"echelon" poems
Far away in the castle,
Your revered echelon,
Your pure majestic skin,
And your untainted generous heart,
Have become the most appealing living things I've ever seen,
Royal blood and Highness' sweetheart,
But I'm just a wretched citizen,
Routinely as a blacksmith,
Single bread and rocking chair,
Destitution and poverty-stricken,
I have never been complaining the way the God treats me,
To me it is just enough to get to see your beauty and hearty at the same time,
The folks were saying that you are the descending angel,
Spreading your wings over the entire people's heart,
Sending the warmth with a hug,
Delivering the happiness with a deed,
They feel safe,
I feel safe too,
But feel sad a little,
For just because I'm a blacksmith.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
humming tunes, singing blues, dancing jewels
miss looking for love is dancing all over your leather shoes
over uneven pavement, over failed engagements
i sent your ring back, i couldn't bear to see it, nor sell it
even now, my six-eight time signatures are still bringing
your custom-length tailcoats to a Viennese waltzing
all while your upper-echelon friends keep pretending
like they don't find satisfaction in my subtle mourning
tonight is all humming tunes, singing blues, and dancing jewels
i am still lingering, still humming our tunes, still singing our blues,
i am still feigning ignorance, and my finger is still missing a jewel,
i am still center stage, but someone else dances with you
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 2:05 PM UTC
Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?
Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.
Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.
For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.
Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?
Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new boquet soon fading into gray.
What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.
Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
i
Off in the beaten path
An Echelon of secret tribal's;
I pirouetted with them in plumage
Mine queen showed up, just on arrival.
ii
Her timing was perfect
As tis she watched me caper;
Me and mine Reyna's amour'
Like tambourines, shook with ancient shaker's.
iii
Hot coal ember's
Igneous in ourn chest's;
Ourn pulmonary arterie's
Bracketed, by her tribesgirl dress.
iv
We were gladden
Betwixt the wilderness;
Under mango leaves
Jane seduced me, equatorial phene's.
v
Whilst the darkness wore down
And the tribesmen went to sleep;
Me and mine protector
In the dusk, disappeared, into eachother's soul's to keep.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
O you, sitting on the highest power echelon of this country
Revolution is mere change of masks???
O you who orchestrate these stage plays to ridicule, already ridiculed masses!
O to you,
The unnamed, the invisible nucleus of power
Have you ever seen the revolution?
How it looks like?
O You
Yes you, who pretends to be the only savior of this country
Do you promise, from tomorrow, all the people will sleep with full stomach??
Health and education would be free??
Justice will be accessible??
O oooo
Have you ever seen revolution?
Do you know how it looks like?
Or I am too naïve to ask this…
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Did you see them take the green fields
one by one, now line by line on hills in echelon?
Still, holding ground held holy by their sons;
no longer marching to the smoke and drum.
Where bugler called the day to final rest,
now silence grows like lichen on the stones.
For those who gave their all at our behest,
our memories alone will not atone.
Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
and more hallowed ground broken day by day?
Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
each new bouquet soon fading into gray.
What better way to honor sacrifice
than to pause and speak their names aloud.
Until the gods of war are pacified;
until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
Teach your child
to plant a tree
than pluck one
that was never
her own entity
but its own
Teach your child
to make a painting
of a flower
as a gift
than give a bouquet
that will die soon
or instead
teach her to
give a sapling
that will grow
into a memory
which will hold
much power
Teach your child
to question
than cower
to vain rules
and illogic
that steal her
playful affection
and her artless frolic
Teach your child
to climb trees
before the
ladders to
supreme echelon
Teach her
that when she collapses
she must stand up
with grace and poise
like the shining sun
for after
the night
is done
laying its darkness
it rises again
the sun
Teach your child
the colors of mankind
Yellow or Orange
Red or Brown
Black or White
to accept each one
everyone
without the division
of vanity
of power
or a crown
Teach your child
to create
her own meaning
of Love
Teach her to
listen to the story
of every tear
that bears grief
and to
speak aloud
to bespeak
wisdom and virtue
in brief
Teach your child
about the freedom
in and of the mind
before she rebels
to venture outside
with people
who care less
about her kind
but more about
filling the space
on a car seat
Teach your child
to believe
in possibilities
and have faith
in the certainties
of unlocking mysteries
Teach her
to fuel
her curiosities
Teach your child
values that were not
taught to
the crowd
then you will
stand a mother
full and proud.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
...Open your eyes, to me.
I want to spiral, around you,
beyond the dark, infinite wall.
I want to transcend, your physical;
to lure you on, and away
into a purple field, of Freyja's daisies
with nimble, metaphysical fingers--
beckoning beyond,
the starry curtain,
of crystalline dreams.
Will you let my arms,
circle your Roman neck,
like verdant vines
and pull you further, in?
Can you feel my smile,
sun the slant,
of your beloved cheek,
and can you photosynthesize
into new life, with me
even as you re-seed, in darkness?
I want to whisper,
sweet words:
devotion, and desire
into the well, of your ear...
until they roar, and pound
with the sacred force,
of white rapids...
swollen to riptides,
in the conch shell,
of your churning mind.
I want to weave, around your flesh
and speak, a love spell
into your shifting, Lycan eyes.
An incantation, that plays,
with the blue ghost, of your flame,
and ignites, the candle of your soul,
on its breathy sighs...
...melodic tones.
There is no heart,
quite like yours.
It pulses, beneath my hand,
like drums, of war.
Gladiator...
take me, to your Colosseum.
I want to wander
the upper echelon,
of its throbbing chambers.
I want to feel you ache, for me
in your left ventricle...
soft, warm flesh,
perfectly preserved, in golden amber.
I want to gaze,
into the blinding sun,
until my eyes, tear...
closer to heaven,
than ever I've been.
Darling, what do you see,
when you look at me?
Salvation,
or ruin?
Vikingr longships...
or Valhalla...?
I pray...that one day...
you will take my soft hand,
into the Titan strength, of yours,
and not perceive it,
as an instrument
in the ruin, and wreckage, of you.
I ardently pray, that, one day...
you'll come, to bathe
in the Baltic blue, of my eyes...
and never fear, again,
that they could drown you.
...Let me take you...home.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 2:22 PM UTC
*The world shall fall as they fall
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends
Bring in the seraphim
Tear the pure clouds, reveal the gods above
If doubt is a stronger virtue
Then I am its paragon
Women fall at lofty feet in a harem
Gorging on peasants' spines 'till faces turn mauve
Fear is the new moral breakthrough
A scale higher than the utmost echelon
The world shall destroy as they destroy
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.
The snake bite no longer stings
Calloused as a tyrant's compassion
The purest hands do grow relentless weeds
As they laze on the filthiest plots
Kings and hearts mount to slings
Foreboding most malleable deception
Blood spills bright on their letterheads
As truth gets set by red-handed bureaucrats
The world shall burn as they burn
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.
Marksmen are wealthier than diplomats
Golden bullets to the golden rule
The trend is to laugh at our silence
The principle is to break lives not dictates
There lies no purgatory for these aristocrats
On to the vile ember cesspool
Until then, they fawn in worldly omnipotence
And not one revolts, not even conscience
The world shall end as they end
In their sceptre,everything follows
And so it goes on.*
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
Precious chance for a lonely thought,
Loose, slip-fades sinuously free
A melodious stream of nostalgic mist
From a mug of Arabica sea.
Curiously exhaled from dissonance
In an amber lit café.
He imagines himself a sojourner,
A wayfarer without a way.
Long shore drift en echelon
Long minutes march by metronome
Long is the spellbound beachcomber
For an island all his own.
Long is the dream of an inland man
Lost to his seaside girl.
Diver down where the standard waves
Swimming dizzy for a polished pearl.
Light from her eyes plays on sea glass chips
Tumbled in the curling waves
That crest and break on a beach that waits
for a wish he once had made.
The surf is heard like a lingering kiss
breathing ripples on the smoothening sand
And just as the whisper and simmering fades,
Another promise swells, tumbles, and lands.
The ocean is love running breathless,
In a race between the moon and the sun,
Causing tides to surge across the poignant curve
Of an incandescent blue horizon.
A tranquil star contracts and bursts
In pulsing neon spires.
There’s forever a star expiring
While life glows from embers in a dying fire.
If this writer could paint, it would be a portrait
of the empty space beside him.
Awaiting the image of a seagoing girl,
He turns his canvas into a thirsting ocean.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
In the storming chaos of blades,
I fell upon the battlefield of malice and might.
The menace before me arching his crooked smile,
And whispering sweet everything's to my ear.
In the blood stained dawn i was born anew,
Even as his cold pale hands caressed my cheek.
Madness dripped from his eyes velvet eyes,
As I burned vengeful in my heart
I arose the, ashen angle of victory.
With the wave of my hands i burned them all,
The enemy that stormed forth,
And those I swore to protect.
A unfathomable beauty of unparalleled power.
Like M i became a great destroyer,
An Echelon by another name.
I am forever now a wanderer of valor.
The Great Antithesis of the Mashochrist.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 11:02 PM UTC
You messed with my head
My head is a mess.
You messed with my world
My world is a mess.
I am a mess.
A mess of mindless self-indulgence
Minus the indulgence
I am the essence of egoism
The epitome of selfishness
The
upper
echelon
of arrogance
The meaning of ignorance
I have
become
you
But still
I wait
for you
Because
I
adore you.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Rolling in wave upon wave of words.
Sentences dressed right, en echelon, like pretty hued soldiers
with armor and frills of meaning unfurled.
I can see their smiles gleam
with the slap-dash of their waving standards.
The gypsy, unzips her paragraph
like the Red Sea before Moses;
she has rewritten the song of the seducing hand
that writes the words, that pens the curve of a gentle wrist,
that drains of the belletristic wells of the heart.
All to flow from Egypt through the canyon of the mind,
Weathered words, crumbled from the cave of allegory
Sliced from the loaf of pharaohs love.
Flow on river, flow by
leaving green brush in the crags where eagles nest.
Friend of ****** swelled by spells of copulation
Hers is the scent that draws the sleeping bear
From carnal dreams, dripping blood-words.
Bleed for waxing moon, bleed the scent of still stars,
oh do I love this vicious bearer of words in sun struck birth.
Die dear gypsy on the battlefield of parchment
Expel the reek of your pen impaled body
Rise hoary hope on the wind inhaled by God.
He who draws her up, heart first
Through those once read lips, but forever colored…
Red, red! For they are still read by my heart
Hewn homonym from the hue of her lips kiss
There is a silent word mouthed in this nymphs holler.
And I press my ear closer to that womb.
To read, to read… listen please, my erudite heart.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
When you do not know what to say
Do you say anything at all?
How has this feeling escaped me?
Does the ground rise so I don't fall?
Where is the tale of two hearts?
What, my heart, are you concealing?
I wander through my misty past,
And ponder that dear old feeling.
And to you, I speak, I indulge
That flutter of the butterfly
Felt inside me, seeking your hand
Certain as the waves of the sea.
Yet this next echelon of love
With no allegiance to malign,
Still do I sail the vast grand seas,
Until another heart meets mine.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 1:42 PM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
I'm MEGALADON
Megatrons decepticon
On a upper echelon
THE allsparks electrons
Sparks the neurons
In the mind of the shark
The.volts in.his heart
Embark
On a mission
The autobots builds Robocops
With unlimited ammunition
The ambition
Envisions terminators
Exterminators
Germinators
Cause these perpetrators
Try to invade us
Capers of these crusaders
Is devastating cause its thousands of devastators
Awaiting us
Is the.Originator
The creator
The savior already saved us
But brothers an sisters betrayed us
They face us
Ever seen
Wings
On a transformer
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
That is three numbers
above my echelon numeric
and happens to be my 2nd
favorite.
I never thought about why
that from a really young age
I'd fallen into romance
with a 2nd lover.
One that only sits
three buildings down the line.
We didn't meet by chance--
6am a dimly lit haze
in between our
transition from home
to not home.
It's where our bonding of
digit to digit formed
and new meaning
came to our realization
that if time was to end.
It would happen
on the 24th hour
in our 24th day
the final 24th year.
Because to imagine
existing I will always
be a youngster
a brandishing elegance of a mind.
Who understood
time was our own conception
and beyond the end
was an abyss of nothing
that I hope I'd never see.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
As runners in a fastened loop
stop often to recount their breath,
and lookers placed around the group
in blocks of twelve and twenty-four
laugh quietly and think of death,
an older man who runs a store,
who's still content without a wife,
flops aimlessly against the floor,
and thirty men in tailcoats swoop
to save an upper-level life.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
I have to cease.
It's not that my love has ceased.
It's just that the tenderness in my chest isn't uncut anymore
and I keep cutting the scraps loose far and wide
creating an eyesore for others to sterilize.
This has to cease
because I've put my spirit on trial
and it wound up at its breaking point.
I can't share this world with you
while her shadow lingers, panting on your collar.
I know you can't cease.
I know you can't slay a phantom.
I know that you don't fancy bruising her haunting spirit.
I wish you didn't want to bruise my spirit.
But there's an echelon of interest that I never dominated.
But it possesses all the arena that is my cranium
and the rest is made up of intoxicated words I'll never obliterate.
I know I'm not your Valentine.
But hearts were never a joyous emblem for me anyway.
So I'll leave phantoms of my presence all over your life
in hopes that you'll delete a single blushing gummy letter
written by a ghost years ago.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
A sad sad notion is held captive in my encephalon,
My island prison known as the brain,
Which is in the upper echelon
Of every vital *****
Despite my determined mental exertion
Towards this difficult action,
Still on the impenetrable question
I stall;
And my poor dumb cranium
Does richly smart in frustration,
And my apertures of vision
Are filled with tears yet to halt.
And even if I one day straighten
The crooked mark out,
I am left then at a loss for the answer
That I want to gain right now.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
I see the shadow of a long dead girl, gun in the arms,
cradled and braced at her face. I drip sweat, as these
four walls light up with images. Viscous memories
want my attention, and they won't ask at all for all
they take. Past is over. All girls are dead girls. I'm a
woman, now. Finger pulled back, bullet to the skull
of a native in a native's land, made strange with loud
strangers' demands, blood blown back decorates my
young hands, my masters lift me up an echelon.
A portal opens in my bedroom that leads to the
bathroom sink, where I swallow pink pills.
Swallow white pills.
Swallow blue pills.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 2:54 AM UTC