"descry" poems
1285
I know Suspense—it steps so terse
And turns so weak away—
Besides—Suspense is neighborly
When I am riding by—
Is always at the Window
Though lately I descry
And mention to my Horses
The need is not of me—
3.2k
Dear simple girl, those flattering arts,
(From which thou’dst guard frail female hearts,)
Exist but in imagination,
Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish’d mirror glance
Thou’lt there descry that elegance
Which from our *** demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises.—
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,—’tis truth.
2.4k
What is he buzzing in my ears?
“Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?”
Ah, reverend sir, not I!
What I viewed there once, what I view again
Where the physic bottles stand
On the table’s edge,—is a suburb lane,
With a wall to my bedside hand.
That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,
From a house you could descry
O’er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue
Or green to a healthy eye?
To mine, it serves for the old June weather
Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labelled “Ether”
Is the house o’ertopping all.
At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,
There watched for me, one June,
A girl; I know, sir, it’s improper,
My poor mind’s out of tune.
Only, there was a way… you crept
Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:
They styled their house “The Lodge”.
What right had a lounger up their lane?
But, by creeping very close,
With the good wall’s help,—their eyes might strain
And stretch themselves to Oes,
Yet never catch her and me together,
As she left the attic, there,
By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether”,
And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
We loved, sir—used to meet:
How sad and bad and mad it was—
But then, how it was sweet!
2.4k
Some only seest her flesh
And her bones;
I seest God's handprint
That brushstroked
Her soul.
Some only heed her outer
Reflection;
I seest a masterpiece
In paradisal direction.
Some only observe her comings
And going's;
Not perceiving
Her tears, beyond year's;
Hath been like white water's flowing.
Some only descry
Her Filipina eyne;
Whilst under her roof
She's lonesome, aloof;
Pain is her daily bread,
As is her heart's
Screaming proof.
Some only espy, the girl
They seek to know; not
Knowing nothing of who
She really is, an Angel from
God's throne.
Though this Queen doesn't seest
What I seest, she is blinded by
Worldly lies; demon's art her
Enemies, because she's God's
coruscating light.
If only she could take a step
Out of her body and her mind;
She'd be free, to perceive
The treasure she is
As the creator made
Her after his
Kind.
If only she could
Seest, the elegance
Inside her soul;
She would
Knowest
She was
Created to be
God's light, lamp;
God's perfect mold.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Sardua nagley ( agapi mou) dedicated
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
To trust the rust wrought lemon husk
To edge the endeavour far beyond cussed
Weft warped kisses dress un-silken chest
Cleft clawed viscera separated not even
by breath.
Dust dredged surface beds descry all but
the separation of legs
our bodies dressed in skin and flesh
our eyes undress what was left
as feet fold right to our chest
Remembrance seeds your rosemary breath
An eternal path gained through worldly deft
As voids are filled like celestial nests
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
I remember,
every corner of the streets
we used to walk together
holding hands,
where the loveliest colors
are ever painted
within your smiles.
I remember,
the rain which elucidates
the resemblance of truth
and of love,
and all of my attention
is drawn to wondering,
how long will you stay
by my side.
I remember,
how your sweet lips invite;
our first kiss defines
every moment for which
I always realize that I am safe
whenever you are
close to me.
I remember,
those romantic nights
when your body lay
next to mine,
and the moon captivated
our souls, to descry
every beautiful scenery
of a once paradise;
then we talked
about the future.
But a night for which
my heart still remembers,
is when you looked me
in the eyes,
and said the first...
'I LOVE YOU'
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 7:53 PM UTC
Descry the glittering sand,
Every coin is vestal, unused.
He cast unto the well,
Uttering a spell
That dwindled on his aching lips.
Amiss, his voice does not graze
Her conscious divination.
A thousand times again,
He strives-
Just for a spare thought.
But the fool, consumed, controlled
Wallows in the walls
She sculpts around him.
He begins to work away the vines
Of her honied tendrils.
Yet, each finger twined of gossamers,
Drenched in delirium.
Nay, she rejects his presence.
But grants her endless visitations
As a specter, with a Faustian kiss.
He drinks of her,
To parch his arid throat.
Remote, he holds the seed
Which festers within.
Forever.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 9:00 PM UTC
Mental disability what an epigram, it bounds on burried complexity
Titter inside hysterical effectuation
Feeling electrical currents misfiring in my cerebellum
Screaming unremebered prayers in my night terrors at the devils fornication
Remaining in my presence, anticipating my sleep
***** to reverse the dementia
Waking day dreams, lost in unreality
Descry vociferation calling my name
Wanting to claw my etes out against nebulous shadows creeping behind
Wanting a medium to banih apparitions from my space
Paranoid of all establishment
While securing eye contact with others, they could decipher all my thoughts
With binoculars neighbors surveil
Me camouflaged with drawn shades and pale skin
To go outside summoned all my demons
Wanting to battle, rage war to fulfill some morbid desire
Annihilating hordes in my dreams by any means
***** to reverse the madness
OCD for a little control
A million times repeated thoughts flashing in my eyes
Confusion! What day is it? Am I doing something wrong?
Not glancing in mirrors hiding from myself Garbled guttural utterances in my left ear
Hot breath on my neck
Bawling at flexibility and spontaneity
Not in my scheme for the coming confusing hours
Wanting to pull my skull off exposing the insanity
Just wanted it to STOP!!
***** to reverse the derangement
Limbs not answering brain waves crisscrossed as they dwell
On a daily basis surviving hell
On a nightly basis in true hell
Needing to shriek and explode
Afraid to sleep, walking in exhausted dreams
Broken pains in my bones
No peace day or night
My medication saved my life
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Oh, great grandeur of thy visage, fair,
Thy impeccable beauty we descry
And at thy silvery glory stare.
Pure Goddess, I present to thee
My heart fractured and crimson steeped
And ask for thy loving eye to heal and free.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
Brute dreams
Mystic nights
Night of passion
Night of devotion
What songs do you have for me ?
Behind your dark cold lips
The moon have written reams and reams of stars
Why can’t you take me under your sleeves ?
Why can’t you make me disappear ?
I roamed in the nights of cold
And secrets now you must unfold
Parisian nights
Flowering stars
My love, I’m lost
Your name in my heart is embossed
Tell me why
Why should you cry ?
When will I die ?
You’re an angel to descry
Alexis
You’re the reasons why
God ?
The gleam in your eyes
Lucifer ?
In your moist kiss
Hope ?
In your tempting smile
My heart ?
Drowned in your tears
You hair ?
Golden fields of lust
Warmth ?
Between your arms in a tangerine afternoon
Elysian love ?
Tattooed in my heart
Sunset ?
Whenever you close your eyes
Soporifics ?
Your humming hush
Morning mist ?
Your delicate breath
Chaos ?
In the inks of your iris
Infinity ?
Without you meaningless
Intoxicating ?
Your tender words
Mesmerizing ?
Your gentle touch
Sheer ?
Your burning gaze
Devastation ?
Since you’ve been gone
Isolation ?
My life so far
As I linger
With no hand in the clandestine destiny
The quintessential fear of death Became the marrow of my dreams
Ash to ash
Dusk to dawn
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
I
I heard a small sad sound,
And stood awhile among the tombs around:
“Wherefore, old friends,” said I, “are you distrest,
Now, screened from life’s unrest?”
II
—”O not at being here;
But that our future second death is near;
When, with the living, memory of us numbs,
And blank oblivion comes!
III
“These, our sped ancestry,
Lie here embraced by deeper death than we;
Nor shape nor thought of theirs can you descry
With keenest backward eye.
IV
“They count as quite forgot;
They are as men who have existed not;
Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath;
It is the second death.
V
“We here, as yet, each day
Are blest with dear recall; as yet, can say
We hold in some soul loved continuance
Of shape and voice and glance.
VI
“But what has been will be—
First memory, then oblivion’s swallowing sea;
Like men foregone, shall we merge into those
Whose story no one knows.
VII
“For which of us could hope
To show in life that world-awakening scope
Granted the few whose memory none lets die,
But all men magnify?
VIII
“We were but Fortune’s sport;
Things true, things lovely, things of good report
We neither shunned nor sought … We see our bourne,
And seeing it we mourn.”
1.4k
What you didn't realize
was that you were a conqueror of fate
Having me ravished to the highest magnitude
you still pretended like you had no clue
A counterfeit image of
trust issues
Playfully taunting
but I was also hurting.
For I didn't covet you
to have doubts
Or descry the demur I doubted to dismiss.
But it's true
That somewhere betwixt the precariousness
I had relinquished my all
my heart; my soul
to you
without yet having been acquainted
with more than just the night
Without yet having been acquainted
With only you in plain sight
Your scintillating eyes
holding to the fact
that
I ought to conjecture
The earth is flat
.
.
.
You grin like a Cheshire Cat.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
When Julia chid I stood as mute the while
As is the fish or tongueless crocodile.
Air coin’d to words my Julia could not hear,
But she could see each eye to stamp a tear;
By which mine angry mistress might descry
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
And when true love of words is destitute
The eyes by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.
1.3k
She was led from darkness into meadows of blue sky.
She ran among the clouds and with the birds she learned to cry
Calls of purest sorrow mingled with purest of mirth.
She sang a howl in the wind of death and of rebirth.
Drinking from the bounty of the bosoms of her cloud,
One day did she descry a land beyond her misty shroud.
Licking milk from her fair lips, she skipped down on a breeze
And landed with a rustle far upon lush canopies.
Bent were boughs and branches, bark of brown and green and grey,
Beneath her bent, frail figure fainting with the light of day.
Night fell dark and stormy and the clouds swelled with their grief,
Upon the wind her figure borne, with ev'ry cursèd leaf.
Morning rose unbidden then upon the naked wood,
Living thing, and ornament, although none understood.
Gone was ev'ry hint of green, all around was bare;
Even where she fell before, no part of her was there.
Bare above was the pale sky, the clouds left not a trace;
Nor did they return there, where their dear one fell from grace.
Harshest rays of Sun bore down the fate of that cruel space.
Nothing more than dust and sand would occupy that place.
-LP
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces,
and rain in streams belies the dreams that fantasy embraces –
the ocean sprays of yesterdays conceal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells for shattered shells drift wounded seagulls’ screams –
affection blends but sometimes ends, or so it sadly seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
the spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
eleven sultry sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside with ebbing tides, then all begins anew.While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces
and rains in streams enhance the dreams that fantasy embraces
while ocean sprays of yesterdays reveal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells of shattered shells drift soaring seagulls’ screams –
the beauty wends but never ends, or so it surely seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
her spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
a brace of surly Sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside in ebbing tides, then all begins anew.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
I see ibicies on alpine slopes,
large curved horns coming almost
full circle. I descry mountain
hawks on the wing that descry
more than I. Bears I do not
see, for they are lost in their
own sleep, not on slopes, but
in slumber; the number of deer
is in actuality many, but I
have not earned the right to
discern more than few.
Vision is a funny thing: we
tend to infer from the many
we can see reality, but this
is illusory. Our sight we feel
can be enhanced by glasses
microscopic or telescopic,
but sight is not insight; seeing
is not knowing. The intellect
sees that all are different,
wisdom that all are one. The
ibex knows the mountain is
deeper than it is high.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 9:45 PM UTC
I sought to pierce the astral screen
discover things which lay unseen
existence layers to strip and peel
all cosmic secrets to reveal
with book and spell I tore the veil
beheld all things beyond the pale
creatures that rule the land of Leng
ghoul’s midnight feast, the yellow king
fungi that steal and eat men’s minds
horrors made gods that sit enshrined
the gates of mortal souls open wide
to blasphemous things that crawl inside
I descry the future’s dark corridor
where the stars are an endless sepulcher
and now I know my folly’s curse
my reason slips, my thoughts perverse
I must escape and look away
lest in this charnel house I stay
but I cannot stop through act of will
my vision seeks, strains further still
the last recourse causes gorge to rise
I must be free from these hell born eyes
the knife clutched in my shaking hand
I gouge and stab my sight be ******
and for a moment I am free
but then I am brought to my knees
o’ gods of pain and fear abhorred
my sight but clearer than before
all vision now within my mind
I would bless who could make me blind
with eyes which cannot close or hide
forever gazing and open wide
nor even death will seal them shut
on these horrors my soul must glut
my body fades I cannot die
and eternally through madness fly
Oct 26, 2024
Oct 26, 2024 at 10:15 PM UTC
From the conscious silence to the nomenclatural sound....
From the existential time to the reverberating silence...
Existential sound from the evolving time....
Evolved time from the sustained silence...
Time drenched into the time breeding timeless life....
Life is creator and creation,
It is the play of both of them,
We are their children and everyone of us,
Not just only human beings,every creature on the planet...
Existence is not human-centric,
We are living in the creation,creator is beyond physical....
Life is the voice of the creation,
and the source of our life cannot be seen through our eyes as it is more subtler and beyond physical,
Life is ubiquitous,there is nothing which does not have memory....
Even nothing which is everything and which is life also does have memory.....
Their memory is to act according to the intentions of other lives,
They carry our intentions and consequences,
Intentions and consequences are not apart,they are in the same moment
but one may descry the consequences after a certain period,
but they happen at the same moment as intentions does happen,
Silence bred sound,
and the sound bred me,
And then I am going to dissolve in to the silence......
Life is uncreated,In other words it created itself....
Let me dissolve in to the source....
You cannot breed consciousness nor silence nor the source of life,
one can only dissolve in to the larger entity....
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Diacetylmorphine descry optics....
Let me ride
That cool warmth curlicue tide,
Flood me with poised finesse
Thy words to get me high!!!!
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
in the mild air when winter seems a lie
it is the time for all good things to grow
outside the breezes do not cease to flow
and clouds are scudding grey across the sky
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
so clearly yellow do those flowers show
they banish dullness and we can descry
it is the time for all good things to grow
life is so eager to get up and go
so energetic it could almost fly
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
returning from their sleep as if they know
we long for colour to delight each eye
it is the time for all good things to grow
in proper order this is nature's show
we only guide it then we smile and sigh
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
it is the time for all good things to grow
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
SORCERER 1
Fell prince, what can we say? Shall we
Wring fingers, gazing nervously
Into our black, obsidian mirror?
SORCERER 2
Or, in our water jugs, to peer,
Unbinding and retying twine,
In hope epiphanies shall shine?
SORCERER 3
Or shall we three, like puzzling mages,
Cast bright corn-kernels ‘cross the pages
Of scripture, wincing to descry
Some omen there?
SORCERER 1 Or shall we lie?
SORCERER 2
Were not your lethal gaze forbidden,
Our eyes from yours no longer hidden,
SORCERER 3
These mirrors unfilmed to windows-
SORCERER 1 Wink
We not, you might their contents drink.
They look at Motecuhzoma.
TLACAELEL
Bold, brass, and bungling open-sesames,
Whose saucy tongues shall spice my hangman’s stew,
You dare let sink your cataracted gaze
Upon the solar luminance of our king?
Who meets these eyes, beholds the face of death.
MOTECUHZOMA
Shackles shall seal their eyes. Clap them away.
My hopes were stillborn by these blind-man’s bluffs.
SORCERER 1
A grand charade shall come to pass,
As marching mysteries amass,
And urgently these lurkings gather.
SORCERER 2
If that is what your lord had rather
Hear from us, so be it, then.
SORCERER 3
We’ll break our seal and thus unpen
Two breeds of vision we may show:
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
.
.
Oh, why must this be!
In this pretend society,
it proceeds to drown me in
insecurities, frustration, envy.
We are our very own droplets of the universe,
each person with uncharted galaxies
that not all people can descry
Most of us are prone to ire,
a single remark
can spark a fire
Fearing to be seen as imperfect,
we change the pure essence
of ourselves,
that very
moment
Do I even know me?
I started to think
if there was even a calm
before the storm,
our minds frantic,
and
I'm concerned
.
.
Life is a dance, never-ending!
A game of musical chairs,
with a sole chair for all of we
Unaware about the
hundreds of seats
surrounding it;
All this negativity
just because of a flaw
within
me
.
.
.
you,
and
everybody.
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 12:38 AM UTC
Cast a glance to the comet up high
with a name sounding awkward and dry
(in the stellar marquee
it's marked 'six-seven-P')
and a motion that's hard to descry.
As the comet continues to fly,
caught in gravity none can defy
(yes, it traces ellipses
through solar eclipses),
we ask 'does dark matter comply'.
So, we sent the Rosetta to pry
and I can't help but wondering why
(once in orbit) we spun it
so close to the sun, it
is likely to sizzle and fry…
But before, we may soon verify
that the comet's a custard cream pie
made of green cheddar cheese,
like the moon, if you please
(though that's gospel the savants deny).
When receivers no longer reply
(at the end of their solar supply),
we won't seek to debug 'em,
instead we'll we unplug 'em
and turn off our spy in the sky.
If it's certain Rosetta will die
then, oh lordy, I surely will cry
if we land it like Philae
behind the sun, shyly,
before I can whisper goodbye.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
beggared on this taunted key
her eyes, benighted, smashed and hollowed,
no longer descry the encirclement
of strapping glass and steel
thus cowered beneath such plumb hauteur,
she finds herself now wimpled in
a creeping green
while her walls bleed of a jealous neglect
where flaked façade like dandruff drips
and grumbling brick works effloresce,
into her winter’s final stupor
there she rancorously slips
for who could love her now?
those weeds grown long around her feet?
yet still we look
through the fog
through the trees
through the dearth of honey bees to where
the dewdrops sit, like sugared spit,
upon this old maid’s bristled lip
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
And so this bold new script descry
the fever'd dream of boy departed
upon the roads of chance full hearted
I know the who and when not why.
For a time ago I knew myself
but Cynical is a bird of stealth
Did steal the guise with harshest cry
to pick apart with drooling maw
with fickle beak like jackadaw
and so he's left for eyes to pry
upon the hollow form beneath
No character so self bequeathed.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC