"flaxen" poems
I was a cottage maiden
Hardened by sun and air
Contented with my cottage mates,
Not mindful I was fair.
Why did a great lord find me out,
And praise my flaxen hair?
Why did a great lord find me out,
To fill my heart with care?
He lured me to his palace home--
Woe's me for joy thereof--
To lead a shameless shameful life,
His plaything and his love.
He wore me like a silken knot,
He changed me like a glove;
So now I moan, an unclean thing,
Who might have been a dove.
O Lady kate, my cousin Kate,
You grew more fair than I:
He saw you at your father's gate,
Chose you, and cast me by.
He watched your steps along the lane,
Your work among the rye;
He lifted you from mean estate
To sit with him on high.
Because you were so good and pure
He bound you with his ring:
The neighbors call you good and pure,
Call me an outcast thing.
Even so I sit and howl in dust,
You sit in gold and sing:
Now which of us has tenderer heart?
You had the stronger wing.
O cousin Kate, my love was true,
Your love was writ in sand:
If he had fooled not me but you,
If you stood where I stand,
He'd not have won me with his love
Nor bought me with his land;
I would have spit into his face
And not have taken his hand.
Yet I've a gift you have not got,
And seem not like to get:
For all your clothes and wedding-ring
I've little doubt you fret.
My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride,
Cling closer, closer yet:
Your father would give his lands for one
To wear his coronet.
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I can remember the first time I laid
My eyes upon the love of my life, Lucia.
Her skin was so fair, like flaxen;
Like a shade of summer sunlight.
Her eyes were like blue sapphires.
Her cheekbones were high
And very delicately drawn.
Her chin pointed her mouth
Accented with two deep dimples.
Hers was a delicate, fragile beauty.
She had the elegance of the Queen;
And the purity of the Holy Madonna.
At first I never looked upon her with lust.
I just gazed in the depths of her bottomless
Blue eyes and discovered chivalric impulses
I never knew I had. Protective instincts
I thought had long since died in my childhood.
I esteemed Lucia with such fervor that
Is bestowed on the blessed ****** Mary.
But be warned . . .
For this might happen to you too.
One day your fine the next day
You are sighing at the sound of Lucia's name;
And writing verses of bad poetry in her honor!
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 1:32 PM UTC
we walk with faces to the sky
the goddesses on earth
our words from a breathless heartsigh
we appear with old grecian beauty
and not such modern masks
it comes in hand with our ancient virtues
true to our everlasting tasks
hera; dark curls and flaming passion
striking down all who cross her
thin and wary is she
artemis; earthy flesh and midnight coils
gentle to the wild and bow-weilding
athletic and kind is she
demeter; flaxen tresses and tenderness
protecting her wards
mothering and calm is she
athena; thick legs and honey hair
raising blood-soaked war flags
wise and fearless am i
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
flat at
flake lake
flame lame
flamenco cool
flamingo goof
flapped lapped
flayed layed
flavor vortex
flannel electricity
flag lag
flash lash
flaxen axen
flab lab
flail ail
flattering ring
flaw law
flair air
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Moody mornings
roughly plaited hair
still letting a few tresses
tickle my forehead
and touch my lips
only to make
my smile wider
These eyes see
more than what
the landscape holds
more than what is told
by the deceiving beings
of the deceiving earth.
It’s a beautiful lie
beneath the palpable skies
and the fathomable oceans.
So I’ll just lie
on this beach
in my blue slippers
and let the sand
fill the pores
of my flaxen skin
while the dolphin flipper.
It’s just a matter of time.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
i.
O'
Timely
Apricity;
ii.
Mayest thou
Warm, and blanketeth
Me; as a neonate, as
Thou shalt gorgonize
Me, from within the space,
Ourn embracing is a cataract,
Of heavied chime-together laced.
iii.
Thine speak is comely, Concord
To mine earshot; the copse is
Surrounding, none manor
Needed, just the coney's,
With the delightful tree's,
veneering ourn cot.
iv.
Exhaling all ourn woes
And sorrow's, as if none
Tommorrow; None haste,
And none distaste, house-
Leeks groweth whilst the
Flaxen colored roses follow.
v.
O' oriental Apricity
I'm cold mine lass,
I'm freezing fast;
This winter day
Hath chilled mine
Soul, I needeth thine
Fire-place, to heateth these bones.
Though far-flung, away on stretched water's.
I'm awaiting for thee, mine queen, O' Apricity,
I'm awaiting O' queen, mine swart of the sea, thou holdeth the lock, tis I hath the key, here thou goeth amour', open it up, flyeth on through-setteth me free.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
~
*She reads the flaxen paper on her wall,
sees its patterns,
touches them.
They project her confusion in cold chamber light.
Stained hands,
convoluted heartbeat,
she creeps into the wall's design.
"Hysteria every time she opens her mouth," said the doctor.
"Rest will cure her."
She is nostrum,
and not permitted
to participate in her own diagnosis.
A man decides how she is allowed to perceive
and speak about the world around her.
Next time you're alone, look quickly at the wallpaper.
Look for the patterns and lines and faces on the wall.
Look, if you can, for her, visible only
out of the corner of your eye...*
~
Sep 16, 2021
Sep 16, 2021 at 8:08 AM UTC
The young maiden,
with eyes the color of the green-blue sea,
porcelain skin,
and the face of an angel.
She had a hyacinth in her flaxen hair.
She is the hyacinth girl,
with beauty words can't describe,
and the grace of a princess.
Today somebody called me the hyacinth girl,
words nobody has ever said to me.
Glancing at the image in the mirror,
I didn't believe her words.
grotesque,
revolting,
and disappointing.
are all compliments that I have received generously.
hyacinths - however, I have never received.
"words with malicious intent, were never actually intended maliciously", they said.
they led me to believe,
that I could never be the hyacinth girl,
that I see deep inside of me.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
you made my blood clot,
so slowly and gently,
coagulating beneath your faint touch.
on flaxen sheets of rough cotton
I watched your plants
rolling their limbs out your open window.
they sprawled themselves, unravelling,
yearning for the gentle kiss
of the suns rays.
an almost ****** photosynthesis.
and for you I would sprawl myself out too,
and with the same eagerness
absorb every scent of yours into my flesh,
and drink desperately from your soul
like a cacti in its first summer shower
since '89.
and your final gasp,
with me, but a sponge
for your every metaphoric suppuration,
and literal secretion.
and you were transfixed there,
spurting auras of sin and love.
a final burst of ecstasy,
you soon became my anticoagulant.
you seeped into my bloodstream,
reversing this gentle coagulation.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
i.
Certes, where wouldst I be, without the visitant who visited me, hallow and calefacient is mine sweet. Her camaca flaxen brown far east bisayan covering, like the wind upon her bones; Cling's on to wing's crystalline, hovering.
ii.
Many callisteias doth she hath, even in her most burdened of day's, light echoes the wall's of her laugh. Her nacre eyne, as a naos doth garnish the sign; spelling "ángelos mou".
iii.
I phlebotomized pond's of despair's tether's, I implored God for the mate of mine soul; even pictured this vasílissa in mine pounding blood's fetters. Thus one moment, in death's valley, undeservingly the Trinity whom always was and is; gifted me mine other-half, the woman from Asia's tribal secrets, the one with a aureole surrounding her chest.
iv.
Now, after generation's of awaiting, just to touch her luminescence I won't tire, nor debate the timing; for all
Cometh in good time, I just thanketh mine Yahweh.
For its his daughter he didst send, thus me didst he
Openeth mine eyen. O' blest divine, O' blest divine.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) Dedication
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
A Princess in the castle tower
The night has just begun
A prisoner of beauty's power
lies hidden from the sun
The darkness welcomes loneliness
the moonlight disappears
A north wind sings an ancient song
to reinforce her fears
She offers up a hopeless plea
to any god who cares
While knowing nothing ever came
from unpretentious prayers
Abandoning the waking world
she dreams of being free
Dancing on a pedestal
for everyone to see
But the morning sun appears again
to welcome back her tears
A devastating ray of gold
illuminates her fears
While outside on the windowsill
the jester starts to sing
And gently pulls the curtain closed
to hide the flaxen string
She hears the children laugh and cheer
The jester tells a joke
He wears a hat of silver bells
to camouflage the hoax
The maiden slowly comes to life
beneath the jester’s power
Another grand performance
by the Princess in the tower
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
*in purple haze of reverie, the gentle visitor came
beckoning kindly…come, come to
our V I R I D I A N world* . . .
1.
On our cerulean sphere
You need have no query, nor fear
We open our non-gravity planet to guests
Even unlikely earthlings who pass the simplest flaxen-test.
2.
Much less needed, we bedaub
Our flavescent lava-vision, going beyond the orb
Mild kaleidoscopic fandango-swirls is our mossy cyan-matter
Triplet-hue colours felt only by the revered and well-known mad Hatter.
3.
To let you in on the cosmic-latte ripple
Our flowers range from acid-green to African purple
Blast-off bronze flora dance-blaze in burnt sienna fields
Alabama crimson rocks and aureolin skies over anti-flash white seas.
4.
We confabul8 with deer, breezes, plumes
Such creatures roam free, for we do not consume
As slumber befalls us not, you wonder how we spend time
Frolic in universal peace; to welcome home stars as our rhyme.
*you are so welcomed, celestial guest
Vortexiamus awaits
only
you*
S T, 28 july 2013
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Reminiscent in my face
I see Eurydice
Trapped behind in shadows while
My Orpheus walks on free
Free to dwell in Sunlight
From whence his form found shape
Hewn from gold, from earth and dust
Spun from flaxen rays.
Just up above, just out of reach
From splayed out fingertips
That leak of shadow, wreak of dark
That find no grasping grip.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
roses
spurted as if from fountains atop messy beds
of lilies and lilacs,
jumbled together in a rush of colour that
seemed to have more and more detail
the more you gazed at it.
the sun shone
over the garden like liquid honey
melting over the peeling paint
of the white trellis that held
twining ivy
and heavily scented jasmine in its grasp.
and there, glazing the morning garden,
lay an aureate, flaxen
glow.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
Her feathered cloak was threaded with the gold of the sun
To the queen, celestial bodies did bow
She walks upon still reflections of a pale flaxen moon
Emerald 12-point crown resting upon innocent brow
So came the fire breathing scaled red dragon
To devour the coming male child
So the rotting script told
Whose birth would be challenged by open battle
Transcended from the legends of old
The jade eyed dragon of a human’s dream
Burnt away innumerable points of light
The creatures flames were all-consuming
The weapons of his strength and might
In fury and anger with bellowing sound
Sharp claws dripping with evil
Ripped through quivering walls of time
Igniting shimmering waves of reality
Reflected off the emerald crown
The dragon’s breath laced with smoke and poison
Alas would avail him naught
Defeated, disgraced and overcome
Spread dark wings and from the queen took flight
The screaming male child born with mercies hand to rule
Paused his breath to hear Gods cry
Ascended to the throne of he who created the world
Forever in the golden house to stand at his side.
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Dec. 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
Not the drip of freeway from Pittsburgh but a rough trundle
on chalk roads as flaxen skies shade to molten celluloid
and I can still see them
flash in August fields like a crop of traffic lights
they flare as hay-bale paparazzi or
floaters in the humour and hang
careless in seasonable decadence
so I’ll pass from the frigid, processed air
and join them in their closeness.
No buzz but a minor hum coming from the
moment’s luminosity and then they’re gone
making good on thunder’s empty promise.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
yes, i have not removed an inch of makeup, these
past three days.
i can still taste beers and united kingdom’s colloquialisms
on my burdened
tongue.
and i have holes in stockings and black-and-blues
brushing my collarbone.
weekends, two and a half days, winding among unbolted
doors that lead to what you want but can’t admit
sober.
yes, i still feel every inch when i saunter through flaxen
leaves. how did i never notice such colors
before?
let the world be your oyster, except i’m vegetarian. so let it be my
sea. ocean. every drop that i never tasted.
fingers taste much better when they’re being
shoved beneath your front teeth.
five in the morning is the perfect time for screaming at lies
you cannot see through. for falling onto beds that cannot hold
more than one person but you trytrytry anyway.
yes, i do not know where i am going anymore,
but this tingling in my toes must mean
something.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
avatar, avatar
wispy locks of flaxen pixels
tender doe eyes, fragmented
gentle curves and
GLITCH: 1.v - acne
>solve>run - apply.coverup.resolve
...pending
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother’s in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father’s heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father’s name—
Ah, William, were thine own the same,—
No self-reproach—but, let me cease—
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger’s breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—
A Father’s heart is thine, my Boy!
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature’s claims disown?
Ah, no—though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
Oh,’twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o’er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen’s form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy!
1.4k
He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton
Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room
His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up
He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to
He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps
He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted
He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder
You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana
He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers
His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout
Don’t keep your eyes peeled
You won’t find his face
on a milk carton
This boy isn’t really missing
He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law
But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore
So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”
and hope I still have one
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
We encountered a white-tiled wall whose
purity lingered behind earthly browns,
salmon, grass, lavender acrylic paint. And this frozen scene chilled like hot breath on winter
glass, soil-mixed dividing stories of young, smiley-touched
girls whose hair was flaxen hills in
the country and whose
eyes were opalescent azures whose opalescence
was truly the only sign of thought beyond a
glassy grin.
Porcelain doll made of giggles and bubbles.
She fanned her fingers in a glorious sky and leaf peacock-feathered exuberance and pawed at the dry, gritty scene of a sailboat floundering towards a sunset.
She sees this world feelingly – one touch, two touch
Her smile is prayer-folded hands extending across her own little world
A prayer for this textured caricature of a little girl,
a happy puppet stuck until dark,
like the form the woman she’ll soon become
with her child-like fingers spidering across the stories she hopes to [but never will] tell.
Her dusty hands against the comforting tinge of a watermelon’s epicenter.
So pink, so raw, so vulnerable with the valor of another brush’s turn.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Our little teenage babushka
Carina Marie
flaxen haired beauty
with caramel pink complexion
and starlight eyes
I watch as you paint the world
with a vivid imagination and
the rich, dayglo colors of your
palette
Although I do wonder why you
hang cans from the ceiling
and tape a fork to the fan
all with an avant-garde shrug of
your shoulders
and a blasé smile
I see the hidden potential
bursting forth like a sudden
downpour of sunshine
A bright door opens in
the golden mist
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
From her flawless golden skin
To her flaxen hair and wide eyes
She is the goddess he wishes he had
She is perfection
Pixelated perfection.
And how can I compete?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
I gaze upon this flaxen-haired,
Blue-eyed, fair lady.
She lights the spark for every flame
Burning deep in me.
Her peacefulness is humble.
Her charm, quite a delight!
I know no other like her.
She's a peculiar sight.
Lovely is this woman,
How she helps my weary soul.
Soon, she'll call herself my wife.
Set in motion are these goals.
Everything of which I dreamed,
I find hiding in her!
She's the only one for me:
Blue-eyed, flaxen-haired Debbie.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
On Saturn again
watching you exist silently
on the moon.
The craters keep you company
as you pick up a silver spoon.
You stick it in your mouth—
Ah, what fortune in this!
Alas, the elation is short lived.
I saw a flaxen haired girl from Venus
make her way to you.
She flew across the stars, her hair turned
a lighter shade of blonde by the sun,
and like an angel she existed in your presence.
Like the rest, those from Pluto and Mars,
you sent her back to sail across the stars
lingering on your ideals of staring down at the
Earth with unruly disdain—
I’ll watch you from Saturn
as blood drips through my veins.
I question your motives,
Your heartless façade
but deep down inside
I’ll love you more
than that of the moon
and the stars.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC