"daylilies" poems
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
I hear the Earth as she laughs
In the flowers that I plant
It's like they are all tickling
As they bloom in early Spring
I hear the Earth as she laughs
I see the Earth as she smiles
With her dimpled daffodils
She keeps grinning back at us
In a pink peony blush
I see the Earth as she smiles
I hear her chuckle in the breeze
To the delight of daylilies
With each laugh they all know
It brings new colors to their fold
As the Earth chuckles in the breeze
I have often heard it said
Every time the Earth laughs
Another flower is set to bloom
I guarantee that this is true
Every time the Earth laughs
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 7:23 AM UTC
Lazy me.
Still in last night's Rust Never Sleeps T and boxers. Unshaven. Hair pointed in cardinal directions while blue sky frowns down upon me for smokin' up its air.
Mockingbirds playing the guess me game again. Bluebird splashes in the bath giving me a subtle hint.
Mr. Cardinal and Blue Grosbeak
compliment each other on their choice
of colors.
Yellow and Orange daylilies compete
in their own beauty pageant while hibiscus shares her flowers with bees.
Humminbird humming a happy song.
My sweet mutt Daisy is embarrassed to be sitting out here beside me.
Time to go in and let nature bask again.
r ~ 6/15/14
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
How many authors,
Unearthly meticulous,
Have left us symbols in scarves; or, say,
Surreptitiously submerged in salad dressing,
The idea of the priest confessing;
Clues folded carefully between innocuous lines,
So carefully that in ten thousand pairs of eyes,
Not one perceives the crease?
And what kind of beautiful sadist plants flowers in shadow?
I cannot bear the empty tears that they must shed,
The monstrous mute meaninglessness of these
Lessons taught, and not learned!
Worse: words, while wise,
Are not our only teachers.
So I look for the mirrors in smoke,
And in skies, in eyes,
In every word the wind spoke.
Until everything is a mirror;
Everything, however dull, reflects.
When I tried to ride a bicycle today--
And not just because I want that idiom to be true,
But simply because I want to learn how--
When I put my heart to the pedal,
And the wind bent down to whisper,
Unintelligible, but clearly intelligent,
Into my ear,
It felt like I had failed them;
I could not listen, but only hear.
On this generally generous June morning,
The very last of the Daylilies bloomed.
I saw it later, in an evening hour,
And I imagined, as I rode past,
That it (or its reflection) asked
“Might I be, after all, only a flower?”
“To navigate by mirror alone
Is to walk always in reverse.”
So the lily seemed to say
As it awaited, alone, its floral hearse.
I will not, without reason,
Deny a dying wish.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
I hear the Earth as she laughs
In the flowers that I plant
It's like they are all tickling
As they bloom in early Spring
I see the Earth as she smiles
With her dimpled daffodils
She keeps grinning back at us
In a pink peony blush
I hear her chuckle in the breeze
To the delight of daylilies
With each laugh they all know
It brings new colors to their fold
I have often heard it said
Every time the Earth laughs
Another flower is set to bloom
I guarantee that this is true
Every time the Earth laughs...
Jul 23, 2023
Jul 23, 2023 at 5:35 PM UTC
Time rides
but on wings of butterflies.
Hardly noticeable
as they flit by…
From flower to flower.
Underscoring the fragrant,
outlining the beautiful.
*Yarrows to daylilies.
Lavender to pansies.
Goldenrods to marigolds.*
Supposedly impartial yet,
seemingly bestowing
just a little more
upon those most pleasing.
And the unchosen only watch
with bitter, hungry eyes
that go unnoticed, unslaked
and
unvisited.
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 11:10 PM UTC
roses are red
violets are blue
glad my fate doesn't belong to you
marigolds are orange
daffodils are yellow
if you truly knew me you wouldn't be so mellow
daylilies are green
my rose has crumbled black
but
i hope you find the genuine love you lack
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
won't you stay for toast and jelly
the day has just rose
like cream all over the hills
and vales are beckoning
with songs and daylilies
opening and the winks
of oranges tang sweet still
oh
the flowers just awoke
most of the village
is asleep
and will never notice
the beauty of
the sunrise of ten minutes more
enjoying
small nuances
of golden stars
setting
replaced by
the bright snowy clouds with an
angled sun glowing
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
My friend asks
me where I get
the fodder for
writing my poems.
I tell him, life.
He says that's too
simple.
He isn't satisfied.
I tell him that
sometimes, I sit at
my desk and open
the window above the
litterbox, and look
outside at the
orange daylilies and
wait.
He says he writes
from a small place above
his left ear.
It tickles at times, but
often it's painful.
I nod and make a
note to call my
doctor about the
headaches I've been having.
He reads his posey at
the coffee shops while
drinking espresso and
chatting with the other
young poets in sweaters.
I tell him that I used
to live under a bridge,
I read my poems to the
savage river and the
Mallard ducks, and the
drunk friends that
wandered in for a drink of
***** or a beer.
He says the little place above
his left ear is beginning to
hurt.
I walk him to the door and
tell him goodbye.
He asks if I will come
to the coffee shop to
hear him read his poetry.
"Sure", I say, smiling blankly.
After closing the door,
I sit and smile at the view from
my window.
I can smell the freshly cut
grass, and hear the
grinding whine of the
lawnmower.
A woman across
the street is lying in
the sun.
She's wearing a turquoise
bikini and big sunglasses.
Just then, a slight hint
of coconut wafts into my room.
I get hard and pick up the pen.
Jul 12, 2024
Jul 12, 2024 at 10:20 PM UTC