"evangeline" poems
Oh my Cassiopeia
My queen; queen of Aethiopeia
Yours is an unrivaled beauty
No one can complain about your vanity
You love me
I love you more
Cepheus your king, how I wish I would be
To be with you forever and sit beside your throne
No, I'm not Cepheus; he probably is yet to come
I wish I'm your Cepheus, but I'm not even an Adam
But I can be your Cepheus if you let me, yes I can
Though I can't see your constellation from where I am
You can boss me around
Toss and turn me upside down
You can throw tantrums, those I won't mind
Forget being king, I'll be fine as your servant
You're a constellation, still I'll make a wish
Can I wish forever? No? Then let me love you at least
Let our love blossom, 'til my last breath vanish
Maybe I'll also become a constellation next to you, like what happened to Ray and Evangeline
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
Arthur McKnight was a powerful man and New York was his playground. Not that he ventured out anymore at night now that he had met Evangeline. The long days of mind-numbing numbers he crunched managing Wall Street hedge funds had taken their toll on him over the years, but becoming intimate with Evangeline had saved him, had changed him in ways so fundamental that for him she was all that mattered.
Arthur no longer noticed these subtle differences. He daydreamed by the dim LCD light of stock tickers, craving the touch that only his woman could bestow upon him. He had surrendered completely to her bliss.
These days when he woke to her already gone from his Upper West Side apartment all that was left of her presence was a lipstick kiss on the mirror and a bottle of Sally Hansen Tangerine Orange nailpolish. The quiet was deafening, but that bottle of Sally Hansen left on the bathroom counter held the promise of Evangeline's return.
It was just after 7 p.m. when Arthur made it home and he could already sense her. She was coming. He strode with purpose to his master suite, spying the black thigh-highs and silky red dress he had laid out for her arrival. The waiting was unbearable, and Arthur finally broke, needing Evangeline so badly he could smell her perfume, could taste her in his throat. It was time; no more waiting.
"You look lovely tonight, Evangeline," Arthur croaked aloud as he pulled the first of the thigh highs onto his shaven legs...
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
(Dedicated to my mother, Juna Marie Nagley- happy mother's day momma!!!)
O' Màthair, Màthair, from whence I birthed.
Best friend, mine Angel, mine guide; Disguised
As a lady at birth; it's from thine womb from
Whence I arrived, this is a thanking thee, to
A flawless seraph, mine Màthair, mine Màthair-
To thee; whom do I compareth?
Anglamotharia, thou hath always met mine need's,
When mine knee was scraped, and when I got sick;
Thou wouldst alway's protecteth me. Eyne blue as
The sea's, hair blonde as the street's thou hath
stemmed from, Anglamotharia-Jehovah's chosen
One, mine host of host's, guardian from the ghost's
Who always tried to hurt thy own son.
Anglamotharia, from whence I am from-
Latha màthair math; angelic one.
(Second part is a mothers day dedication to my mother in law Evangeline sardua- Earl Jane sardua my Queens mother....)
Adlaw Malipayon inahan, dearest mother-in-law, the Apple to Jane's vision, hardworking, gentle-calm. I thankest thee for showing Jane the right way's; the way's of God, the way's of love, O' heaven knoweth thy name.
Adlaw Malipayon inahan, woman who knoweth none time, for thine family is thy priority; thou cookest and cleanest, thy labor hath heavied over time, mayest the Lord bless thee and keep thee, and the Lord make His face shine upon thee. And be gracious to thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee,
And give thee peace. Mayest thine abode be a blessing from Mount malindang-west unto East. Mayest Yeshua guideth thy feet to where dangerous travels cometh and goeth. Mayest the word of God always from thy mouth appear and floweth. Mayest this mother's day, be a remembrance to thee, Evangeline; thy love hath not been forgotten, this is mine gift and thanking to thee.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©mothers day dedication to two special mother's ( Evangeline Sardua, janes mother, and dedication to my mother juna Marie Nagley, ) happy mother's day to both of you and may God shine his face upon you!!! With love Brandon!!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
In looking for that someone
To make my life just right,
Hope it won't be like Evangeline
Who will past me in the night,
One that will be just right for me
In size, weight, and height,
I've looked far and waited long
Could they have passed me in the night?
1.9k
Evangeline (is that what you want me to call you?),
While I hope you don't have to use it, attached is my edit of your suicide note. I just tweaked the grammar on a couple sentences and uncapitalized a random "E." Might consider being more specific. It's hard to tell who is to blame, if you're looking to blame someone. The verbs are very passive. Makes your end seem like a commercial break. Just a suggestion.
Love or a near synonym,
Josh
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
To a cat in a cul-de-sac,
she's a stone rose,
malaise with no remorse and a penchant for suicidal grammar.
Backsassing and backroom massaging
her way from Tanner, Illinois to Irving, Texas --
her interstate veins and her data plan brain
catered to the orifices of the weary,
and soothed the spidertongued and sleepy.
In the last postcard, she signed Evangeline,
the number of name changes: 23
in the Sunflower State alone.
A dive bar in Ulysses, Kansas
beamed as a brilliant model of
"Starved wives and stray dogs," Evangeline explained.
*"I found the dark side of beet farmers
and the redemption in callused hands."*
A letter came from Pryor, Oklahoma:
"Recognize the perfume?"
The only line.
Printer paper close, inhale --
my mind drifts to my former
high cheekbone'd bride, Skye.
Evangeline bedded her spindly body.
Spite, spite, spite.
Confused, I answered her call on the
first morning of December.
Tent living with a retired acrobat on
the growing shoreline of Lake Texoma,
she downed a mixed bag of his sleeping meds,
and sleeping by his side, she fantasized about me.
*"I think you drank too much in my dreams.
I woke up dissatisfied."*
Once she arrived in Irving, I mailed her
my edit of her suicide note.
A call to say it looked good,
and she'd let me know if she ever had
to use it.
I never heard from her again.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
In a world of uncertainty
here lies a prayer.
An earnest one at night
with her hands clasped together before her lips,
a wishful thinking by day;
a talk to evangeline,
a whisper to the gust.
You are my dandelion,
You are every petal of it.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
(Morning Poetry with Lola)
Wednesday started with a cold, cold morning.
i wrapped myself with a thick blanket,
hid my "popsicle toes,".....seeking warmth
from recollections that played in my mind
like pleasant, joyful summer, music.
when my kids were toddlers,
i started them off with, "all things bright and
beautiful, all creatures great and small..."
but, as they grew a little older, my mother,
she woke them up each morning with,
"o captain, my captain,
our fearful trip is done..."
and then, tomorrow, we would hear,
" i shot an arrow into the air
it fell to earth...i knew not where,"
the next morning, my mother's feature could be,
"of course, i love my country,
the land in which i live,"
some days we would hear reruns....but,
the week would never be complete, without
her most favored one....which, she delivered
with a valiant voice, while pounding her chest:
"...i am the master of my fate;
i am the captain of my soul!"
my kids rubbed-open their eyes in awe,
as they listened to their lola..'til they were done
with their morning rituals.
their lola kept a copy of longfellow's evangeline
but she didn't live long enough
to share it with her five great-granddaughters.
God knows...my late mother knows, i did my part,
to open the eyes...and minds of these girls,
to waken THAT awareness in them, that would
make them see, and feel...the beauty of poetry.
not everyone realizes the importance,
the necessity.....of poetry,
that life itself...........is poetry,
that, when you're a poet,
and when you're deep into it,
........you cannot just let go
for, it clings to your heart and soul,
it is like,
your second skin
...................
it's a hard habit
to break.
..................
............
the older girls read poetry...and mythology, as well,
a mix of classic and contemporary,
......but they and i, have added thoreau,
dylan thomas, teasedale, and many more
names to their lola's most favored
longfellow, henney, and whitman.
.................
.......
Sally
Copyright December 7, 2017
rrab
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
Evangeline, on the soulless night of February, I continue growing my broken wings. I remain sentimental, wasting my tears away. When I look at you, all I sense is the growing impatience that I will never be able to sit with you.
Even if I bloom with these wings and my graceful tears, I don't believe you will hear my silent pleas and whimsical, hopeful yearnings.
I am a tree with seeds of sadness buried deep in the earth. A rotting fruit of desires. I could never be as majestic as you, chère Evangeline. I am eloquently silent, with my lips tightly shut; I am a crumbling mountain, and madness slowly decapitates my light—but make it poetical.
Make my sadness profoundly graceful. Make my body arch like the slipper orchids. Make me a beautiful yet distant star, Evangeline.
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 2:39 AM UTC
They said that she had fairy skin
And cinnamon dusted hair,
A sleepy countenance, a ragged demeanour;
They said “she’s never quite..there."
Her fingers, when I saw her
Were tangled into a wreath.
Their fragile veins seemed about to snap
But she sat so calmly in her seat.
What a waste of a fine young lady, I say,
As she muses at the sky;
An excess of poetic form
Has made her mad and shy.
And yet I harbour a fascination
For one so truly lost,
Who cannot tell real from dreams,
Who nightmares do accost.
And oh, what a beautiful sight
To see one stay so naive.
At least, I say, I’m not the kind
To pin my heart up on my sleeve.
And once again the monotony
Of another day rushes past,
And the sea inside ****** the back of my eyes, I see
An exquisite pointillism of stars.
Maybe she’s the one with the luck of the Irish,
And I’m just a manifestation of routine.
She’s awake and full of fireworks,
And I’m just half asleep.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
**** You, Evangeline
I hated you in the seventh grade
When you were pushed on me at school
And broke my rib,
As I badmouthed you on the monkeyswings.
But quickly I learned
Not from mom or sister
That to be a man is different than
Hollywood and Disneyland
Nothing Loves, Actually; Forever calls—
Very quickly
It seems
That I go from adorable to expendable
Serendipitously,
With a bit of mandated mail
And affairs with Eros’ bureaus of State
Back then I played with chitinous bugs
Baiting them fluffy placentas
of budding trees
And stalked them back to their cave
Before I knew my felonies
But I was a baby,
A child—I never could have known what it means.
But of course I do,
I’ve seen
the running of the bulls
The utterance of men
They are angry and gouge *******
with cold vicegrips around their ******
And are kicked
Mercilessly
Spurned to wrathful affectation
To be murdered in the evening
With rapturous spectation
“But they are bulls!”
Of course they are
"These feelings are only natural!"
No man can equate
With the pleasurable temptations of the state
Not bird or bug or steer or doe
The only Hierarchy permissible
Is of the animals
And of that we hate
I don’t see you woeing
About that steak on your plate.
Or the Glue in the soles of your shoes.
Stroll a bit
Sniff the trees
Whiff the ********
When it’s in the feed
He runs in circles shouting, chanting
“Oye, Oye, Aye Piche Cabrone!”
As the solo mothers cut his lengua
for the starving Ninos
In an apartment complex
off Oxenhoof Lane
Where
Papi got iced
By I.C.E or the like
And the kiddies will never know what it means.
You’ll never know what it means
To be a bull
Muster your might for this—demand with laughter you die
I am an ant in the ever-washed hive
Of sterile kin who have no lives
They give for their queen or infectious despot with wings
Despite all the kindness they've given me,
I am not ready to be meat for the feet.
In every blade of grass I've faith
That no bird or sin will ****** me from my place
And into the sky or the unsatiated mouth of the various
Disunified highs
For now I share the toil and vitriolic
Callous
Jowls of those who hate themselves
More than me
And try to smile and bring food for the queen
But deep inside
I am an ant
And that is all you will ever see.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 1:46 PM UTC
“This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe….?”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline
Among
the murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
We stay in a log cabin built by men displaced by the Great Depression;
Who would have said that it was not great at all.
Losing their pride, then earning it back again.
Here we stay,
Provided a place by those men of the New Deal
Those builders who poured out their labor, their time,
Their thoughts, their words among themselves;
And they, I think, must stay here, too.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
I’m reading a book of poetry
it's nine hundred pages long,
penned by a man of many dreams
whose words are historical songs.
I remember reading those words
when we studied him back in school,
the class was "American Lit"
masters of the "poets pool".
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
whose work has endured the years,
ole "Wordy Wadsworth” he was named
by the men who were his peers.
His writings contain many musings
spanning the centuries of time,
my favorite story of all
a narrative poem, "Evangeline".
This particular poem, a masterpiece
blending talent, knowledge, and heart,
containing pathos, love, and history
t’was recounting the “Cajun” start.
Numerous stories he's told
using plenty more words, or few,
tales wringing either hard, or soft
embellished with wondrous hues.
Spellbound, in awe of his words
I'm carried away on the wings,
of thoughts, dreams and fantasies
to where his poetic muse springs.
~
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
When my birth canal becomes important, I want to create
nature. Unforgotten nature.
Her name will be of the moon or of the heavens –
my Luna, my Evangeline,
I even thought of giving her my stuffed pet’s title, my childhood
best friend. She was a cat with a bell around her neck
but I cut that off, I already knew of lone *******
When more threads between my legs are loosened, as I only
would slit for beard or baby,
it is not a wound but nature unforgotten, fresh fruit.
I want to have a daughter
who someone will **** the morning breath out of and remember
that her freckles are midnight stars, that he or she
has a piece of heaven within them. Oxygen and eggs –
my daughter, a woman in the twelfth grade.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
i had a dream you were just holding my hand
because you didn't want to taste my cigarette breath
and we were out on the porch swing
i couldn't squeeze your fingers tight enough
your head rested on my shoulder
and we sang in our hearts to evangeline
it was six minutes we went silent
in the warm darkness
there weren't stars or any form of light
but your breathing was on my neck
and i wanted to cry
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Concave
i savor each divet and dive
contrive symbols and words on smooth skin
dusted with faint golden hairs
like archaic scriptures
written before time was a thing
we kept track of
so i dont keep track of
my mind
as these shakes send me into riffs of euphoric bliss
and each grazing touch
brings me closer to the soul
on this journey of self discovery
a trip from which Ill never return
I burn two incense
at the same time
one for Kelly
one for Evangeline
the release flows into one another
as they sweetly invade my permeable mind
tearing it down
til it becomes
ash
soft and sweet
with only recognition of what its burning for
my hands travel more
and i dive deeper within
the soul begins
to escape my pores
wide open doors
this temple is mine
to explore
bones and flesh
the beauty arrests
my attention
and i have never felt a more beautiful being
with each lingering caress
sparks tickle and jest
and there is nothing more that I need
than this endless exchange
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Children Waiting for the School Bus
Children still wait for the yellow school bus
Along old country roads as early spring
Makes green the happy springtime of their lives
They carry backpacks now, and wear shoes every day
Because
The State of Texas sternly forbids bare feet
In the sacred halls of learning, even in the heat
Children ignore the passing cars, and joy
In their new world of giggles and first crushes
Cedar-wood pencils and Evangeline –
We too still wait for that yellow school bus
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
when Evangeline tells you that you’re dead to her,
you feel as if you are chained to a sinking ship,
permanently trapped at the bottom of the ocean,
and drowning has never seemed so sweet.
as she leaves,
you realise that this is the closest blessing you will ever receive
from a god that you don’t believe in anymore.
because if she didn’t walk away,
you would drag her down to hell with you
before you’d even consider letting her go
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
“**Hineni, Hineni; I’m ready, my lord.”
(For Evangeline Ruth Hope**)
<>
*”Hineni is Hebrew for “here I am,” and is the response
Abraham gives when God calls on him
to sacrifice his son Isaac. It is also the name of a
prayer of preparation and humility, addressed to God”*
<>
*what you do not know
is that this word,
was spoken with a fist beating
a pin into the praying man’s chest
recited daily,
shades of hopeful, reverent resonance,
a shaded resolution, disguised as a quavering variable,
a statement, a questioning, an unsteady surety,
all of the above
this word, rooted in my genetic consciousness,
been ready repeated since my first whispering
was I ten years aged?
first time, full on bowing
on the synagogue floor, not fully understanding or
ready to confess my selfish need for forgiveness,
my forehead resting on my stubbed fingers resting on carpet,
worn thin by my predecessors ancestors,
who now comprehend more, but then, never enough
these same fingers, that write this collective,
Hineni,
a word repeated oft, flavoring of the who
of who I am, a training in soul fracking from
early childhood, its import, powerful beyond
today’s identity revisionist empowering
let me plainly speak, in the original language
taught to me with that other tag along, English,
a lingua franca, a dialect that can never capture
a soul presenting himself in substantiated readiness
for the whatever exists in between
hallelujah and hineni, where the rubber soul
hits the road, stumbling on hands and knees
on a forest path of roots and soil, where sunlight breaks tween
branches, are road signs to look up, look down, look within
I know your name,
Evangeline Ruth Hope
analyzed its components,
cleverly constructed Greek and Hebrew rooted,
bearer of good tidings, following Ruth in, to hope,
you a Moabite in Mormon Utah, preparing
yourself for exposure, practicing humility
unceasingly seeking
good
that is how it should be
cannot translate well enough
what was this gift given to me
learning as a youth, a wanderer, tribal member
where beseeching is second nature,
and accepting personal responsibility fully cardinal,
fiddling prayers while standing unsteady on
the roofs of extreme shakiness
hineni is then but this:
a prideful admission of strength
ready ready ready, here I am,
completely unready for the unknown future foretold,
hineni I know
here I am,
ready or not,
find me so I can be found,
cease, help me cease, my foundering,
confident in my willingness to
find a way*
netanel
9/12/19
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 8:27 AM UTC