"bypassing" poems
Vines crawling
on the old mottled wall
fog bypassing
the fence
enveloping the entire
chalet
the mystic sky over the castle
a lightning awakening
the gloomy valley
ghosts and goblins floating
around
extinguishing white candles
a witch with a broom
the silver haired wizard in a black hat
standing in the darkness of spells
the enchanted princess sleeping
in the black chalet
prince charming leading a team of
knights
sinister roses blooming quietly
spitting murky fog
tongues of flames light up the dark tunnel
the prince kills the bloodthirsty bats witches and
a clan of phantoms
the prince kisses to wake the princess who’s been asleep
for a millenium.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
And like incense our scent takes to the air.
Ascending before we fall.
Her and I.
We burst into fire.
Our eyes a gaseous mixture.
Ignited by the touch of skin.
Kindling the many thoughts we keep of each other.
A crackle blown out.
Accented in desire,
Our yearning ignites.
We hold ourselves unselfish,
Keeping warm.
Separate stems bonded as one.
Our inner voice visible.
Bypassing worry, our doubt.
A piece of us both, dissipating in a slow burning.
To give more than we've taken in unspoken communication.
We fell in ash.
Our scent a prayer sent to heaven.
To always remain this way.
Even after our extinguishing.
May we linger.
Forever more.
Falling fast asleep in each other's arms.
Leading each other to a place we call love.
Until the last ash drops
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
I’ve grown tired of this suit.
I don't like wearing it anymore.
It’s not what it once was.
It’s a constant burden to me.
It’s discolored, faded, and worn thin, especially around the knees.
It’s marred with tears and stains.
It embarrasses me.
It itches.
It’s suffocating.
It’s downright ugly.
I no longer feel comfortable in it. I haven’t for decades.
I’ve taken it to the best cleaners, the best tailors that money can buy, but it's still a tattered mess beyond repair.
People say I look good in it, that it’s me, it's who I am, don’t be so self conscious.
But what do they know?
They're not the ones who wear it all the time. I ******* do, ******* it.
Maybe there’s some hidden truth in all of this that I’ve been bypassing all along?
I don’t have the patience and tolerance to keep wearing it.
The long-avoided decision to rid myself of my suit finally catches up with me.
I’m not timid, not scared, not anxious - just relieved. Excited. Ready to undress.
There’s a fresh, clean robe waiting for me, hanging from the mantle at the bottom of the stairs.
I prepare myself for facing the uncertainty.
So, here I go.
I undress.
It takes a matter of seconds before I rid myself of the suit.
I stand naked, towering over the folded mess.
I think to myself, that wasn’t so bad after all…
Just like anything in life, it’s the anticipation that cripples us. Remember that.
I lower my head and stare only for a few moments at my ***** mangy suit.
Nothing at all, no remorse, no guilt – only liberation. I receive the peace that has softly spoken to me in my dreams, through music, by feeding ducks and listening to the early morning birds. They usually have the first thing to say, and it’s the most beautiful message one will ever hear.
I place my robe over my naked body and start walking up the worn, creaky stairs.
Distant laughter and muffled conversations travel down to me as I climb higher towards the thick, ornate door.
The voices are familiar.
I push open the door, welcomed by the faces that have been gone for far too long.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
The blackberry bush had one new bloom
Its light fragrance was so delicate and sweet
I closed my eyes to breathe in deep its beauty
And felt as if I were floating on a leaf
Traveling down a quiet meandering mountain stream
Touching down on a sandy beach
The soft sand of the creek beach
Was outlined by brambles in full bloom
I thought of the blackberries to come, how sweet!
And gave a moment to consider the beauty
Of one thorny leaf
Plucked it and tossed it into the stream
I considering taking a dip in the stream
And I took my shoes off on the beach
I could see on the shore an algae bloom
And wondered if that would taste sweet
Before the plunge I looked at the crystal clear beauty
And cast myself in the water as I had the leaf
When I broke the surface on my face was a leaf
Floating unaware down the little stream
Seeking only a place to land, like a nice beach
To be amongst the other blooms
And create a berry so sweet
That, would be the truest beauty….
I was caught up by the beauty
Of a twisting maple leaf
Falling down, down to the babbling stream
Bypassing the sandy beach
And casting no glances to the opening bloom
Giving no thought to their future sweet
I swam to the shore thinking about berries so sweet
Sunlight dancing on the water created such beauty
That I stepped on a sticker leaf
And fell backwards into the stream
Filling my shorts with sand from the beach
And giving my *** cheek a nice rosy bloom
I sat on the beach right next to a mountain stream
Watched a leaf float by in all its beauty
From a sweet blackberry bush in full bloom
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
When words fail and the song dies in your soul
The soft cushion weighs heavy, threadbare, when
Dust invites the attic attack to the last memory stroll
A fretful protest march accompanying the wood grained heart
You noticed the space in short supply, with tight breath, the
Expert bargaining skills have begun, bypassing
The weak hearts, those that are still journeying
Their healing held up in tight palms of moistoned skin
And the slide into another day begins, dreadfully
With arched pain barriers drumming their morning
Beat. Occupational hazard was on the rampage
Cracking skull caps from their skinned residence
I shone a light into the acute grey tone of those
Hearts, those whose shapes lost conviction as the light
Shot arrowed tongues from the deaf interiors of wise men
Out on the town of feeble failings, they held nothing as their companion
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
If you are an aging book tossed on an empty shelf
Left to dust,
I will be the librarian who remembers you.
Even in my graying days and wrinkles,
I will find you within the musty bindings
Upon the shelves.
I will pluck you off,
Bypassing all of the others
That try and grab me as I walk
The narrow aisles.
I will push them back into their place
For you are the only one I have eyes on.
I will find you and blow the dust
Off your shoulders.
I will run my fingers over you,
Feeling your cover, your back, your spine
Before opening you and sifting through your pages,
Reading your story and discovering your scars
Where the corners have been folded over.
But I will love you long before
I ever open your cover and begin to read.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for fuck's sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Such sweet songs
Fall from faces full
Of open
Hearts holding hands.
Generally great groups gather
Quixotic questions,
Ponder personal perceptions,
Emulating ever entranced emotions.
Love loses leaps, leaves
Broad bruises bypassing
Catastrophically closed creations.
What wonder, what wildly whimsical
Rejoice remains?
In individualistic idioms.
As all allowed anatomical
Differences deal dictations,
Juxtaposed jesters join
Monstrous masterminds
Trivially tinkering, tryingly,
Near non-subjective nothingness
Under unusual
Vectors. Vivisecting voracious,
Zeppelin-esque, zygotes,
Xenophobic
Yodels yell,
**** **** kindheartedness!"
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
I climbed up the third nearest hill
to watch the sun set,
on the day that you said
you love me..
Alone before sundown with time to spare.
I hoped to catch it amber and full,
on a hungry mid-cycle race all the way up there -
where exactly, I did not seem to care.
You disarmed me.
And on trial I were.
Alas my time wasn't worth it.
The sun hid behind thick layers of cloud,
the wind picked up and I could sense the rain coming.
It kissed me.
A bypassing train covered all other sound.
And to think I quite longed to hear this,
as if I didn't already know.
The forces of nature felt like an omen.
A warning,
against a tempting last straw.
Not sure how long I ended up sat there,
but Venus rose up to wish me goodnight.
If this is a test,
I’m determined to pass it.
An omen at half-light always means no.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 6:11 PM UTC
every night I strive to bury your love in the mud
my hands and heart full of blood
next morning it reblooms with greater vigor
bypassing my rigor
enlightening me about your rebirth with all your purity
and rarity
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 8:10 AM UTC
i
Ireland onto greecian-land then onto the Spanish aisles
Scotland, bypassing England, than a thoroughfare of French wild
Wherein the wild-child is me and mine amare, flower's in hair
ii
Than onto Africa, wherein we canst ride the elephant back's
Gazing the scenes, to feedeth the poor and hungry, seeing past all
The great china wall, the markets of Morocco, to India's beads.
iii
Charm's shalt adapt us, as we were their own,no technology
No phones, just collections and folds, of ourn novel Romance sealed by ourn kiss, the altitude of the moon is ourn marital bliss.
©Elsa angelica dedication
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
it starts with a chug
a push of steam leaning into the next chug
more resolved even desperate
building momentum with each turn
three thoughtless words
leave the station blowing spiral exhaust
picking up sentences along the way
passengers climb aboard destination cars
riding click clack click clack lyric tracks
as they squelch an urge to peer ahead
for the blind belly-gripping corners
hiding morbid thoughts of finding themselves
somewhere in an ominous tunnel
with a villain from chapter 3
but they come anyway
paying good fare
with cash and unbartered time
reserved for such a season as this
infinite itineraries through
countrysides and comedies
mountains and mysteries
prairies and poetry
highlight endless whistle stop fantasies
predestined by curious minds
throwing line by line hypnotic leisure
into the rhythm of the wheels
beauty is revealed
through the picture windows of books
yet
in the midst of gorgeous landscapes
undreamt dismantling jumps
hardened steel guides in these words:
*...I would have been referred to religion,
the cemetery where questions of faith are answered....*
the pleasant journey
comes derailed on the slip switch
possessed of both genius and sadness
for cemeteries are only death if
they are the end of the vision
tombstones create blind men
of brilliant skeptics
when
Lazarus lives
the tomb is empty
and the end isn't
faith puts the train upright
setting the switches to forever
bypassing graveyards
and riding to the unquenchable light.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
Useless time begging
Back to the present
Infinite electric waves
Bypassing hidden compartments
Surging together
Heat waves demonstrating
Truth at our very finest
Out bursting cautiously
Into a super nova
Colors exploding throughout
Our imitations
Reminding the reversal
Of times sighing…
Please forgive me.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Passing.
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Water.
Silent,
Hollow’d galley,
Drifting
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Bypassing
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Swans.
Steady,
Eternal force,
Moving.
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Passing-by.
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Open
Sultry,
Quiet hymns,
Resounding
The boat,
As refuge,
To love.
The sound,
As incense,
To God.
The water,
As life,
To men
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Haven.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
Queen, O' Queen, thou art more than good enough,
Thou art mine life, in struggle's we wilt strive, we wilt survive the horned one's push; we art conjoined by ourn love, and stitched in by ourn kisses. We wilt maketh dream's cometh to reality, bypassing wisher's and wishes. Thou shalt cometh home from work, I shalt hath cleaned the house, fixed dinner: done the dishes. Taper's shalt be set, myrrh oil shalt be burning, Napkin's folded in place, the chicken over the fire shalt be turning. Ourn amour' shalt none more be faraway; we shalt be close, holding, kissing another, ourn anguish shalt decay. Mine Queen, O' dearest queen, I shalt wait; thou art not losing me, mine loyal empress of Asian sea's, I'm proud to be thy king, O' how happy I am with thee. Earl Jane Nagley: mine Filipino rose, and treat.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication-Filipino rose
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Slum ditch ****
and a double-decker train
heading straight for the heart;
bypassing all other organs.
I sit next to
dresses and scarves
and MomandSon kisses
and journals in the hands
of Chicago lovers
documenting every moment.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
poetry masquerades under too much
freedom of ineffective
politics, which it does not which to
engage with, namely it's own:
far-left mummification,
the far left mummified its heroes,
the far right cremated theirs...
one took the route to
Prometheus absence as subsequent
lack of camp-fire eagerly hell-bent;
what truth is woman? the woman worthy
of socio-political affairs, or affairs
of paranoid idealism signature sentenced
as counter-argument with haircut stylistics
and tattooing? a healthy visible status,
rather than an unhealthy counter, status
or no status, one ascribed the guillotine phobia,
the second a necessary Buddhist heroism -
both left reward-lost: dream of troll maidens,
dream of perfected bedroom antics with
so much **** reducing acting to naught
and theatre to desperation with the ignited
insignia of bureaucracy rather than
bored harpsichord rebels hash tagging
emily davison for bets and awareness in having
monopoly - of her beauty i'll speak but little,
am i the shopkeeper, the merchant,
easier under the Niqab than for her fancy of ******
taking place... dreadlocks un-kept,
and three signatures on lips that made kissing
a pain... removed, thus revenged...
if i knew woman i'd have kept one...
but since i know none, i kept cats, bypassing women
and imagining children; and all the better
for my liking, such that the world shrunk
to the size of Lichtenstein - oh but the few
buttered friendships are there to be spoken off
in old age... the few that remain have already leveraged you
to bite the worm closest to the heart,
in times when educating yourself equated itself to being shamed;
when education became shame and trivia quizzing,
when education became Latin bulimia
and even that didn't fertilise the earth to spawn
the awaiting, unearthed root for what came to be
known as the chattering colour: as death stood,
in its wintry palace, jokingly mannequin.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
*the aerodynamics on that **** past the **** **** me... miles davis on the trumpet! followed up by john coltrane on the sax.*
sure... it's like egg-friend rice, of any kind replicable...
but this is hoisin sauce, and soya sauce...
jumping at each other in the mix...
or that's: half an hour, sitting on the window-sill,
sitting on my foot folded, massaging my ****
thinking: there's bound to be a few more
inches' worth of **** stuck up there....
c'mon heel! massage that **** a bit more,
if we get a few more farts out... we're bound
to get the **** out too!
that's the funny thing... you can have a lodged ****
but then you can also **** and the **** doesn't
come out...
how do farts byspass the ****
that really is, a weird question...
it's a bit like comparing it so psychiatry...
all these thoughts (farts) keep coming out...
past this thick fudge-berg lodged in my head (the ego)...
how did they ever bypass that shit-berg's worth of contemplative
and monetary's unit worth of reasoning about,
in the first place?
well... if you're going to circumcise people...
might as well call the **** the mind...
and make fun out of circumcised freud...
better now? ah hmm mmm?
farts the thoughts, thoughts bypassing the lodged
in **** turd's worth of ego...
surely if there's aerodynamics... there must be some
sort of cognitive-dynamism... a bypass...
people love to simply call it ignorance...
but it's not...
oh, lookie here... fits neatly, right into my trouser pocket;
what was it?
farts, thoughts, ego, ****
well.. you know... some of us like the idea of shortcuts.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
they cower in motels
behind brave windows and balconies,
hurling mortal nouns
into private spaces
avatar faces
painted dirt brown
spew hurt and shame
like acid rain
with decadent refrain
and broken blades
seek veins hidden
in sheer fright
from eyes cued to gore,
grime and more
criminal cocktails
circumvent cogency
by a moonshiner's mile
improvised neckwear
leave a mark
as the world goes dark
like forensic files
or the hunt
and another soul
checks out early,
bypassing the lobby
and the regally blind
eyes cued to gore,
grime and more....
~ P
#bedroombullies
(8/3/2015)
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
"How are you doing?"
those words pierced through my coat
bypassing the buttons that I didn't notice were open
until he spoke them
How I froze words intended to warm
into a pointed intrusion meant to warn
me of my icy exterior
It jabbed at my heart like icicles
pressed into the wound that throbbed and pulsed
He maintained eye contact when he asked
and my eyes were wide
with weariness I couldn't truly hide
but I could disguise
"I'm doing well and you?"
I replied to the man holding a stop-sign
my voice pleasant like springtime
when the wind rustled green-leafed trees
during the early sunrise
and the morning doves sang a sweet melody
covering up my shivering heart
"I'm doing good," he said
and nodded his head
in response to my quiet 'thank you'
he waited until I crossed the small street
eyes at my back, tracking my slow, steady steps
and when I got to the other side
I paused for my crossing guard said one more thing
"I hope you have a good day!"
and I said with a smile too bright, "You too,"
and went on my way
marching through the bright, winter day
hoping that this road would just take me away
Just take me away
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 12:50 PM UTC
It started with a devious question
And the answer was clear
To all
But a curious faction
Fueled by fear,
With the means to concoct
An Orwellian plot
That rendered hate normal,
Like bible study.
Let the Right say, 'Amen'.
"She should be in jail," said
A lady in the deli
With a red cap
And matching tee.
Her eyes spewed fire;
Mine stayed on the menu.
Bypassing the bologna,
I ordered turkey on rye,
To Go.
I had a revolution to catch.
One I'd missed like the polls
On Election Eve.
Dylan shot nine,
Dead.
Sparing one to spread the news
And start a race riot
Before Obama takes away our guns.
Then Vladimir bombed
A city Gary didn't know
But no one asked Don.
"I like you," said one tyrant
To another.
"But I despise Fidel, CNN and ObamaCare.
They are all dead to me."
We heard the lie.
Of the grand Muslim celebration in Jersey
After the towers fell.
And a million more.
Yet the tide of deaf ears kept growing,
Engulfing US in a tsunami
Of pussy-grabbing misogyny
That made Bill blush
And gave Hill another shocking traumatic defeat.
Women from Times Square
To Tokyo rained on his parade
And a speech spawned in 7th grade
Earned an A on FOX
And a wet sticker
Everywhere else.
Let the world say, "Impeach Him!"
~ P
#LyricalAssassination
01/21/2017
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
1.
Destitute with the search,
The realization is slowly creeping forward,
Where lies true love?
Where lies comfort and serenity?
The soft touch of glancing lips,
The heat and the passion for life’s eternity.
2.
Nothings sacred anymore,
Nothings true,
Innocence remains with the few,
The mind is being starved of pure thought,
The masses cavort in shallow seas,
Bypassing the breeze,
And embracing the screaming storm.
3.
Live for the moment cried Epicurus,
The garden philosopher of society defiance,
The omnipotent culture of corruption beckons,
Power and wealth has overcome knowledge,
And with it comes ferocious death,
Millions in a single breathe.
4.
And as beauty strives to survive,
It's essence being burned alive,
Endure the torture and pain,
For personal nirvana is real,
And soon you'll feel,
The silk caress of unconditional love.
............................................................
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
*i went straight down the hyphenated route, along the winding clay paths of papa simius sapiens **** esse, to see both the western mountains and the eastern seas, yes, straight into the hyphen, watching both the northern infinity (8) and the southern infinity (∞), bypassing scientific equations of the equator by digging to fiji through china.*
i had, and still have two defence mechanism,
a pseudo-impotence within the framework
of the freudian madonna-whore complex
with the everyday girls,
which quickly disappears with prostitutes,
and the fact that, when i was impotent with her
after three attempts and on the fourth wasn’t,
she still didn’t bother to take off the t-shirt i was
wearing when i made love to her,
so all the brass muscle shadow contrasts i was moulding
went to the scrap heap and i returned to the chubby old me
drinking excessively and utilising my lessons in spelling
words using chemical compound complications
of my favoured utilised prospects in the realm of the intellect -
yes, these two defence mechanisms,
because upon engaging with prostitutes in a mirror of pure
functioning objectivity of the ***** and fox
i known a word or two about anti-feminism,
so the t-shirt part during *********** is a shield to prove
the objectivity of the act can progress into the subjectivity of the person,
and because she didn’t take it off, proves my point that
she was nothing more than a ********** or a pole dancer,
which she later became,
even though she was reasonably sane enough to do otherwise.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
*We must be
bypassing
each other
along these
streets our
eyes locked
to our phones
smiling to
the humour in
someone's
consolation about
being single
on their
Facebook status
otherwise
what
explains this
delay in
our encounter?*
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC