingles
the flesh and the suds rise
altogether with the squalor
of its own meaning.
my old hue languishes into
a burgeon of slosh and no friction
nor word could rupture me anymore.
and the scent dangles
mid-air, where all perfumes are born, with sorry fountainheads
peaking through the ordeal
of this sonata.
water makes music with skin
as froth takes to sea, the exhaustion of brine -
all disquiet in foreword
and finality
hung clean, in the backyard
of ordinariness, of consummate asepsis and its breakable concepts,
ready to be worn out
by a day's grime and back to
its fate once more, all of us.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
BEEP,BEEP!
PA-SHUU!
UUUURK!
Urban cacophony
conducting a
eulogy
reminiscing of the burgeon
bucolic country
::silence::
a precursor to an ubiquitous end
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 1:32 PM UTC
Rapprochement
was necessary for survival
Handicraft helped
but shelter was not necessary as the world burned
To phase'out companionship
invites emetic death
Blazes hot enough to burn stars
smolder with sulfurous fumes
The flames burgeon illumination
as worlds are rent
All forms of hesitation are irrelevant with
society's abutments collapsed.
To pass freely was
never an option.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know--again the shriveled bough
Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
And these hard lands be quivering with grain--
I tell you only: it is Winter now.
What if I know, before the Summer goes
Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?
What is it now, that June shall surely bring
New promise, with the swallow and the rose?
My heart is water, that I first must breast
The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.
1.3k
Incendiary asperity:
The world's existentiality
Agony, the Merciless & Mercenary
Scourging me entirely.
The Angst of the Aeons
Are the pedigree, the genealogy, the history borne to emancipate Me as a Vessel of Sanctity
For the valiant souls
Are the souls of transcendence, who revere in remembrance
The Amour of the Yore
My Vestibule Heart
Expands, contracts, being consecrated demands just as
Starry-Wombed the Cosmos, we
Must grow, burgeon through our learning & yearning, deserving & pining for the Promise of Morrow
For we were not formed
To wallow in sorrow.
As I gaze to the heavens
O, ***** and Gomorrah I remember
The Wife of Lot looks back forever: emblazoned as a Petrified December,
Then Fire & Sulphur descended, mankind nearly ended;
What is the lesson?
Of faith we are descendants.
Why do you
Roil my ravaged and brutally savaged soul?
Must bitterness be the wage for days spent having prayed
On my knees, for armistice, by The Empyrean One’s decree?
Though I have fallen,
I shall rise up
For the Fate’s Auric Visage radiates light upon the leaven,
Dost ferment the flesh dominating mine spirit.
Hearkening to
The susurrus of the Sovereign of Songbird’s Sacrosanct Love.
Let the Ethereal Tides of Time
Bathe me in baptismal & divine tribulation, trial
For a writhing while,
Sacrality is a war,
The Primal Instinct’s Immemorial Diminuendo.
Where has fake paradise of the Sylvan Shine
Those forested, emerald Eyes
That glisten in mine dreams gone?
Your visage twas my divine.
Though I am forlorn,
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love hath sworn
To the Days of Yore
That I shall soar once more.
To my Enfettered Soul,
Excelsior.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
"And he created out of one man every nation of men, to dwell upon the entire surface of the earth, and he decreed the appointed times and set limits of the dwelling of man." (Acts 17: 26) (New World Translation Study Edition)
When I look in the mirror, a doughty warrior, an oracle, an Olympian gazes back at me. The caramel-tinge of my skin tells of the colored pedigree from whence I came. Every ebony-tendril that bursts from my epidermis is as impregnable as the Sacred Lotus.
The history of my Mind's Sky has been tried by the Ancient African Sun of my ancestors. It is my hope, that I have passed the trials decreed by the ordinances of the Moon & Sun. Moreover, the Arbiter of Fates, Jah, dawns upon our fleshly vessel at each twilight, assaying our entities. (Isaiah 60: 19, 20) (New World Translation Study Edition)
So many intrepid souls have compassed me about. The Chalice of my Heart burgeons with esprit d' amour. The meaning of life is ne' er about intellect, is ne' er about achievement, is in part, about creativity; wholly, about Love. (John 13: 34, 35) (New World Translation Study Edition) For this reason, strength cascades upon me every moment as I witness the brilliance, the resilience of my beneficent matriarch, Stacy Amanda Foulke.
In life, I have learned that being a person of color in America is not only a wonderful privilege, but a responsibility. Why? The afflictions brought upon this skin only make it glisten brighter after convalescence. Our people have suffered inordinately so, but this is conducive to cultivating surpassing empathy. Therefore, I believe that history, as begotten through the colored legacy, shall be one of ultimate victory.
If and only if, we unfetter ourselves from the onerous burdens of the past, then Monarchical Wings shall burgeon from our Astral Chrysalis. "For though the tribulation is momentary and light, it works out for us a glory that is of more and more surpassing weight and is everlasting." (1st Corinthians 4: 17) (New World Translation Study Edition) Se' lah.
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 6:54 PM UTC
Love's bled,
Fear's fed,
So full of empty discouragement.
Lazy,
Jaded,
With emotional baggage
Tethered to tension
Smothered by obsession,
Stifled are desires
Damage in a vacuum.
Pulsing in this septic puddle,
Sick and stuck and still to struggle,
As I burn in morbid boredom,
I must purge before I Burgeon
Burgeon purge
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
Grind me to dust -
Go on do it;
I'm simply waiting for you to make the first move
-Amply,
your innate poignancy shatters my every statue and taboo;
So that I'm left to blossom again
Permeate me;
Or eliminate me,
Though I'd rather flourish with you than perish
Break down my walls,
Rip me apart;
As we stand arm in arm while I do the same
So place us in a mold,
Lets blend together
Mesh with me
We could synthesize;
Or divide
It's only a matter of time,
An eventuality
before we'd reamalgamate anyway
You're the math to my abstract;
So should you calculate or speculate?
- Or perpetuate while we vegetate?
Would you,
Could you
conquer the inevitable?
Could you,
Would you
ever endeavor?
You are the order to my chaos
We could burgeon in oblivion,
though I'd rather balance in harmony
It's black and white at the same time
Like cognitive dissonance
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
Roses are the most beautiful flower;
The sight of one turns my thoughts into prose.
Yet I’ve done ev’rything in my power,
But still, I shall ne’er be fair as the rose.
The rose stands dignified and elegant
With the most graceful composure I’ve seen,
And white, with purity and innocence,
It is more guiltless than e’er have I been.
In flawless form, its tender buds burgeon,
But I doth lack a perfect symmetry.
In ideal balance, each flow’r emerges,
Unlike my imperfect anatomy.
Yet, despite all of this, thy love remains,
And grateful I shall be for all my days.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
(what an unparalleled glimpse into an alternate existence)
lock in slowly into new moment
sitting on the edge of unneutered idea
incredible finesse in your eyes
seeker sought / finder found
relative mercy in life does exist
blessings burgeon and even g-r-o-w
quite hard to believe my eyes get graced by
the source of the light which has so touched
more than realised
alert and overflowing energy
it was saved up for this magical moment
this direct miracle
how is it again - that I deserve this?
then, the open enigma hides a bit, and shifts
and I'm talking to a lamp shade
but blue tendrils bring back the smiling one
who dips with me
into this lucky packet moment
an alternate reality exists
it is there
it / is / there!!!
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
I am atom,
I am quark,
I am dust,
I am ash.
Fluttering in the breeze,
mouth of the beast,
from my pyroclasm there is no retreat,
unto all the ends of the earth,
the east,
the west.
I find a home among the dreams of man,
civilization,
ascension and degradation,
here I am.
I slip between the cracks,
the grass mixed betwixt water and ash,
winding through the leaves,
upwards through the trees.
My arms burgeon upwards,
reaching for the sun,
from whence I have come,
drifting in the sky,
and sifting through sand as I lie.
Fruits bursts from my fingers,
I recede and give way,
on my way I go,
oh how sweet is the sound.
I fall and taste nostalgia,
falling through such familiar leaves,
a tasty treat.
Churning and mixing,
dripping and assimilating,
I find that I can move,
what am I now?
Who knows?
Off to the east,
as far as these feet can carry,
water and salt mix together in my teeth,
slithering across my hair.
I spy and unfamiliar creature,
I feel unsure,
unsure?
I like it.
She spies me and smiles,
a smile?
I like it.
And that's the story of how we,
came to be.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
I'm tired of this face of mine
I think I'll have to change it
I'll plump my lips, slim my chin
Debag my eyes and smooth my skin.
My ears are fine but what the heck
I'll pin them back then check my neck
It looks a little loose and slack
I'll have it nipped and tucked right back.
Then I will peruse my chest
It's not too bad but not its best.
I think that I might see a surgeon
Go up a cup size watch it burgeon.
And then of course there is my waist
Once so shapely, perfectly placed
Now its wider with more fat
Never mind I'll fix that.
I'll give up wine and cigarettes
I'll join a gym and work up sweats.
My legs need shaved, toenails need cut
Then that's me done from head to foot
But you know its just a fable
I'll lay my cards out on the table
I may be tired of the same old me
But why change now? I'm ninety three
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 12:13 PM UTC
There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.
And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.
How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?
Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?
As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
Inside this poesy bower,
Do I, I do; await mine
Fresh sprayed flower,
To seest her blossom
Shower's; her honey-
Comb word's, her
Eastern dew. Burgeon-
Closely; abide with me,
Where thou art mine
Muse. Finger's wilt be
etching tool's to create
Master-designs; in the
Cloud's that reside.
Hide and seek, thus
Love we'll find; there
In ourn eyne, where
It's been all along. Do
I, I do; await this time,
Dusk til' dawn.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley ( pookie dedicated)
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
I know this clearing
where the berries burgeon,
but blind to covetous birds,
though one still hears their sweet rill.
They, the berries, are ripe with sun kiss.
We'll make a day of it.
I'll bring a wine basket, a blanket -
You say, "I'll find the pails?"
If all goes well,
we'll have little time for them.
Let's be off, my dear.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 9:24 PM UTC
what is our purpose, if not to help,
why do we say these things, when they're not felt,
so focused on our next big break,
we've forgotten everyone it takes.
not meant to sit alone, meant to stand & test,
for those who refuse, for those who can't,
our helping hands only help so much,
set up against social norms & Picassos,
left to bludgeon, burgeon & bargain,
still only to be second best,
what Einstein life is this,
not one we lose to win.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 4:09 PM UTC