"floodgate" poems
How can we not feel Adam’s pain
See the features of this creature
Tortured by people’s disdain
And not weep at his wretched state
Frankenstein’s creation
From his strange life equation
Electrical innovation
In that once marvelous now dead age
How can we not feel Adam’s pain
The child with no real name
Only a borrowed nomenclature
To define his human inhumane nature
Torches and Preachers calling for his head
Love denied never finding peace
This so called beast could rip us to shreds
Tear our flesh asunder and squash our heads
But when he speaks racked with life’s pain
A horridly embellished mirror of my own
My defenses break opening the floodgate
And the monster makes me cry
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
My eyes see nothing but tears
Tears of a million suffering souls
Souls that are swimming in the pool of poverty
Poverty created by a few egocentric individuals
My ears hear nothing but the tone of grievances
Grievances blossoming from excessive suffering
Suffering because of the alarming levels of idleness
Idleness because the lot is controlled by a few
My nose smells nothing but pungent poverty
A poverty that has become a national disaster
A disaster which has become a national emblem
An emblem that the world identifies us with
My mouth has become a floodgate of lamentations
Lamentations that blossoms from excessive pain
Pain which has become an inseparable part of everyone
Everyone has lost hope of seeing a brighter day
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
Open a floodgate of emotion
The motion of the ocean
Stick your hands through my chest so i can feel the devotion
Pulsing
Twisting
Unfolding
My heart in your hands
Eat it whole so i can feel safe again
Your personal markings are blurry
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
& heads turn in disgust.
Faced with lust & deeds
Of mistrust.
When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky,
Time will cease to exist.
While some of us ascend
The staircase.
Not all of us will be so fortunate
In a desert of red.
In any case,
No matter which way you go,
Wait for me.
Wait for me at the floodgate
Which passion percolates &
The stars weep for us as we do
For them.
Don’t breathe without me,
Just as I wouldn’t without you.
Humble & unknowing
I don’t know what’s to become of us
But I do know,
I don’t want to be without you.
When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky.
Wait for me,
No matter what happens
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 11:16 AM UTC
i.
Let the quartz
yellow citrine floodgate's flappeth open;
Their connected to the hip's, up to mine sweet Jane's lip's
Leading to heaven, thither the celestial, she's an extraterrestrial.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
somewhere between the
first date and the last date
Joni Mitchell,
she, me
encapsulates
I'm remembering well,
pounding the dashboard of a red Jag,
laughable now, mocking this fool's need
for a middle age conceit,
his heart to restart,
reactivate
in enthusiastic lockstep with the voice of the
Joni, the blonde goddess of his youth,
foot falling in love, with the accelerator,
speeding along
at a
joyous sixty five,
in places where the signs said,
"thirty five to stay alive"
this aged Rip Van Winkle teenager,
in reverse osmosis of Big,
an old buck, come back to antlered life,
singing along to the CD disc
set on
backdate
*I could drink case of you,
and still be on my feet*
and he could
rediscovering the champagne taste
of a great first date,
feeling the heated blood and fevered mind,
symptoms of the pleasures of a robust
anticipate
thinking she's the one
who will make him great,
happy greater, greater happy
than that one ever, ever,
he thought was roulette~wheel possible,
landing on the red of hopeful for a
floodgate
overture spilling
months, days, minute minute moments (tiny time intervals),
of the fated faded last date later, the next eve, next day
or the next of never,
comes the
deflate
but then,
Joni singing comfort words,
reminding him that he would be,
wisely, sadly seeing, feeling,
both sides now, and yet again,
getting his mind back to
straight
*I've looked at love that way,
but now it's just another show.
you leave 'em laughing when you go,
and if you care, don't let them know,
don't give yourself away*
a grown man punk'd, blasted,
dumb and dumber, dumped,
a feeling sorry sad sack self,
until he himself
reflates,
drink another case,
onto yet another
magical mystery first
date
pounding that dashboard once again,
believing it's not too late
that perfect roommate heart's to find and
captivate,
to attain, invade, acquaint and laughingly...
serenade
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
A prisoner of the hallucination,
hardly happy, quick to open a floodgate of personal misery,
talking often of unique pain, of places before been,
asking only for sympathy and creative license-
Past Ring Bearer/Future Funeral Singer,
you're selfish to think you mean much at all.
What was always is,
greater wisdom is greater sorrow,
ask the holograms begging on boulevards,
ask the nihilists and the naysayers,
or even the understanding heart of Solomon.
Life is a pastoral play using pastels,
washed away and rewritten over and over again.
Your superior melancholy is the loudest cliché.
If you've got any love, cradle it like a newborn babe.
It's the reason that will make you glad you stayed.
For every headstone,
there once was a bouquet.
For every brown, breaking leaf,
there once was a summer breeze.
For every noose-a necktie,
for every slave-a free.
No need to trudge the trough,
no need to join in the polyphonic symphony
of 7 billion people drowning under the current of time,
there is only personal progression,
but you have to shut up and dream for a second.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 9:05 AM UTC
I was facing upwards
Toward the machinery of solar bursts
In an attempt
to harness
the power
of
oblivion
I could feel jolts of electricity
Passing through me
Via the star interface
The planets were tangible
at one point
they started
to communicate
with me
Telepathic intervention
The committee of sleep
was calling me out
in a hallucination of reality
They preached of untapped energy
A floodgate opened
pouring presence
of my racing thoughts
and the rest
of the trafficked ghosts
of inspiration
Slit the throat
of the communication vortex
At the risk of spilling my guts
But I needed to say something
I was at the edge of my own impulses
Trying to hold myself back from jumping
To feel alive
as long as I'm falling
back into the arms
of my sacred sanctuary
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Hound-dog swallowing poly-coated pills, filling up, bloated, falling off stage, and into a more permanent and lasting Graceland, to be surrounded by another’s verse.
I only enjoy what comes from my own head, a modern Samuel Johnson, no matter what happenstance brought about to be said, a cage free Bronson. Hearing false verse through a syllable count, hoisted onto adverbs easy to mount. Congratulate a lesser mind, reaching commonalities most could find. Ease in creation, opens floodgate doors, distributing specs of grace through misworded spores. Life, love, and the pursuit of vanity, leaves simplified lumps of prosperous thought riddled with anonymity. The invention of despair overwhelms those ungifted, and leaves them erecting stale forgeries they grifted.
In the wee small hours of escaping light, a crooner steadies his hands as he falsifies his originality, reading off the music from another’s sheet.
A change in topic is something to hold as worthy, though in a modern context of prosaic prose, such good fortune can be exceptionally elusive. Broken hearted symptoms shared through a hash-tag, rerouted and worded, to fit an illiterate youth’s lesser diction, reposted to approach validity, only to be called forth as an original soul, one to revere, and hold as an entitled fraction of logic.
The piano man knocks out a tune, hit in stride with vocal conduct, inspired and laid in pen by a lesser man propelled by better wording, given up for another’s career.
Market’s over-saturated with teenage sonnets, weeping over cut wrists, ended (Victorian inspired) trysts, refreshed and brought back around until sentimentality vomits. Themes used to run rampant with fresh ingenuity, made extinct, occurred in a blink; now every poem has some congruency.
The grapevine got entangled, getting involved with a troublemaker, providing the soundtrack, using another’s words.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
She is not merely a bookworm
She does not read for pleasure
She reads to survive
She reads to distract herself
She reads to thrive
Her words do not collect dust upon the shelf.
She is a devour-er of books
Ink drips from her lips as she tries to
Contain the words that she bleeds
She exhales chaotic eloquence
Her tongue wrestles to wrap around words more
consumed than heard
Her mind races to find that one perfect
syllable to turn her phrase from
biting and bitter to
savory yet sarcastic
Her smirk is merely a collapsing floodgate
Words will soon flood free
Watch her eyes, you'll see
She is not merely a bookworm
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
he's a much sobered man
when he's drunk
words then flow with elan
he's a jolly hunk.
he's a much sweeter pal
tipsy when he is
nice and warmly liberal
he puts you at ease.
does it so smooth
each inspiring peg
no more uncouth
he's no more a dreg.
when drunk he's at his best
never was a kind sweeter man
unburdened of his heavy breast
he kisses long ignored woman.
when boozed he's passionate no doubt
the hidden emotions are in spate
his heart freely speaks out
opens his secret's floodgate.
next morn he can't just recall
why stands an empty goblet
he lies in smell of alcohol
worries aren't light on his chest.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Whisper of fragrance
invade the senses
as you wrapped your hands
around my neck pulling me down
two bodies chiseled on white sheets
shimmer in the evening glow
mouths part as
tongues mingle and
breathe becoming one
opens the floodgate to
delightful promises
heralding the ecstasy to come
Firm warm ******* paid
homage to by loving hands
two sentinels standing at
attention are slowly encircled
and tantalized into
sweet surrender
fleshy carvings of alabaster wraps
around my torso trapped and imprisoned
Eros deep in earnest passion
shy blushing pink swells with delight
nymphs and satyrs frolic
behind the bushes
The bed heaves and sway alive and joyful
with cries of overwhelming emotions
as lovers are transported
into delicious rapture
and the mystery of love
is finally consummated
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
It's not that
my heart
has been ripped
from my chest
leaving
a gaping hole.
My heart
remains
inside my ribcage
necrotic
gangrenous
rotten
infection spreading.
When I say
I run
until
my feet bleed
I am lying.
In truth
I continue running
long after mere blood
as every inch of skin
is scraped off the soles
then the flesh
until
I am running
on my bare bones
and my unceasing footfalls
grind them to dust.
I describe
the way I cut
into my skin
without mentioning
that I ran
out of space
on that surface
long ago.
Now my knives
dig deeper
severing tendons
and muscles
and when those are done
I start tearing
pieces
out of my flesh
so I resemble
a half-eaten
carcass.
The word "bleeding"
does not describe
the torrent
that pours from me
like ink from a broken pen
no
like water exploding
from a crack in a pipe
no
like a floodgate
opening
letting all the liquid out and leaving behind
a muddy landscape that eventually dries
becoming scored with spiderweb cracks.
It's not that
my bones
are breaking.
None of them
are whole
anymore
what's breaking now
are the pieces
smaller and smaller
they are sharp, tiny shards
piercing my dead heart
falling from my soleless feet, a trail behind me as I run
slicing into me from the inside as I assist them from without
swept along by the red flood
to lodge in my mind.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
If you can't stop the river,
ride the rapids 'til the water recedes.
After the flood
the crops will flourish.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Without rest
Words whither
Sizzle on a cellular level
Choking on daydream sands
Of a temporary mere mirage
Life shuffles on unlocked knees
Cramped back cracks
And spells of checked out self
A little voice cries in grief
Longing for your dive into
The dark lush dreaming tide
And to drown to life
In the sleep-struck rush
A floodgate of relief
So sleep.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
I woke up Tuesday morning
to the raindrops on the pane
it smells like spring is coming
but then all the clouds pretend
that hiding sunshine from the world
is a funny game to play
But Im not laughing, Im just getting
through the day
It seems a bit sophomoric
If I lit a match inside
there might be a hazard
to the structure of the walls
I hesitate a moment
and I ponder if its right
My conscience bleeding, Im just waiting
for the night.
First day mysteries
failing sunlight
swing the floodgate
doors wide open
and these hours
drown beneath tides
we will find these
clocks all brokened
now, now now...
...this is the moment I get over you
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 11:52 AM UTC
let’s ride a leafy kite
into the haunted space
of our universe
you can shove gerbils
all the way up my ****
near a hanging citrine sun
i’ll hoot for all the moons to hear
as they crawl up my crook
dipping their writhing heads
into my floodgate-lake;
our gallery of life.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
many things were beautiful.
beautiful, was the rain clouds.
the looming, navy puffs, that shadowed everything in sight.
beautiful, was a birthday dress, from your dad.
one complete with frills, and sequins, and vibrancy.
the love, the caresses, the joy behind it.
beautiful, was a peacock's feathers.
those, that they held in pride, flashing whenever they could.
beautiful, was the moment you described,
when the tension got too much to handle.
many things were beautiful.
but, i reckon that the most beautiful thing to be
seen, was your smile.
the fierce excitement, in your eyes, could
be more concise, than any dark blue floodgate for rain.
it could be prettier than a pink, fluffy dress, from your old man.
your smile, could be more enchanting, than the orange on a peacock.
it could be more emotional, than that one intense moment.
you see, many, many, many things could be described as beautiful.
but, your quirk of those pink, happiness-inclined lips, could change
the meaning of 'beauty', forever.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
A door
of trust
there may
open this
floodgate as
more orientals
come to
America again
in hopes
that their
meeting now
succumb as
such their
people live
well here
and want
eqaul pay.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
there's too many happenings lately;
it almost feels like
a floodgate breaking due to unseen circumstances,
the water gushing out, roaring, filling the silence with its cries.
it's as if everything feels like
an overwhelming amount of an odd concoction
of what seems to be problems,
diluted only by what i can assume is my sanity.
it's as if i'm drowning, my legs pulled deeper and deeper
underwater, everything and nothing all at once,
trying to fill my lungs until I choke;
there's too much of the world that i cannot simply take in.
and yet, look at me;
the feeling of drowning, the feeling of hopelessness
paralyzes me, fear drilling itself into my mind,
as it advances far into numerous possibilities i can only describe as overthinking.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
Loving you was either falling and getting right back up or suffocating waiting for the paramedics that never arrive.
We were a hurricane inside of a desert drought,
I was caught smiling into blue eyes of the storm
and it hasn't stopped raining in my peripheral vision ever since.
I was the dog behind your shed that you shot so many times but refuses to die because it has never loved anything more than I loved puking on our first date.
Loving you was like running my fingers across a map but never finding the X that marks the spot because it was under my shirt the whole time and you're some kind of twisted open heart surgeon.
And Happy ******* new year
I hope you got your wish
No matter how many times I blew out the candles the memory of your floodgate lips hasn't stopped drowning me in my sleep.
Loving you was like throwing stones in glass houses that still echoed your name.
And It was like reading this poem to a room full of blind people who have never seen love first hand but know exactly what I'm talking about when I describe the freckles on your shoulder blades.
Like being 5 years old and breaking my ankle over and over again
Like that hotel with a no vacancy sign lit up like your smile even though it has been empty since it's been born.
And I will love you until the clock hits 365 and decide that it's enough.
Because I was in love with the person you were pretending to be and not the demons that kept you up at night.
I could put your baby picture on the back of a milk carton but you're never coming back and I should stop looking.
But love has a habit of hunting you down
And I'd cut my own hands off before I'd ever stopped the search party.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
This is my graduation class
and I have bunked quite a few of them.
terrifyingly I realize it has to be a long time
for I am frantically looking for the college
the home of my graduation class
and here I am groping to get my way back
asking people the way to my college!
Must be my long absence playing tricks on my memory
but that hardly makes sense.
At last I find out the iron gate
from there a narrow passage shows flight of stairs
but my class, which floor is my class?
doesn't strike me the hush
as I run up the steps
wasn't it the fourth floor?
and when I reach it gasp for breath
my graduation class looks unfamiliar
so is the head stooping under the table lamp
his specs almost falling from nose
intently gazing at something
from the maze of electrical apparatuses spread before him.
I don't recollect having ever a teacher like him
but today I don't trust my memories
too many things I have forgotten
must be the fallout of missing classes for too long
the man there in my graduation class
has to be my teacher!
He looks up as I start speaking
*I'm sorry sir, being ill I've missed some classes
but I'll manage to catch up.*
Then it happens
my bag swings in the air
pulled by an invisible force!
He smiles at my awed face
*don't bother, you know, it's so strong
the electromagnetic field of course
such nasty pulls they make*
in a flash a floodgate opens
my graduation class doesn't have a lab inside
my bag by now flying in the air is an office bag
I have no business in the college anymore
I had left my graduation class
over three decades ago!
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC