"emissaries" poems
there was no poem neath my pillow
no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch
nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child
two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces
thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them
*the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity*
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
Vipers barrelling -
high vaporous carcases,
farting emissions
Biospheres radiator streaks,
dooms rushing emissaries
.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 12:58 PM UTC
We have seen your greasy lips
Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish
With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics
A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill
And crafty navigational sail
Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated
With your sparkling craft of vile crypt
Across regions, tribes and locales
Of your fangs that foiled good governance
But this time…
Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf
Shall experience a firestorm of rejection
Your emissaries across territorial divides
Shall be hounded to delusion
For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur
To the abyss of dishonour
For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom
Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement
Of abysmal invasion
We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain
Of your permutation in levitation
For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition
Your raging mist on this cloudy night
Shall encounter a violent tussle
Prepare for war!
The scarlet venom from your cruel camp
Shall cease with instant visitation
From the warhorses of this fearless infantry
Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress
As you dispatch your foot soldiers
Of monsters and Leviathans
To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox
Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall!
Let the music begin…
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
12/18/24
I choose fingers,
among the array
of many wonderful
parts on offer,
the other sensory emissaries protest,
but the multi-fluency of fingers,
fluent in all Romance languages,
nay, in every dialect, tongue,
tippling the balance in their favor
for the fingers are wonderful conversationlists, trumping the
cooing coyness of sweet wordy
verbs, fingers defy nouns, pronouns
and are fingers the finest conjunction
that was ever conjured ot conjuncted?
the ears hear poorly when upom it
a long slim finger casually traces outlines
slow~sensually and the eyes shut tightly,
reflexively, the tongue froze to the
mouth roof, muted into inaction
even the the sense of smell lies powerless
should we block the nostrils with but
two fingers, and breathe mouth mightily
we do not diminish the orchestration’s
totality, the blending of sound ‘n sensation,
but the blind and deaf all must bow before the power of fingers speaking to
every part of the bodies totality
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 2:01 PM UTC
An airgonaut, verily she is,
Hovering in time, healing
Mine mind; O'er the
luminaries, stationary,
Freely emissaries, of
The water of life on-
Which we liveth.
We shalt famigerate the copybook of god;
Sprinkling seed's, O'er the demonic breed's,
Stomping out the hatred, anger, a lightning bolt of peace to overcometh the ghost's of bad nature, with Jane's sceptering rod. Virtuous applause, as a wraparound stairway, leadeth us to the Almighty; thundering awe.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
Harmless showery harming
Drove of peddling mongers.
Harmless harming torrent
Harming horde of hucksters.
Humming a melody of venting
distraction.
Pouring brimful harmless rain
like glacier racing across the
cliff of rocks.
Shutting doors of coop out of
the sphere of ataraxis.
Watching helplessly from the
refuge of dislocation for
receding arms of a
tyrannical torrent.
But spitting fire produced no
venom of fire.
Heralding floods of occupation
Colonising footway of the bloc.
Emissaries of fertility from the
sky hoarding tranquillity.
Marking time out of attention.
Rain no more !
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
*My wild ambition loves to slide - ye all must understand
But fortune's ice prefers only the most virtuous of hand.
In Malaga I grew weary and wanton to possess
The most colorless canvas, one easy with a lazy happiness,
Disdained by golden fruit to the viewer be
As I passed the crowd to gently shake the tree.
Now manifest in paint, inward contrived and long since
I stood in bold defiance with the heart of a prince,
Held up on the square by one wanting to buy my latest cause.
Against the wind I held it up in spite of all the laws.
Do they wish to thicken my lot among all their other mistakes?
What circumstances find you this? -This is what my mind makes!
The buzzing of my emissaries fill my ears
With many solitary jealousies and fears,
Arbitrary thoughts brought forward into the light,
Contemplating existence, must it prove my vision right?
Weak are the arguments! Which the true artist knows full well,
Where weak minded people curse my renderings or are easy to rebel.
For am I not governed by the moon and by the far off stars?
Tread lightly on me and don’t put me behind your own bars.
And once in a shard of time let the Annunaki’s scribe record,
That my vision once rendered could somehow affect their lord.
The unrecognized Enki still wants to be a chief, yet none
He created was found as fit as barren Adam.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For leaders should wish not to be called great.
But he like I know our titles are not to be allowed.
For titles are useless and only dependent upon a crowd,
Those are kingly powers, thus ebbing us out, they might be
Drawn by the dregs of a falsely acclaimed democracy.
But in my paint I attempt, with studied arts to ease,
And shed the unholy venom with visions such as these.
On the other side of the canvas, not much escapes my eye –
But once in front of it – nothing escapes the me that I call I.*
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC
I am
color blind, my kind
number in the millions
yet nobody has made a secret
language to sign to us, to ensure
we don’t miss the rich laughter
of the living
no filter, no prism
has been divined to bend light
to our pleasing,
no lens to hug
the eye, to make the gray rose red,
the black sea blue, or imbue a sunset
with more than mocking,
shocking streaks of white
before the hapless night
I do not know what
I am missing, for blood,
when spilled, is but store bought paint,
and how would I get the blues
if hues are emissaries
of another world
one where hearts bleed red
with songs for the dead
I am color blind, my kind
number in the millions
who will never see
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
I have spoken with emissaries from the embassies of hope who filled me with foreboding of what is to come,I have seen Diplomats run from the mountains of papers that climb up their backs.
In sacks full of Christmas the listless lay dying,babies unattended left hungry and crying and the peace pipe is smoked in the Olive groves of Turkey,while the radioactivity,the new age nativity is played out in church halls.
I see buildings arise as each old building falls and the dust spreads its memories through the thoughts I have walked through.
I see you dressed in Sepia with the sunlight behind you
I see you and no more now
I see you and this is how
I remember.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 2:31 AM UTC
a lilac sends scent,
an orchid, elating winks;
love speaks through us all!
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
As the follower sheep,
Send forth their crooked emissaries.
To bend the goodness,
with a sinister sickening voice
I fold my arms,
Inside my head,
And stare you down.
My eyes will burn.
My look will unsettle.
The more you try,
The more resistant I become
To following you.
You may hold your belief dear,
And it may comfort you.
But know this, If it comforted me,
I would be by your side,
And not opposite You.
Showing the wrath of the proselytised.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
We are chaperones to the pillars of heaven
Emissaries to the call of the horn
Jumping and seeing into the forest of pollen
Wrestling from the beckoning of civilisation.
Acres of my landscapes and minds to ourselves
I love the many ways you twirl me underneath your spell
Changeling of time and the humming silence of the bee
Pull me aside and whisper me minutes to the sea.
Bases of absence, dallies of the world
***** and dust are nothing to my soil
Enchantment of light, my reveries and hate
Holding me tight and singing bonds in the wake.
Gashes of essence, a milky-white of pure flow
Gushing like ravens, shrieking empty to the core
Yearning for the distance and dying in its twilight
Breathing in your essence keeps the pulse of me alive.
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 1:02 AM UTC
He played beneath the skies of a dragon commander
Blissfully ignoring the ominous.
His fate was sealed and he
Was seeping through the envelope
His cloak was flowing briskly
And it hid an endless sea
Of casual feelings of casualty.
The spirit of the proceedings
Heeded his untimely departure
While he stood stoic sternly
Establishing the mood.
And all the polar vapors
Kept the Contrast open wide
While the elemental fibers
Crept inside him while we died
And the journeys going on outside
Cast shadows on the spring
As the chambers resonated with the
Words that he did sing
And the lookers on reported
How his heartache broke the scene
And the specters there presenting
Seemed to billow from his dream
And the lights that flash behind him
Signal monsters from above
To attack the emissaries
In their castle walls of love
While his smile keeps us hoping
For another moment more
Underneath his cool umbrella
In this never-ending war.
Here chameleons can fool us
If we listen to their lies
But this music keeps us safe
And it keeps open all our eyes
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
A looking glass seems such a simple thing -
a boomerang of sorts
(here's looking at me, kiddo).
So many me's (or you's) to view -
bucked out in natal garb
or gussied up for the corporate ball.
Better fix my Medusa hair,
Should I opt for the purple shirt?
Just who will I seem to be to you today?
Take a breath - a really deep one
meet those soul panes
gazing back from the other side
emissaries from an inverted universe -
romancing the past - stalked by
tomorrow's "shoulds" and "maybes".
Who will I chance to serve or sway or fool
between now and the evening star?
Will one of them be you or me?
A looking glass seems such a simple thing.
So many me's (or you's) to view,
Just who should I seem to be to me today?
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Through an all consuming
ever looming
self-entombing
slow death march
they slogged along
growing strong
by right of wrong
through hate
they berate conflate inflate implicate in a quest to initiate
all those withering Souls
who follow
without reason
behind those bent
who's Soul intent.. is eradication invalidation
so that even those
who avert their eyes
from this aberration
Still follow
one step one stone
one more who does condone believing
somehow time will allow
the ability to atone
to take back
what they already own
And yet ...
by division indecision miscreant dreams seen through aberrant visions
painted on
the nonexistent headstones
Of those
deemed Unworthy of condolence
When the heavy hand of Injustice Whispers you can trust us
"listen not to the neurosyphilitic rot that the weak-minded speak
for We Are The Chosen
The American creed
the annointed Anglo breed
who have fought hard
with righteousness
Appointed
to achieve
the America that God intended
as HIS emissaries
we are the righteously pure ordained Warriors
as WE now take..
possession
of our pure white Nation
our building Stone
to create anew
that
which is to be the new state !"
Oh you fools !
you withering Souls
YOU who slogged along
through the swamps of intolerance toward a place ..you thought
you would belong
Unfortunately forgot
to anticipate
That the haters
will always need someone
to berate denigrate and to Hate !
So ...who are you again ?
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
A looking glass seems such a simple thing -
a boomerang of sorts
(here's looking at me, kiddo).
So many me's (or you's) to view -
bucked out in natal garb
or gussied up for the corporate ball.
Better fix my Medusa hair,
Should I opt for the purple shirt?
Just who will I seem to be to you today?
Take a breath - a really deep one
meet those soul panes
gazing back from the other side
emissaries from an inverted universe -
romancing the past -
stalked by tomorrow's "maybes".
Who will I chance to serve or sway or fool
between now and the evening star?
Will one of them be you or me?
A looking glass seems such a simple thing.
So many me's (or you's) to view,
Just who should I seem to be to me today?
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Those shadowy emissaries
That pass the mind’s great lidless eye
In slow procession through the night
Do fill with color and with sound
The sleeping brain’s vast sweeping bound,
And populate its cityscapes
And alleys with amorphous shapes
That shifting form and countenance
Convey the tides of fleeting thought;
And oft become dark shapes of dread,
Parades of faceless horrors, such
That when I glance their looks are changed –
Each lineament is rearranged –
All meaning or remembrance lost,
Or masked by sweet forgetfulness.
The secret that there lurks within
The labyrinths of memory,
Still tainted by the stench of guilt -
And strengthened by the voice of fear -
Still screams from some dark hidden cell
The lurid blasphemies of hell,
And births itself anew each night,
Each morning dying with the light,
Yet nightly grows in hateful strength,
Corrodes the sturdy locks of will,
And claws through those great iron doors
That lead to waking consciousness.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
The battle done,
Remaining combatants one,
Gazing up to the gray cloak,
Tailored to the palace of the moon,
Threatened only by the ever-fading emissaries,
Of the ailing sun.
Each a perfect sentinel,
Of solar prowess technical.
The ceasefire teased opposite
By the lunar composite,
Of that sweeping cloak,
Choked,
Where the moon once woke.
Neither one nor other,
As if my breath could the life
Of either titan smother.
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 8:49 PM UTC
On the second front
where the hunt is on
they search high and low
but the man has gone.
Jesus being a carpenter
made his own bed
and is laying there
while Salome who cut the
Baptist's hair
dances with the Duke,
the Devil being unavailable sends
his emissaries to sit at the banquet table
and Jesus being the carpenter
prepared said table earlier.
Should I be away on judgement day
I'm sure that God will make me pay
on another or another day
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
there's a bell ringing in the dark...
that leaves the better of its blood
in a bat's head.
come morning--those reverberating
flits will disperse their aberrations
amongst townspeople.
who'll prove emissaries of fear.
town to town, big and small--whose
dragging eclipse tills the soil.
damp and stank with monsters that
lean forth their full menace.
to tear away the kiss that was about
to be ours.
trying to snarl and **** away the bliss
that broke through.
rattling February branches, so we may come
to understand how they remain plunged
in winter's gut.
as to stiffen, and not adore winter as much
as spring.
--yet dare i say they've kissed...look
behind your eyes my love~
(winter & spring, this...)
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
I just wish you sent emissaries of truth,
Because my mind would be at peace with me,
I would have a nary a qualm,
And all these glasses would not be broken,
And all these tears would not be shed,
And now these words will never be taken,
And this day will never be forgotten!
I wish I got caught up a little at work today,
Because then you and your *** would have finished business,
And i would be met by the smell of a fresh shower,
And the sound of sheets doing turns in the cleaner,
And the sight of sugar coated lies!
I wish I passed by **** me kwik_,
To kiss the bottle with the boys,
Watching the waitress sway her non-existent hips,
As we rant of all the greatnes around
Of the wonders of the green mamba on riparian
Than me coming here...
To witness your sacrilege on our matrimonial bed...
And me calling out to my gone ancestors.
Today I wished to be swept off by the floods
But it's a sunny dry month
Today I wished to have been hit by a bus
And got dragged down it's wheels along the tarmac
But again it's a sleepy village here
Nothing that we wish for ever happens
Yet here I am...
Having to hear the pleasure moans you have him...
Those I always beg for each time I visit your downtown!
Now I'm wishing for more...
I wish for the rumble of an earthquake
For the earth to open up and swallow me whole
For a cactus plantation to grow upon my unmarked grave
At least with that...
The pieces of my shattered heart shall find peace
Than watching the wind blow these pieces away
The pieces you managed to make of my heart.
Joy
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC