"cleanest" poems
Poetry is like a *****
in its wobbly, dangly freeness
(This poems not the cleanest so stop reading if you're a little squeamish)
Some have it, some don't
some use it, some won't
some like it awkward with a twist at the end
like a shakespearean couplet but on the person it depends
for others its merely secondary
(oh but always necessary)
to the holder - their Mars or Venus
So, as god is my witness,
poetry is a *****
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
I have been in skin of wolf all my kitten life
Your sister is getting an attack, help her surrender
Your ****** is bleeding
Save the world red
Unite the blood of Eve and perform monthly
have daily routine of keeping melanated to the cleanest groom
oil your crown
oil your skin
wash your bedding
do your thing
have it your way
you are royal
you are royal
bow your head
give thanks
and conquer
I have been in the skin of wolf all my kitten life
never little
never naïve
never broken
a shapeshifting ******
with eyes of enchanting love and paws that hold power
of goddesses and queens before I
spoke myself into reality
wrapped with stars on my spine and the moon and mars as my eyes
I have always seen the wolf inside my kitten skin all my life
wrapped in grace some call it woman
wrapped in mastery some call god
allah
Adonai
Mother Mary
Anetha
Medunsa
surrendered to love,
fully submitted into intuition.
I am every. I am all.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
Spiders spin webs to catch files
They tell their prey lies
They may be flirty
But they are not *****
In fact, they are the cleanest of guys
My sisters all scream
But, that's in my dreams
Because no sisters have I
Spiders are seductive and smart
They make their own art
But they only spin webs to catch flies
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
I was once a boy who believed in words dipped in magic
Carefully coated with sugar
From a distance, they shimmered
whispered fog in its wake
surgically dipped into your heart at hummingbird speed
these sweet tender words were easy to swallow
however leaves a burning hole in your chest once it finds shelter in your body.
Even though your lips produced sweet words
I could never get the sour taste out of my mouth
The most you could have done was give me something to wash it down with:
the leftover tears in Samantha Thompson’s eyes
above Wedgefield’s polluted night sky
somewhere in the middle of an empty field inside his pickup truck
between the words I’m and Sorry
the cleanest and most deceitful of them all
I doubted every word.
I never cared much for the empty spaces between the lines of college-ruled paper
They are only meant to be filled with even emptier phrases
If I could, I wouldn’t fill in any spaces in the time we were together
It would only make our story much more incredulous
Adding more would make us less real.
Two hearts in love need no words
but in reality, you did most of the talking
The ***** blanket of faith
is a cocoon of words shared only between you and him.
We, however, were alien to this Earth
We dissolved amongst the shadows of light
produced from lampposts, only to be thrown back into the light
whether or not you wanted to show me who you really were
You always fancied yourself in artificial lighting compared to natural lighting
Fearing the natural light would show the colors you only kept to yourself.
Lovebug ran to each light as quickly as he could
for these lampposts can only cover so much of the unknown
We’ll be together forever
He ran to each one until he was alone
Until he couldn’t find himself
Each shadow that was passed before can be seen, traced
however his new reflection is indiscernible
You can try your hardest to look into dry puddles
only to find something that is not so concrete.
The only words worth believing in are the ones that are burnt slowly afterward
Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.
But no matter how much the lampposts grow taller,
or how the spaces between ruled-paper continue to dance, the word
love will always be the easiest word to swallow
but the hardest to digest once it rots in the thick of your stomach.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Absence of imagination,
the End of independent thought.
Cities reek of corruption, ******
and the greatest of sins.
They raise and **** in
by the millions
yet onlysome men
seem to win.
Glorious eyes
of curve-free posters
used as wallpaper
for the cleanest streets.
Looking up
to their Father
all good citizens
try to weep
the plain and empty tears
the Party demands
them sheep.
Maybe it will soon end,
but I'm never able to trust us men;
maybe weeks will tell,
but I still can't seem to hear a bell
Inside the people's empty homes,
Fathers, sons left alone.
Big Brother dominates,
he commands,
a billion voices
in one hand.
Behind the money lies the pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets
walk the road
a thousand stories
left untold.
Blood can be found on every street,
death and life here meet.
Maybe it'll someday end,
but I'm never able to trust us men,
maybe years will tell;
but I still can't seem to hear a bell.
A hungry stomach calls for meat,
rotting, green, foul or sweet.
Rank food from the kitchens,
will be served,
millions of peoples
have reserved.
Between the alleys at the mass
the cross’s shadow isn't cast.
Those booklets burn easy,
use them well,
let vain ideas
fry in hell.
Maybe it's will oneday end,
but I'm never able trust us men.
maybe our grandhildren
shall one day know,
Their grandeparents wept
but did not
sow.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
i.
the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like
us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.
ii. (at the dinner table)
there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down
back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn
and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs
and the japanese
iii.
my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****
city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they
used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.
your grandfather and his grandfather and i
iv.
awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew
up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts
and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.
v. (back at the dinner table)
i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,
preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:
“pa,”
“ma,”
v.
it is not cowboys that give us our names.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Was there a time when dancers with their fiddles
In children's circuses could stay their troubles?
There was a time they could cry over books,
But time has set its maggot on their track.
Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.
What's never known is safest in this life.
Under the skysigns they who have no arms
Have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost
Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best.
3.2k
'Cause ***** words
nasty and ****** words
are the cleanest of expressions.
For they have the ingredient of naked truth.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
You want me to talk, Sir?
I’d relax and you can paint better, Sir?
Maybe, Sir…maybe, but what shall I say, Sir?
For I am not used to talking
to important people like you, Sir…
Why do you laugh, Sir?
It is true, I’m just a girl from the village, Sir
attending to Laxmi and Ganga –
those are our family cows, Sir;
and I milk them; and my father
and I bring the milk to the market
and to neighbors who can afford to pay for them…
We don’t carry them in these fancy pots Sir,
you make me pose with
but just earthen jars, Sir…
But this morning, Sir, my father said to me:
*Come, Mina – you shall pose for a famous artist;
India has never seen such an artist
and he shall pay well
and perhaps with that I shall buy a third cow;
three neighbors owe us money
and will never return them in this life;
and the old woman in the sixth house has died
owing us money for these last four years…
You just have to stand there
before the artist in your cleanest sari
and use borrowed milk pots…*
And that is what my father said, Sir…
I normally don’t dress in such clean clothes, Sir;
the saris I have are saris my mum used
but she died when I was little, Sir…
Sir? You want me to keep talking…but I am boring, Sir
and I talk simple words and I am sure you’ve heard…
Oh Sir, I’m more used to talking to cows
than important men, Sir…
All right Sir, I will tell you…I will tell you…
I do have dreams, Sir
and it is just the dream of all the
girls in my village:
I’d like new saris and jewels
and I’d like to be married
before the year ends;
Arun from the next village
always looks at me
in our town fairs
and Oh, would that he’d marry me
and we’d have a home and a farm and cows
and we’d have children
and we’d live our quiet lives
in our secluded village…
Sir, that is my dream…I have nothing more to say, Sir…
I hope you are done…
Or maybe you should talk, Sir…
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:55 PM UTC
The coffee cups are *****
But it’s the cleanest way
To drink whiskey here.
The barman lost half his right fingers
To a wood chipper in his early 20’s
And spent the rest of his adult life
Flipping the world off.
He got it down to a fine art
By the time I showed up.
He didn’t smile when I ordered my drink.
He didn’t smile at all.
The jukebox hasn’t changed
For two stagnant decades
And most everyone but the regulars
Are too scared to use it.
It’s the same rotation
Of Elvis,
Muddy Waters,
BB King,
John Coltrane,
And early Bruce Springsteen.
Not a woman in sight
But every song is about them
And we are all here
Because of them.
Certain patches of carpet
Have not seen a crack of light
Since the Berlin Wall fell.
Nothing changes here but the customers-
And that change is incremental at best.
The same filthy etchings over
The same filthy cubicle doors.
The same Cherokee Indian
Smoking a Cuban Cigar
In the heartland of America.
I can’t find myself here
But there is no feeling of loss.
There is no profundity in anything here.
Just squalor
And enjoying one’s squalor.
I think that is what it means
To be truly happy.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
***** is the only language I know
Burning brightens anguish that grows
Like the blinding light the sun shows
A star providing life
While simultaneously burning me
As I dream of turning free
Floating here I sail a sea
Of words that hurt
And kick up dirt
Of actions that keep stacking
Of factions that keep attacking
Of agency that I'm lacking
To change any of these things
Or the sorrow they bring
The sun's assault through trees
Scorches the dirt off of me
In a world on fire
Incinerators are the cleanest places
In a hateful empire
Interpreters are unwelcome faces
And we continue to count the paces
Until we master mudslides
And we continue to erase the traces
Of our humanity under dirt
We live in this sandstorm
Brought by man's scorn
We attempt to grow corn
But the dusty fields remain barren
When the sun that used to activate photosynthesis
Now burns all the young seeds to a crisp
The seeds are now manufactured
As people wait for the rapture
Unable to see salvation starts here on Earth
And it starts with us cleaning up dirt
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 7:57 AM UTC
The condensation slowly begins
To eat a hole in
The cotton of my jeans
And I've been through this enough
To know
I'm not alone in it
But I can't help but feel empty.
The dripping grass emits it's gasses
filling the air with the sweet smell of
freedom and October;
The plants releasing their last breath into the world
before the snow comes
and brings death upon us all.
Even in this facade of freedom I feel trapped
Caging myself within the confines of a small
One-bedroom apartment that's supposed to be "home".
The soaking corpses of thriving flowers
and the sweet tickle of chirping crickets
are drowned out by the overwhelming sadness
that's begun to overthrow my lungs,
echoing throughout my limbs as it
sloshes through my eardrums and soaks my shoes
Dear god, why am I still hurting?
It's been 9 years and I still can't escape.
This depression has stolen every last part of me.
Until it's all I have left.
And yes, out here, I feel free
Away from the judgement
Where no one can touch me
Connected with the Earth
Simply observing all that surrounds me.
And of course I can hide from my anxiety
But even feeling the cleanest sand between my feet
And deafening my mind with these crashing waves around me
I can't run from the demons eating at the tatters of my soul
Because they will find a way to lure me back in
To disconnect me from the beauty that surrounds me
Leaving me dying alone on the cold, dark concrete
that lines my broken memories
Bleeding out these sins until I no longer feel empty
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
You're good for me like penicillin.
But I haven't popped enough of you yet.
Sightings of you as rare as an eagle,
The rare occasion I feel like a human.
Your purity is beyond belief,
like the cleanest **** on the street,
Your skin is the smoothest white marble
You're like renaissance art
I would quit all of my bad habits
just for a day in your presence
I wouldn't need another sip of *****
or sweaty fumbling in the back of a car
How do I tell you how I'm feeling
With a keytar and shaker at your door?
Could I win a joust for you?
I would invent electricity if I could.
But that's it, you demigoddess
You're boarding now a flying syringe
******* the life of me with every inch
What's blood for if not for spilling?
To me, you are perfect, love
A hologram i'm not allowed to touch
My tangled heart with stay right here
and pump occasionally for you my dear
10.13.12 1:20 AM
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
For years I’ve had marbles tucked in my mouth,
Different colored weights that pulled on my glands, on secret saliva.
For years I’ve had marbles in my mouth and I forgot to spit them out or hide them away so I let them become permanent placements in my always-cavities; soon they even slipped so easy into my bloodstream.
The black ones made me say yes too often.
The reds made me want to bleed.
The blues made me cry, obviously. They stood guard on my tear ducts, deciding when and how to show emotion. They didn’t let me cry that night. They didn’t let me cry for months. Now I am crying almost everyday, and I am shooting those blue marbles straight to the moon; I’ve had it with avoiding emotion every day of my life.
The yellows made me want to forgive you, made me want to **** on sunshine, made me want to clamber into your mother’s arms, let her know that it wasn’t your fault. The yellows are ********
The cat eyes have me avoiding eyes with every man on the street, so sure they will spit out words that they expect me to lap up like milk with an easy grin, tail twitching for attention. The cat eyes have me distrustful, have me always knowing it could happen again.
The rainbows loosened my tongue, had me admit secret sexualities, let me march in parades and kiss girls, had me falling over myself tripping into love.
I’m not sure who this poem is for anymore, or what it’s even about. The doctors say I have the cleanest bloodwork they’ve seen in a while, I don’t ask them about the marbles. They refer to some of them as disordered.
I’m not sure if they’re marbles anymore, I think they’re just me,
and I’m sorry I’m getting off-track, the marble in my hand right now is glitter and sparkle and confusion and I’m trying so hard to stay put.
Give me the orange ones, the fire, ones that looks like Mars
or Jupiter.
Give me two moons, or maybe sixty-six.
Give me a giant ladder.
This is about running away.
This is about playing with your marbles
and learning everything about them
and staying put.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 5:11 AM UTC
(Dedicated to my mother, Juna Marie Nagley- happy mother's day momma!!!)
O' Màthair, Màthair, from whence I birthed.
Best friend, mine Angel, mine guide; Disguised
As a lady at birth; it's from thine womb from
Whence I arrived, this is a thanking thee, to
A flawless seraph, mine Màthair, mine Màthair-
To thee; whom do I compareth?
Anglamotharia, thou hath always met mine need's,
When mine knee was scraped, and when I got sick;
Thou wouldst alway's protecteth me. Eyne blue as
The sea's, hair blonde as the street's thou hath
stemmed from, Anglamotharia-Jehovah's chosen
One, mine host of host's, guardian from the ghost's
Who always tried to hurt thy own son.
Anglamotharia, from whence I am from-
Latha màthair math; angelic one.
(Second part is a mothers day dedication to my mother in law Evangeline sardua- Earl Jane sardua my Queens mother....)
Adlaw Malipayon inahan, dearest mother-in-law, the Apple to Jane's vision, hardworking, gentle-calm. I thankest thee for showing Jane the right way's; the way's of God, the way's of love, O' heaven knoweth thy name.
Adlaw Malipayon inahan, woman who knoweth none time, for thine family is thy priority; thou cookest and cleanest, thy labor hath heavied over time, mayest the Lord bless thee and keep thee, and the Lord make His face shine upon thee. And be gracious to thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee,
And give thee peace. Mayest thine abode be a blessing from Mount malindang-west unto East. Mayest Yeshua guideth thy feet to where dangerous travels cometh and goeth. Mayest the word of God always from thy mouth appear and floweth. Mayest this mother's day, be a remembrance to thee, Evangeline; thy love hath not been forgotten, this is mine gift and thanking to thee.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©mothers day dedication to two special mother's ( Evangeline Sardua, janes mother, and dedication to my mother juna Marie Nagley, ) happy mother's day to both of you and may God shine his face upon you!!! With love Brandon!!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Now
I posted a poem or two
which grabbed the eyes
of a dozen or so
like glue;
but now I’d like someone to tell me
what I should do
1
I mean,
I got a few followers, right…
*“Latenight ****** started following you”*
said the notice from the website;
and: “ Moonface at Window started following you”
but I got no comments from the followers
so I have no idea what sort of people they are -
and now, hey, I’m so afraid of all these followers
(these Moonies and Loonies)
I constantly look back over my shoulders
to see if they are following me
And everywhere I go
every other person looks so sus
and when I’m out
(wont to water more often, as it happens at my age)
I visit public toilets (McDonald’s is often cleanest)
and I get this feeling
(deep down in me)
my followers are hiding
in the ceiling
watching me
dadadidado –
But please, O don’t look down on me!
And the rest of you decent people -
will you please tell me what to dadadidado?
2
And look,
I got all these likes -
which is good, right?
“Pimply Whanker liked this”
***** TouchBottom liked this”*
is all it says
And don’t you hate it
when they don’t leave a comment? –
And now, I’ll never know
what it is they liked…
Can someone fix me right -
what should I dadadidado??
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
my teeth hurt in Winter
the beginning of Winter for sure
a fantastic ache
even when the wind sits
even the cleanest breaths
draw hard on my chest
but my heart still draws on the beauty
invites stillness to meet stillness
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 8:58 PM UTC
It's not the docile who are the most peaceful
It's not the quiet who make the best mothers
And it's not the pilgrims who make the finest believers
For, the blade is not the only part of the sword
Only part of the sword, ooh hoo....
It's not the poets who pose the deepest questions
It's not the enemy that you have to fear
And it's not enough people who live in cleanest conscience
For, the string is not the only part of guitar.
Only part of guitar, ooh hoo....
Refrain:
Beware even the blunt side of the sword
Beware even the blunt side of the sword!
Oh, you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword.
Only part of the sword, ooh hoo....
It's not the animals who are the uncivilised ones
And it's not in the light that you get to know yourself
And it's not up to you to decide the life that I live
For the heart is not the only part of me.
Only part of me......
It's not the well-spoken who speak the most wise words
It's not the sufferers alone who feel the pain and anguish
And it's not the have-it-alls who really have it all
And the Eiffel Tower's not the only thing in Paree.
Only thing in Paree.....
And you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword....
Oh, you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword.
Star Toucher, Feb 2013
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
*I am the cleanest, most thoughtful
Most caring one around that I know
Not giving one selfish desire my time,
Only hard working, dedicated and here
To be there to keep things in line,
So feel free to give me extra criticism,
To make me "walk on egg shells,"
I try so hard, I'm just so poor,
But who cares, I'm the worst because
Of some stupid argument at a door.*
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
Each morning, the earth and sky meet,
At first lightly touching, eventually adjoining,
And finally presenting a blend of color,
A spectrum of pink, orange, and gold…
In all their glory.
The trumpets sound, signifying a new day,
Unlike every other, yet it is still Monday.
It seems the birds and insects congregate,
Preparing an intricate symphony,
An orchestra of billions of noises,
Each his own.
And still no one knows
Who has danced upon the grass,
Sprinkling flawless, spherical drops
Of water, frosted with glittering crystal,
Onto the earth on which we walk,
That seems so common by ten ‘o clock.
And shameful, I feel at times
When I miss the air at its cleanest
By an hour or two, or more;
When I miss the symphonic chirps,
The dampened grass and rainbow sky,
I am mournful.
Thought it seems I always recall
The orchestra performs again tomorrow
Around the time of dawn.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 10:39 AM UTC
Still, it really doesn't matter,
After all, who wins the flag.
Good clean sport is what we're after,
And we aim to make our brag
To each near or distant nation
Whereon shines the sporting sun
That of all our games gymnastic
Baseball is the cleanest one!
Anonymous. 10/29/2016.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
all winter housed in the yard. Fed
the freshest silage, the cleanest water.
All the nuts they could eat.
But they’d hang their heads by the gate,
longed for earth between their hooves.
Hard to run giddy on concrete
between confining walls.
Eventually beaten with hurlies
and a black pipe
onto the back of a truck.
5 heifer hang from hooks.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 2:14 PM UTC
I grabbed a passing breeze,
Like a word,
in a thought.
There was a weathered salt,
An old storm,
in it's taste.
Our Souls are the finest wine,
Exquisite caliber.
The color coded gravity,
After ignition.
It is the brainwaves,
Sending us in search,
Of what we already have.
Gold to the cleanest degree,
An ancient myth,
Symbols of life,
The beginning.
Flawless musical keys merge,
The initiations,
Were only for dreamwalkers.
Eyes of Pharaohs,
Hands of Saints.
Our souls are the closest thing,
To God.
The most exquisite caliber,
Of needle & thread.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC