"compasses" poems
O Geometry,
How I loathe the,
with thy prisms and proofs,
and thy figures and formulas,
and thy compasses and conjectures!
Why must thou require such mental strain?
- Wait,
What's that you say?
Calculus next?
O my dearest Geometry,
How I adore thy common sense and logic-based nature!
How I dread the day when we shall be forced to part!
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
i.
Beset next to me
Coadjuvant to mine need's;
I couldst not asketh for more
Mine Reyna's all do I believeth.
ii.
She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies
Her suntanned dermis is momentous;
Wallowed in her oversea's memories
A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented.
iii.
In Luzon, the older part of the firma
Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's;
Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour'
To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's.
iv.
Covered head to toe
By these inked protection's;
Spelling out the word's
Brandon and Jane's resurrection.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Moored to the same ring:
The hour, the darkness and I,
Our compasses hooded like falcons.
Now the memory of you comes aching in
With a wash of broken bits which never left port
In which once we planned voyages,
They come knocking like hearts asking:
What departures on this tide?
Breath of land, warm breath,
You tighten the cold around the navel,
Though all shores but the first have been foreign,
And the first was not home until left behind.
Our choice is ours but we have not made it,
Containing as it does, our destination
Circled with loss as with coral, and
A destination only until attained.
I have left you my hope to remember me by,
Though now there is little resemblance.
At this moment I could believe in no change,
The mast perpetually
Vacillating between the same constellations,
The night never withdrawing its dark virtue
>From the harbor shaped as a heart,
The sea pulsing as a heart,
The sky vaulted as a heart,
Where I know the light will shatter like a cry
Above a discovery:
"Emptiness.
Emptiness! Look!"
Look. This is the morning.
8.4k
I wish that I
was filled with stars
intricate, intimate arrays
to guide me to the edge
of myself and beyond
my soul
the brightest
in a unique constellation
of my naming
my love
many-hued nebula
expanding
to fill the void
my losses
supernovas
both beautiful
and tragic
But I am not
celestial
earth-bound
I must navigate
by stroke of skin
whiff of memory
trace of sadness
night vision
rudimentary compasses
in a sea of misunderstanding.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
There's a magnetism -
in the air, in the ground, in the eyes of the sun,
keeping gravity in check with the mind of the sun
to keep things in order with the heart of the sun -
outside of structure, inside of paradox -
circles, circles, circling the cosmos with blank maps and directionless compasses
Writing, writing, writing - to collect a volume of love and work and truth and play -
seeking nothing more than meaning, an answer to the eternal enigmas
- why? - how? - what is this? - who am I?
Coming up empty as a begger's hands
and as rich as the poorest soul inside the palace of enlightenment -
silent solitude in the meditation of the sun,
inner exploration through the thoughts of the sun,
exploiting the strength of the light of the sun -
all to gain a following of selfless knowers -
all flowing along the river empty endless,
holding together through the magnetism,
Praying for salvation come the other side of this life,
the Heaven, the Garden, the Utopian dream
The magnetism - unexplainable electron of consciousness -
the Universal It - the All in the One - the Whole -
the Source and the Body,
circles, circles, circling in orbit the mathematical patterns of Being,
within the question of the answer,
within the definition of "nothing", where nothing is still something -
Let gravity fall where it may, just as love hunts its prey
As law holds flaccid in the court of Cosmic Direction,
The hearts beat stronger during resistance than in times of rest -
pulled into existence past the veil of illusory doubt through magnetism -
That taste of creation, grand awesome beauty within delicate fingers,
playing piano silent in halls of endless imagination - infinity.
There's a magnetism - everywhere, there's a magnetism.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
an aerosol angel with college-ruled wings
and paint stained fingertips
stranded in a sea of pigmentation
lately, she's been feeling out of place
not all compasses point due north
a parrot in a sea of sharks
who's never learned to sail
they're selling tickets to the shit-show on the shore line
catch the half priced sunday matanee
save the date
a trapeze ******* with a choke hold on the universe's coat tails
tap dancing through star charts and love poems at the pace of lightning's strike
some failures just have to be public
if lessons are to be learned
the prettiest ballerinas aren't afraid to fall
she's learned the hard way to find beauty in skinned knees
strength in stubbed toes
and faith in a broken heart
no point in dressing up, honey
prince charming doesn't frequent freak shows
he's an arrogant flake, anyway
her best bet is a strong man
or a fire breather
when looking for a boy to bring home
one man to bare her burdens
and another to scortch the wreckage of what's left
careful what you wish for
butterflies the size of funnel cakes shake her rib cage to pieces
silver confetti on pitted pavement
he looked so handsome beneath the neon lights
horrified and ecstatic all at once
like a lost boy in neverland
scanning the crowd of strangers for any possible princess tiger lillie's
someone to ride alongside on the ferris wheel all night
untill the sheriff shines his flashlight down the path that points them home
alone
but handsome boys know little about matters other than themselves
so she's gotten good at feeling bad
it's time to find a man
someone who can build things instead of just break them
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
’Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th’ other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows ***** as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
2.7k
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Red faced and wasted
I saw you naked
And fell in love
With your ancient body
Gone is the impulse to run
And all i can do now
Is to write simply
Lies and truth
Mixed together
Like oil and vinegar
We are fumigating
Our own bodies
Remove these carbon copies
And quietly daydream
About the faces of lost
Summer lovers
Fundraisers say goodbye
To yesterday's vacations
Just as we long to cry
We catch ourselves
Smiling for a moment
What do the turtles wish to communicate
Are we awake in our shells
Or have we fallen into the spell of limitation
Consternation and ************
Facts and figures receive their adulation
While we attract only tender triangulations
Please finish up your investigation
I blame you for instigating this comedy
A catalyst of abomination and dichotomy
Which followed me into retirement
Let's give banquets back to the government
And return to ancient lands
Devoted to camels and drunken apologies
It's apocryphal
Pornographic phantasmagoria
Fantastic fan-fictions
Describing sacredly sadistic rituals
Glorious duality
Radically alters our expectations
Yet manages to satisfy your frustrations
In dissimilar situations
We liberate our agitation and consternation
Over magazines and barnacles
We are more conspicuous
Than an empty gap in the sky
Made by two constellations
Taking a long vacation
Intrepid sailors raise their sails
And navigate by stars and compasses
Renaissance dancers are porous instigators
They initiate our imitations
We dream of political sovereignty
To remediate these tragedies
I breathe warfare and cleanse the air
Of apathetic non-negotiaters
Harboring criminals like butterflies
Sometimes the means do justify your eyes
Targets never argue
And bullets never lie
Finances and fiancées
Certainly have some value
Yet we underrate our skies
Miles of lost continents
Drift out from your skin
We begin an embargo
Hoping in the future we will win
Metaphysical furniture
Effects the state of mind you're in
The record players turned down
But you heat me up to begin
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
each morning the light leaks through my bedroom,
beautifully caressing our sheets, the spots where we lay,
cherishing the creases where you rest your weary head,
i often catch myself leaning in to hold you close,
only to be without what always brought solace.
my dearest girl, i find you in the light,
maps intertwined with your smile,
and compasses in your embrace,
you are the calm after the storm,
you are the light that brings me home.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
Like a bird
We have a lot depending on
the right direction.
But Unlike it
We have too many doubts
and questions.
Spread your wings
but don’t span out nervously.
God gave moral compasses
to Guide us personally.
Never be afraid
to go and do your best.
Keeping pulling straws
until you’ve built your nest .
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
Departure!
Raise the anchor
and raise the sail
Now the wind blows
Two compasses
inside of me
turn their lights on
The first one tells
where to go
by private signals
The second one
interprets the stories
from the sun, stars, sea, and the wind
Decoding the two
from inner voice
and from the world
I decide
to turn the prow
adventure is there
How big the sea
Can't resist
the wind and waves in front
By drifting
and grounding
learned from the past
But being friends
with wind and waves
weaving own rhythm
New route appears
in each moment
to an unknown world
Seeing the land
lower the sail
and descend the anchor
Earth fertilises
the sailor's soul
to go back to the sea
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 12:17 PM UTC
There is a place where the birds go
When the air grows heavy
And it is not South
It is here that I will find you
When the dust has settled
You say you want to sing my bones electric
You want to whistle from the rafters of rainclouds
Become the weight of the rain
The kind that only comes
After the locusts have gone
And we are all waiting for something new
To keep us inside
This century was the moment
In your late-night lunch break
When you got so close to the end of your cigarette
That you wish you’d left the filter on
We are one race with seven billion shotguns signaling GO
Still we spin
Like tornadoes in plastic bottles
Cursing hands and the landfills we all fall into
Eventually
We might stumble into sanity
And mistake it for a honeybee sting
Resurrection
Is breaking past the parasitic anchors
In your skin
Propaganda over-fishing
Sinking 5th dimension realities
Into yesterday’s tomorrow
I will dig you out of this town until my fingernails are black from trying to touch every color at once
Hold me steady like September
The birds do not need compasses
But I do
You asked to leave the lights on
That night on the forest floor
The canopy rising and falling in the rhythmic breath of night
Tracing a circuit on the inside of my spine
The curve that proves that
We do not belong in boxes
With straight edges
Learning to breathe does not become easier the second time around
Catch my breath in a butterfly net
Send it back priority
In some other city
You spend the night with my footsteps
I spend the night folding swans out of your conscience
Jimeny-cricket style
There is a place where the birds go
When the air grows heavy
And it is not South
It is here that I will find you
When restlessness tempts you to fade
See you in my sleep
See you breathlessly awake
And shaking at the pearly gates
Because excuses were the birds
That flew from your chest
when you put regret to rest
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
compasses, clocks, knives, are useless now.
clues, few.
coffinlike rooms full of certain exclamations,
4am empty train stations full of dangling questions.
selected memory, particularly of being
cruel to love. character,
existence, poetry, it all becomes layered
like crime novels.
blurred and unblurred,
in stained-rag mind, faces and places and
the theme,
tense, it is an age
where nothing begins and i myself begin to
(be) mean
many other things
in addition to what i say.
"what is the meaning of this?"
"i don't know."
"what should we do?"
get jilted again, spiral drunk, die on the
floor, bored, playing
sick,
i don't know.
"been there,
done that,"
it's a slow slowing and a trying to forget,
hands dirtier, shards smaller.
i don't even know if
this was an accident?
through climaxes and comedowns,
still carrying clouds
around; to cash the check, to the party,
to the pharmacist,
to the burial ground,
craving a reason to go hungry.
god, how big are your hands
god, will tomorrow be better
god, what have i done, what can i do, how
the more i remember
the more i just remember the young day
i had screamed so hard for so long at the unanswering rain
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
After Summer
Autumn is always brushed
Under the carpet
Like a half-baked afterthought
Before the Winter arrives
With its blanket
Of snow-rolled blues.
At the beginning of Autumn
There is a hesitation
In the breeze
Before the clouds
Darken the sky
And poison us slowly
With mustard gas.
There is a sadness
In the half-cut sun
Flickering once more
Before the clouds
Carry the sun away
Like a funeral director
As an ornament
Of a mystery
Dying with a silent scream,
Before setting their
Compasses north
Never to be seen again.
(Previously published on http://static.inexsilio.com/pdf/2013_spring.pdf)
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
let's talk about curiosity. let's talk about gas burners and sidewalk cracks and how there are french towns in canada where people who don't know each other greet each other with a kiss on each cheek. this is a collection of all the things you knew would hurt and then did them anyways but made sure i was looking. like all those kisses and trips to petco and looking at me from the drivers side-- don't take your eyes off the road, you'll end up like the rest of them did. let me tell you about how my favorite sounds include the following: crickets, gas burners lighting, coffee brewing, and you on the last train to god knows where but the train is coming soon. i can hear the trembling carts on the railway and i can hear you and your voice sounds like getting drunk off wine and witty jokes, sounds like the mantra of "temptation" but in the most subtle way as if i'd mistake it for something holy just to see if you'd notice, sounds like an epiphany i've waited too long to hear, sounds like every "let's talk about it" and "you look alluring" and "i just couldn't help myself" put into one. but mostly. this is what you're going to have to sit down for, because i won't repeat it. does perpetual comfort exist at your train seat? even when i'm not there? does she sit next to you? or is all the spilled tea pooling at my feet explanation enough? i won't repeat it. not even to the sidewalk cracks or the broken compasses or the birds or the torn down bus seat behind ours or into your voicemail. i won't. especially not into your voicemail. because here it is:
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
You are fading jeans again
Try ripping them to shreds by skinning your knees
Try to squeeze blood out of stone-wash
You just crumple and fall on me love
Tired and trapped in denim
Too many buckles and buttons and zippers
But in freedom you do nothing more than drape over the sofa
Love in compasses you, freshly laundered.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
You are searching for stability,
As the ground starts to shake violently,
To settle down,
You hold on firmly to your base,
Burying maternal strength, like a ship striking its anchor.
Ignorance sought for what has been anchored, for centuries only to be obscured.
In the eye of the hurricane,
I stand with you,
Estranged from one another,
Yet having the same escutcheon; أمي.
It is she who taught us how to lace our shoes,
Who taught us how to walk,
Using the heart as our ultimate compass.
Ignorance transfixed the compasses of our brothers and sisters,
in order to make us wander off.
Don't they know?
We shared the same womb,
Even if we don't share the same name.
It is our vision,
With which we maintain our reverberation.
His ignorance did not recall the ground on which he tried to march.
Nor was he able to understand that her compass was not born,
To be destroyed.
Like an unbreakable ship,
She is equipped with unprecedented durability.
Once again,
Not to be destroyed.
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 4:23 PM UTC
Lost in my chiaroscuro world
I cannot be followed
No-one knows my secret language
No-one knows my passwords
or my frames of reference
Everything said, is coded.
In desperate times
speech becomes pure sound
rhythmic and completely foreign
People can make out words
but they have no context
George, Jean, Martin
Arthur, Margaret
Names like rays on a compass
They were my world
of visible magnetic forces
I could no more abandon them
than rearrange the continents.
But you can learn
when the old geography
is too painfully familiar
not to abandon it
But simply invent
a country of your own.
A landscape beyond maps,
compasses and sextant
Beyond a dictionary
of common usage
and invented diction.
You can search
but the unseen
patterns of dreaming
are as easy to find.
Isolated, distant
language fractures
and returns to you
words are breaking the barrier reef
an exile in a shadow land.
The damage grows inside
sensed but unseen
seeping into crevices like moss
and lichen gripping
spreading and creeping
a spiked vine
flaring down to the tongue.
© M.L.Emmett
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
Have I not made myself clear?
Because each day the slate I write upon seems wiped clean
And my words read by your eyes have fallen to the same fate
I am brought to my knees once again, legs battered and weaker than before
Weakened furthermore by your considering my voice unworthy of being graced with your hearing
This cycle is far from clear and circular
For your words cut through the curves taking the line elsewhere
Creating a maze of countless spirals forced by feigned confusion and diversion of ill intent
You have loyalty to your commander and keep disguises already known in play
Believing your presence proves fidelity and earns trust
But I am not lost in this web of manipulation
Just disoriented in your maps of honor and intention
But My hands still bear the route i follow
The lines compasses leading me honestly back on course
While the map you bear is no more than unreadable markings that you claim direction
Once the lines alike mine were visible
But with constant trampling and pressing of fingers
All that is left is a dark mound
Corpses of lifelines that are no longer followed
Yet still you spend time making pictures out of linear denial
But I see reality, despite your claims of my insanity
You hold nothing but ruins
But continue to stare and declare its superiority
fingers alone cannot rebuild your kingdom
The decay grows and your roads to heavenly future diminish
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
When I heard the words that I had never hoped to hear,
"I'm on a path that you did not imagine,"
I trembled in the darkness growing near;
A green and deathly sickness grew within.
I can sense the Sirens' call to prayers unholy:
"Come dance the daring dances;
Sing the songs the sinners sing,
Defy the order of the stars to fling your flings,
And shake your ***** fists in pent-up rages,
Deny the structures of eternal ages;
Pervert the holy orders present at the birthing of the universe."
Does saying what is real is not or what is not is real
Change anything beyond the choice of action?
(Some would argue that the proof is in the consequence.)
Can mass opinion or the way a person feels
Change laws immutable: gravity's pull or magnetic attraction?
(Even theologians teeter now upon a wobbly fence).
If mass opinion moral laws can change
(Some critical percent of all believers
Taken in a poll believe the cannibals were right;
Please pass John's head there on that platter),
Then nothing stable really can exist.
When data-driven compasses redefine the laws,
When best practice comes from mass opinions,
We lose abilities to know ourselves as climbing up
Or scuttling down the ladders of Existence,
Confuse the benefits or dooms of consequential Ends.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
He cranes tiredly over folds of parchment
As sunlight falls across his ashen features
And the restless night becomes lost
Within a sea of fading maps and broken compasses.
Worn pencils collect on hardwood like dust,
And discarded errors in calculation fall into the corners.
He stumbles weakly between varying levels of consciousness,
And exhaustion claims an inch more of his body
With each exasperated flutter of his eyelids.
He spins the globe to his right with a lazy hand
And catches Africa with his finger
Wishing that he could’ve been anywhere but here
Because it is immeasurably heartbreaking
To have the entire world at your fingertips
And to have never seen any of it.
j.s.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
i have been trying to do some spring cleaning,
like brushing out the cobwebs in my head,
but i always get stuck in the intricate silk and the thought
that i could be something.
i could be.
with each particle, i spin a new letter that fills a
good part of my curriculum -
the ABC's of love and Compasses 101 and
intro to new culture,
just so i can prove that i'm well rounded,
like the tip of my tongue,
like the merry-go rounds,
and the pupils behind my eyelids.
i know there was always a glint of worry
radiating from my mother's
half moon smile,
daring that i won't make it.
she never wanted to curse me,
so she spoke of opposites -
opposites attract (but we both know that isn't true.)
but this isn't about her,
this is about the days and nights i gritted
the enamel off of my molars to
pull myself off the bandwagon,
i've never really been into Natural Light beer,
(some call it Nattie Light),
or the fact that not being focused is what
i should be focused on.
this is about the one night stands with
Microsoft Word and my book of notes completed
with equations i knew i could never understand.
this is about the the day
i found
i could be the person
i never thought
i would be.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 9:01 PM UTC
Some languish sadly
drowning in dreams
Parched and thirsting for dawn
To dance in its light once again
But the music is all but gone.
Compasses set
on the albatross
We navigate through dreams of another
Our sails puffed out with ancient myths,
Empty winds from a safer harbor.
An aurora leaps
Across of the heavens
Dancing among the stars
Waves of harmony, crest and curl
Onto the awaiting shores of our heart.
One bright moment,
In a dark string of time
We wake to a new dawn sky
A multihued ribbon of horizon
In the gaze of anothers eyes
Discovered souls,
unravel their meaning
In the nexus of a kiss
Immortal lovers breath again
Melodies floating off their lips.
Meant to find each other once
Never to dream alone
A chorus of love breaks a sea of silence
We are…
Love’s mariners sailing home.
Petals of time, wither and fall
Into the garden of life
To nourish the ground,
And fill the palette
With our own blend of colors and light.
Yes, meant to find each other once
And to that one be loyal,
We were only here as angels of love
to sew the seeds and till the soil.
And so from the moment we met
The now and then and all between
As our last kiss pulls away from knowing lips
Our love explains what forever means.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
I am lost
in this abyss
you have created
in my heart.
A hole that
only you can mend;
darkness
that can only be illuminated
with your smile.
I have put so much of myself in you
that after you left me,
it feels like
I don't know myself anymore.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC