"chalices" poems
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.
Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.
Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.
Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
Holy yards of hallowed houses of prayer
rise in sublime chants and hymns
at this hour of the blessed dawn
when auspicious shades of light
grace the scabbards of swords
long sheathed and covered in shadows
of figures on the stained glasses
A divided land of long used to darkness
engulfing, rejoices: a saviour rises,
a hero who can unite and heal:
purple robe and the rag, Roman
and Celt: the long suffering realm
finds solace at last in order and justice;
A quest brews, of sacred chalices
In the noble hearts of faithful knights:
Alas, a tragedy in the shadows,
whither, famed Artorius, wise?
Hades schemes to ****** away
your Persephone to Annfwyn afar:
No mortal wounds could fell you alive,
But this, you carry on to Avalon.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
.
*He had ascending eyes
of sapphire,
the kind in which angels sloshed in their
royal chalices,
the kind of blue Poseidon gnashed
his teeth for.
Born in the 25th dying date,
Septembers’ autumn bleached scent flows along
his bloodstream.
A smile that belonged in the crooks of these sapphire seas,
a soul unholy as Adam
& Eve’s.
His love was not fierce enough
to contain this poet's heart
my pitiful phoenix can be ripped asunder
by the wrath of
a dandelion.
He couldn't swallow the sun
so silver fire rained
anytime it pleased.
We are the skylines
not gallows
and yet we hang ourselves upon the night skin
and collect
the stars as if they were
our alibis.
If you love me,
let me go?*
My silver eyes don't see you in color anymore.
.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
Among addictions and vice
there are none I want more
than an addiction to the sunrise,
a vice most forgiving.
The taste of alcohol,
inciting the bellicose beast
cannot satisfy me,
and I have tried.
As for pleasure,
the kind that makes skin crawl
and the breath heavy,
needs more than itself to satisfy,
so I searched on.
Chalices of wine and paper smoke,
skin and bedrooms bathed in moonlight,
the allure of quick satisfaction
could not satiate my thirst.
Only one scene has been constant,
delivering me from my vices,
partner of the morning skies,
far from tinctures and tonics,
the sunrise.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
O' amour
How radiant thy petal's art;
O' galore,
For what's in store
Shalt be noble
In novel art's.
Statues to tower
The children we
Create; none minutes
Nor hours, an empyrean
Place, a tribal face times two.
Restored, renewed. Amour' tis
True. Gushing water's of life-ever-
Lasting....
The ripples art ourn soul's, exploding
Chalices of old, expertise is awe-striking
In the deathly livings over-passing.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Uhrde' eahai’ el.
EaShe'sheti... EaShe'sheti Eye...
I're...
Selah... Selase'eye'...
Esh'real...
Esh'uriel... Eshurd-ay-I...
Jamowhe'... Ashanti E'yai...
Ashanti Ashanti Ashanti I...
This daylight does not live in a box of dreams. Selam Malen Kaye'm.
For surely the angel of light worships the dream.
Sela amo' I....
Ashanti I.
The color of feather.
Selah.
In truth (light) of light…
darkness falls.
Crimena is not committed until pentance is revealed.
The spirit of Peter (Pentecost) weighs the salvation of Selah.
Selahse' 'I"
Our King worships life
work for substance at the tree of life.
Shanti Lyre'… Ashanti Lyre’
A shanti... 'I'
The Prayer of Shame...
Our Change.
Azhasurea 'I'
Azhasuras.
For the measure of man has not chalice; the chaste' is not measured in another eye.
It is the spy Gabriel in the urn of the grail.
Uriel…
Gabriel…
Michiael…
Samiael…
Matisyaweih… Ehyre’
Eshre’I el… Eshurdae'i…
Danae'l… Eshurdae'i el
Selah Sela' se' amare' ah.
Amen.
There are two at two chali'. There are two at two chalices. Chali. Cali'. Californiael. The me'rcha'nt of war is walking backward out of the grail for chalice.
Shall I. Make Michiael a sword.
Or shall I make Michiael.
Ashanti I.
Amen.
California= Caliphas. Chi'el.
Ashure'Ire'.
My sword.
The earth found underneath the Prophet Daniel.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
Life: "There are days when we are open to beauty."
Some of them are not.
Life is a marvelous
Cat playing with
It's pray.
With us.
Praying.
For us?
Sometimes I love
To be taken
By it's sweet surprises.
Me thinks: "Taboos are there to remain intact!"
Tragically
Obedient
To the law
Of Attraction
We dance as infatuated
Dervishes dressed in trousers
Flowing forth. Toward each other's all pervading
Persistent exoplanets orbiting 'ur private passions: :
Knowing it' self, its potency
Penetrating our thoughts
Mighty male:
"Might
I
Satisfy You?"
I'm such
An obsolete
Amethyst, good for lucky charms and ready made domesticated potions.
Imploded desires rise and fall
Within the invisible canopy
Of our dreams and glances
Watch us!
They rise and fall
Magnetized
Elated Chalices
Rise and fall
Luminated
Fulfiled
Flawless
Unbreakable
Like legends
Love!!
Legends love to be loved
In silence
Of our hearts
Heard and ingrained
Deep within our souls.
In this modest mode I pretend to be
Bemused by little things tossing
And turning me around
Just to forget
your presence
And to remember
Your immortal spirit.
I yearn for you!
Surpressed passion is all I have;
And blue heaven arched upon
Spellbound portals. Sheer
Kan devour my hide in
Seek in the shade.
Moist
Of the first creative act
Blows the raven away
Along scented mahogany
At the modest shelter
Of our habitual insanity of
Sparks and stars
Bursting into
Flames. . .our
Suppressed desires. . .
Merging
~˘
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Salty tears
Slither like snakes in summer
Meandering moments of madness mused
Ratchet heart and rabid tongue retorts
Flimflam fluke fisticuffs fought
A mirrored mirage manically manifest
A parade of psychosis fevered pitch
Easy the embryo erased eternal
Gods grace given gone
Sanguine souls stand sequestered
A pitiful penitent they plead
A song of Solomon heralds
Cherubs on chariots
Carrying chalices crafted of gold
Seeks repentance refrained from sin
All souls suffer life myriad interpretations
And all
Must answer
In
The
End
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
The fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.
Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and ****** solitude,
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.
But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well--
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone--
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.
1.4k
Religion can be somewhat stygian
Often is as a matter of fact.
It isn’t all fluffy clouds and saints.
Like in their published tracts.
Not all of the promises made
Will ever come true for you.
The miracles they talk about
Are they facts? Very danged few.
Wail and sing hosanas
Hail to the golden calf.
How to tell who’s bananas?
Separate wheat from chaff?
Give lots of money to churches
Buy many more holy chalices.
We are such a poor country
With far two few golden palaces.
Remember all Christians are holy
No matter the evil they may do.
They just confess it on Sunday
And then they are better than you.
And even though Muslims all came
From the same book up to a point,
They are all heathens and hell bound
No righteous forehead to anoint.
Wail and sing hosanas
Hail to the golden calf.
How to tell who’s bananas?
Separate wheat from chaff?
Give lots of money to churches
Buy many more holy chalices.
We are such a poor country
With far two few golden palaces.
Nobody gets to go to heaven
Unless they are from the right church.
Anyone not in that category will,
The day of atonement, be left in the lurch.
Remember their god is wrathful
And will drown all your children for sure.
So, unless you are “washed in the blood”
You’re going to hell. There’s no cure.
Wail and sing hosanas
Hail to the golden calf.
How to tell who’s bananas?
Separate wheat from chaff?
Give lots of money to churches
Buy many more holy chalices.
We are such a poor country
With far two few golden palaces.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
soft seas of white
unbearable to the warmhearted
for crystal chalices are containers
frozen and unfeeling to the bitterness
numbed by this climate
and all wounds that freeze over
are lethal to **** in your heat
and for each spring that passes
i await my demise
but the winter before keeps me intact
i dare not walk in your summer
for surely that would be my end
so if you reach out to me, love
do not be crestfallen when i do not respond
for i poured my nature into your hollow
and was ambushed by your vacancy
i have been collapsed and discharged by your fears
for they mimic my own
and though i have cultivated my courage
you are still held back at the precipice of your qualms
to you i must seem manic
for i believe in love
i follow my heart
though it may lead to dark edges
but you, forlorn by your vigilance
stagger in your struggle to remain conscious
unaware that your wick has been cut loose
and failed to ignite the once blazing sparks of your brilliance
i pity your heat
for it has no place to burn
and soon, it too will wither into ash
and be set upon a pedestal that will restrain you there
in the glaciers that have become your keep
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
If with chalices of fine wine you are drunk, be delightful!
If lounged with a glamorous moonfaced, be delightful!
Since the end, the intention of this universe is nonexistence;
Thus image your oblivion, and then while you are, be delightful!
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Have you got it~
gathered together:
your thoughts
piercing
perplexed
lonely night wanderings~
marriage, friendship, stylish rings
sharing many flowers seen in all
throughout your life~
lusts, trusts,
broken, misplaced,
belongings frail
and fragile
emotions,
tears captured
in chalices
lean,
laughters
as stargeezery
enthusiasts glee-m~
in memory gathered all of
your lovers
$$$$$$$$$$
would be the
smallest
island on earth
big enough to put them on
to play them all bitter arbiter lonely times
and prepare for the unforgettable party!
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Sweet silver tongue
Builder of hope and of Nations undone
Whispers of light against the darkness beyond
Oppressive dictators, shackles of freedom with the tune of a hum
Hum sweet silver tongue, do you tire to be a rudder
Sailing your ship through the cracks of instability, tearing down a sister, or a brother
Setting up systems, to rob child from their mother
Foreign lands now discovered, shackled hands, the nations dollar
When you’re sitting in your palaces,
Sipping blood from your chalices, made from labour of your educated salve, indoctrinated ways, disseminated lies- made to believe these shackles are made to save
Sweet silver tongue, do you blame the throne or do you blame the song, do you blame the culture gifted from generations gone
Do you blame the man upon whom this title is on,
Or do you blame the nations lalaby to the newborn, “live for today, tomorrow may never come”
Price of admission
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 4:22 AM UTC
You gave us angels and demons
And no lessons on fighting evil
Except for us to pray
The demons away
And put angels please
On our Christmas trees.
You designed specious poetry
And insisted it was truth.
You corrupted our youth
With jealousy and hate
By teaching us natural
Was simply not natural.
You dressed in golden cloth
And in disgusting holy sloth,
You designed palaces
And bejeweled chalices
As you grew roley-poley
Then declared yourself holy.
You set up rules of sanctity
That you, in your insanity
Could never live up to
Not even come close to,
Because your image was not
Like the rules we have got.
A confidence game by scamsters
Who only want to be masters
Of a race of the gullible
And socially malleable.
Your morals are a mystery
Since the beginning of history.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
The Feast of the Epiphany This Year
If the Three Kings were to visit today
They’d need the proper paperwork
Passports and visas, and what is the purpose
Of your visit? A check through INTERPOL
A cavity search by rubbery hands
An escort armed with bribes and Kalashnikovs
Through tourists armed with me-phones, selfie sticks
And cardboard chalices, following a Starbuck’s
Searching the East for a wondrous ATM
If the Three Kings were to visit today
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
Build me with frostbite covering my heart, build me with a snowflake constantly falling from the roof of my mouth, build him with a yearning for cold weather. Let every person I miss for the next 20 years forget to return the favor.
I want to stick a panic room underneath the chalices in my palms so they aren't so timid once I hear you talk about wearing Sunday clothes when you had your first beer.
build me with gunslinger fingertips that touch and touch and touch and stay steady, build my footsteps with the sounds of a rainstorm knocking on the ground of an empty parking lot, build him out of prayers for a flood.
If I didn't bruise so easily, if I wasn't looking for a way to be made of a river, if I needed the silence to mean something, then I would ask you build me out of quiet kisses and vengeful goodbyes, I would need you to build me out of reasons to believe instead of reasons to be afraid, I would turn my kneecaps into strawberries in exchange for potter's hands so I could mold you a bulletproof spirit. I want to spend the rest of my life watching the clouds, I want to have a voice as steady an oak tree and I want to see the sun cry rays of light so hard that it beats the sky purple
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
The two muliebrity cater-cousin chalices of
Devil in a Bush and Love in a Puzzle;
Down there and Down below,
To keep the wolf from the door of a draconian code!
The heavenly twins on the pull to
Say ditto each losing one's heart to a
Love that dare not speak its name of
Passion and Desire drinking Pheobe's philtre-
Weltering the bride cake of the Middle
Gardens connubial consanguinity.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 3:59 PM UTC
there's a tremor whose fingers slide up my sternum when i'm with you
my heart stumbles in my cracked chest
out of the corner of my eye i see you swaying on saltwater sound
filling my lungs and stinging your throat with the dryness of almonds
the chord crests
you slip out of sight and i am seasick
there's a tremor whose fingers slide up my sternum when i'm with you
my heart stumbles in my taut throat
your right hand caresses chalices with the ghost of a graze
your left hand haunts your hair, denoting the declination of your neck
there's a void whose fingers walk down my back when i'm without you
my heart falls into my empty stomach
i am walking away with widowed dreams deemed deadly
you are walking away
there's a void whose fingers walk down my back when i'm without you
my heart falls into the chasm of my chest
sleep slips from my hands long after your silence
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
King and Queen of what do you think?
Power, riches and bottomless chalices
of wine to drink?
Perhaps all the above
but see
I think of love
I think of a princess
cursed by a witch
I think of the poisoned apple
snow white had bit
I think of the witch
with a hole for a chest
*her hearts gone amiss
See for her this curse is a test,
True love just doesn't exist
So all it takes is a kiss
If it to be true love then the curse shall remiss.
True love shall heal all no matter how sick
most see the hand of a princess
but to reach for is taking quite a big risk
True love sees those lips and dives head first so hers can meet his
You see with true love there's no possible way to resist
No matter how deep the pit, or dark the abyss
All is worth it, he found Bliss in her lips
A king and a Queen,
Their story of true loves first kiss*
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
The ancient gods have awaken,
They thirst for a drink of unimaginable power of wisdom...
Joy...
Terror...
Suffering...
IMMORTALITY...
Two chalices sit beside my throne.
On of pure gold from mighty mines.
Its called The wealth of gods
embeded rubys and emeralds...
broken colorful light bounces from the chalice and fills half of the room,
Slow glimmering blood drops of gods fall into it.
Everytime a drop hits the surface,
A blinding light strikes my eyes, it releases a powerful magic
And people of pure heart gather around and dwelve on its power and wisdom,
yet dare not touch it.
One made of the darkest obsidian,
It's name lost long ago.
Infused with purest kind of horrors
Hearts of the giant crows bleed in it,
The darkness grows stronger and never seizes to have a closure.
Around the dark all foul creatures gather,
Their houls would not stop,
They terrify the living,
No iternal rest for them.
In the middle I rest,
I will never get possesed.
I wont sleep as the gods fancy their drink.
And i must bring it to them as my punishment from gods themselves, because i serve the Dark Lord.
I enjoy their divinity...
Their wisdom...
And power...
Around my neck a heavy chain dangles,
On it's very tip a marble key,
It's my everything.
The key of destiny.
My dry boney fingers try to clasp it,
But its too far,
Destiny of the souls,
They are piling on me,
I cant shake them.
They are unstoppable.
Black wings on my back,
They feel like stone cold...
hard and heavy,
One swing and this doom is perished,
But i can not move them.
They are embeded onto my throne,
They will swing one more time.
My knuckless are bronze,
My feet goldish feathers,
My chest of platinum,
My blade from pure iron,
Thirsty for some red, red blood.
You can not defeat me.
Though I'm still weak,
Servants of god are powerful.
Once i fought for good,
I was a blood thirsty warrior,
A thing of myths and legends.
I had an old relic of power,
It kept me on the side of gods,
Yet evil always wins.
It took over me like a black cloud.
My soul darkened with every swing i took.
The mirror of fate was broken.
Now I am immortal and a heavy burden lies on my shoulders.
Evil always wins.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
I see blue fences full of holes
chalices of fire
on every corner
houses try to hide
disguising themselves as houses
this does not work
crowds gather
climbing through the holes
in the blue fences
they demand
that houses
disguised as houses
be demolished
and the bricks be thrown
through the holes
in the blue fences
this causes an uproar
not only from the houses
but also from the
aforementioned blue holes
now if you ever see
blue holes
stay well away
particularly if they have
been aroused to an
anger of any sorts
do not eat bananas
on a balcony in their presence
and never ever discard
peel with a blatant disregard
to a disturbance of consciousness
in the universe
which is only adorable to the grotesque
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC