"garbed" poems
A bleak motive, turning in a black backwards motion.
Fluent in rushing, pursuant in the crushing.
Ebony wood, the serenity compared to the knife.
A stifling recollection, within the house of corrections.
Was it a natural selection, gazing within the angel's reflection?
Garbed in white, and in her conviction.
A change of direction, now...
The resurrection of our mutual affection,
Was it over protection, or was it just mental rejection?
The pain was only an imperfection, built within all our disconnection.
My sense of direction gone within your vertical selection,
left with words- sharp like a needle;
sticking an intravenous injections.
So, should I offer my protection? Moments, within sight of the point of intersection?
No, keep on...
Keep on spreading the rejection infection.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
Introduction
There they stood; keeping silent company.
Yet of His face, wept searing electricity.
To the lovers of life
Here they stand, keeping silent company.
No utterance dealt; yet clear in both their minds
A single, brilliant truth:
He longs for her with a savage delight.
And it cries from every fibre, exalting!
It is in the bearing of his eye;
Rifling through her tender flesh
In search of what he knows, from voices ages old, is there:
That her heart will beat for no other as it beats for him right now;
That in this moment, their Souls are bared
To each other’s glares- naked, and blemished, and cowering-
Yet his eyes remain fixed and sure:
And for this, she loves him.
For they have seen each other for the First of Times,
Truly! And as with many the Ancient Laws unfurled,
They stand aware, in lack of ever being taught,
Aware with every atom, every straining tendon tight
That their time's so very short.
And so they drink… wordless
To each other, to their youth, and to their bodies
Shining like never before in the noonday air
Garbed in cloth that snaps and furls around their waists.
They imbibe with electric eyes,
Eyes that are new born to this world of light
And come out screaming, living, and sensitive
For lack of ever being touched.
They revel in their new-found joy;
Pouring from Her figure,
Of Her sleek, supple waist and the arch of her back,
Bristling with delight,
Of His strong hands and easy smile,
That spoke of laughter scattered
Across countless campfires of summers past.
Their light does burn intense as any fire,
And when their brimming anticipation
Overspills its crimson chalice
The silence shall SHATTER.
To find peace again in each other's arms.
Fumbling in sweet darkness-
Of heavy lids, of earthy flesh,
With lips embraced...
In ravenous finality.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
The new day still saw the man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan,
He was the plantation's tapper.
The evening sun had long set
Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness.
Relying on what little light the moon would let.
He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress.
His sack slung over one shoulder,
He found his way to his trusty ride.
Nightly routine he would execute over and over
Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide.
All day long, he had been thinking of the night before.
He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick.
As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more...
He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick!
As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track.
His eyes caught something that came within sight.
Standing by the side against a background of black.
There she was again...all garbed in white...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
*In the frost garbed winter all I could notice was her
While delicately she let the tea fall into the cup
Her spell binding beauty magically won me over
Roaring oceans in her eyes
The sun bathes in them to
Birth dawns to embellish her skies
I noticed over the cup of tea
Spring sprouted alive in her smile
Fuchsia gave away on her cheeks
She tames seasons in her own style
I noticed over another cup of tea
Winds matted her hair with wild lilies
Her every step like favours on carpeted heavens
She commanded every breath in the stone alleys
I noticed over the cups of tea*....
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
Introduction:
What is Preludium but a time to reflect on what it is we know;
What has gone before, and how it might shape those things to come?
Preludium, or, what has gone before:
An entire world,
A great big steaming musty living breathing screaming world and-
For all we know-
There’s but two souls that care to fill it:
Sly Squint, our latest hero,
Swinging through his city like t’were a steaming jungle
And him the proverbial Ape,
He crouches in shadows on rooftops,
Directing his lust, forceful! At all
That kneels before him.
Then there’s our mysterious wanderer-
One hell of a sorry, stinking, sulky sort is he.
No Name to claim yet garbed in rags aplenty
Travelling on an endless quest
Towards a dying dusk.
Yet we need to draw a Third.
See, in this strange place we find ourselves, riddled with danger and loss,
We need one who knows some things;
One who is up there;
Better yet, one who helped to shape this world.
Because for now we are clueless, vulnerable, shambling in darkness.
And that will simply not do.
So, with haste, dear reader, with haste,
Let us ride for the one with the answers;
The one with more Names than you can count, even if you had a lifetime in which to do so;
The one who holds all the strings.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
As I move along this Jaded biway
Gathering up all the discarded refuse
Of all the people freely moving on
With the scattered discourse of their lives
I wonder if they ever even realize
The wonderous thoughts that materialize
In the minds - of those confined
To time upon time upon endless time
Let loose through the portals
Of rubber wheeled time machines
The half consumed french fries
And the other assorted wrappers
From the king or the colonel or old MacDonald
To await the attention of me
Or one of my Band of Brothers
Stripe garbed attendants on a social mission
To gather up all that is discarded
Picking up all the pieces for a dollar a
day
Serving my time for some stupid crime
That I might never have done
If I'd been given the job... Like... Perhaps
Picking up trash on the side of the road
And for the feeling of pride - at earning my own
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Today bears the weight of erstwhile trepidation.
Uncertainties exhumed only to be hung up as ominous flags.
Black as night my widowed heart paraded through the procession.
Garbed in ash encrusted, sequinned frock, hemmed train all tattered in rags.
Herald the face with no features yet obscured behind a chiffon veil.
In hands, a bouquet of black roses, worm-eaten to the stems.
The mourning sun only gave the weakest glow,
feeble attempt to rejuvenate all that is stale;
to imbue the shimmer back into forsaken jewels and dulled gems.
Her entourage kept up with heavy feet; all grim and sullen.
Also faceless... Armed with pitchforks and torches.
Today they will draw much; having thirst for crimson.
Today they witness her death as the black parade marches.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
This morning I asked a rose
for a kiss
dew on her petals
tears from my eyes
All the emerald leaves in my garden
are garbed in noir
and Joy the parrot has shrouded herself
with raven feathers
We bow our heads, close our wings in prayer
to honor our dear friend, Sam the Cairn terrier
who gifted us so many, many hours of
sunny, frisky, faithful love and devotion
These memories bring a smile to our countenance
and lift our spirits beyond the temporal horizon
where we can clearly see
beloved Sam playing frisbee with God
running free through Doggy Heaven
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
tiny dancers
came swirling by
in the form of leaves
falling from the sky
and as I watched them
twist and turn
falling down
so light and free
I couldn't help but feel
they were performing
just for me.
tiny dancers
garbed in autumn's array
of gold and oranges and reds
on this windy day--
and all I could think
as they kept coming down
was that I wanted to join in
to dance around
and feel as beautiful,
light and free
as all these tiny dancers
surrounding me...
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
Dear...
This haphazard poem was written solely for you
Matterless, what you came garbed in
Fever elicited, passion anew
You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’
I loved the way you speak
Of knowledge and triumph
And I, bumbling and meek
Tirelessly I sought and now still seek
Your council, your court
For my amusement, for my sport
Conversing over a poisoned well
I listen in genuine
Raise my voice
Sing with my friends amongst the din
Higher on the pillar, you I hoist
Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar
Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart
To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far
How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart
Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city
On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art
Palpitations and liquor test the pity
Of light and fire
I cannot help but explore your shapely form
And yet, without bar
Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand
Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit
I just want to be close, you grant this
Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin
Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures
Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine
Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers
The night, black as sin,
The mould of outcome of we are the shapers
And I shape regret that rises with the sun
You come back vividly and lucidly
Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me
A nondescript ghost in the corner
Who speaks so placidly
I remember with regret
I remember with exultation
I’ve ruined our relationship
Our relationship topical felicitation
I haven’t had time to apologize
I haven’t had enough time with you
If I ever see you again
I’d mend everything
I’d discover the girl behind the name
And cleanse the projection askew.
Love, Me
Dear... .
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
"Love is the only poetry there is. All other poetry is just a reflection of it. The poetry may be in sound, the poetry may be in stone, the poetry may be in the architecture, but basically these are all reflections of love caught in different mediums. But the soul of poetry is love, and those who live love are the real poets. They may never write poems, they may never compose any music - they may never do anything that people ordinarily think of as art - but those who live love, love utterly, totally, are the real poets. Religion is true if it creates the poet in you. If it kills the poet and creates the so-called saint, it is not religion. It is pathology, a kind of neurosis garbed in religious terms. Real religion always releases poetry in you, and love and art and creativity; it makes you more sensitive. You throb more, your heart has a new beat to it. Your life is no longer a boring, stale phenomenon. It is constantly a surprise, and each moment opens new mysteries. Life is an inexhaustible treasure, but only the heart of the poet can know it. I don't believe in philosophy, I don't believe in theology, but I believe in poetry."
— Osho, Everyday Osho: 365 Daily Meditations for the Here and Now
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
in the manufactured waves of chlorine
my feet stand on concrete shores
and tiles grappled with maritime life
of dead leaves that have crept its way
in an ecosystem of unnatural residents
with sunken treasures buried beneath
the heavy blankets of swimmers' feet
a child's lost pair of goggles gleams
in the crevices of the ceramic seabed
sunbeams bounce off the plastic
an underwater mirage for the pool's
regular inhabitants armed in spandex
these are the common sights
of The Public Pool
and it's in the rare quiet moments
of carefully constructed serenity
when you are the sole ruler of
your concrete public pool kingdom
when your camp has been pillaged
by a thousand 5 year olds garbed
in their best hot pink speedo suits
and equipped with the best water guns
maintaining their positions like
a modern Praetorian legion swathed
in modern day mass-produced tunics
huddled in formation with limbs afloat
assembled and hungry to conduct
a carefully constructed battle of dominance
when the water surrounding you
suddenly feels too warm
it's too warm for it to be the chlorine
and you look up to see their leader –
their leader in the speedo silicone swim cap
is flushed as red as her speedo suit: a sight
against the synthetic cerulean landscape
that you realize:
you own nothing in this world
even the public pool gets invaded
even the public pool gets ****** in
so you might as well enjoy shallow ends
and every little joy life has to offer
the universe will **** itself eventually
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
Vacivity feels abstract, yet maims nether ends
Burgeoning to habitual like repeated ******
Overcoming this notion of occurring widdiful
By consummation within myself
Nulling unfurling wounds
Garbed in a crimson lagoon
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
Let not a moan nor sob escape thy lips.
As I fall from life's tree.
a leaf,
a life,
Blown away by the wind of my fathers lips.
Ashes scattered,
like so much chaff in the wind.
Not the end let not thy heart be dismayed.
This is but a joyous beginning.
I welcome the arms of death like a brother.
For death shall carry me to the arms of my father.
embraced in light,
garbed in love,
singing at the top of my spiritual lungs.
Let love pass between father and son.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 5:36 PM UTC
i.
A black vested barbarian
From the land of Corinth;
Garbed in snowy himation
Travelling the Filipino drench.
ii.
Twas, I was not use to this land
There's only a dry and wet season;
Mine black snake Boot's
Protected me from venomous poison.
iii.
This ground as mine own
Untamed primal eye's;
They Pierce through the wilderness
Phantom's passeth through thy body, it's their energy as a high.
iv.
Tis I was greeted
By an aboriginal watcher;
I met her mother, who wanted me for her daughter
I Gaveth mineself to this young queen, mind full of wonder.
v.
As tis I hath joined, this clan of beautiful native's
I consecrated mine Reyna's amour', as we became related;
Whilst we danced, around the fire her mother hath built
The Filipino bead's around mine neck read " Jane", meaning self.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
#1 - Coming Home
You can see the smile of his tiny face already
Before the door has been pushed to;
Feel its cooling warmth.
His ears are up, silken with chocolate velvet
Dependable amber lamps beam at you
Lit delicately
Eitherside a perfect, blackened nose.
#2 - Back From a Walk
Garbed in the dirt of the arduous chore
Head to paw
Contemptuous smudgy cartouches;
A sickening brown on the cold floor
The chore continues, it unravels
He remains a flaky, filthy burden.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
i.
Mine doting of thou,
Is not wilting amour;
Mine love is more
Then floating, outside
Thy door.
ii.
Even in mine woe,
And caging dolor;
I shouteth thy name,
"Sweet jane' mine girl.
iii.
Whilst even in mine
Suffering, and the
Battle I'm in; with
Satan and his lackey's,
I wilt step upon them.
With thy help, and God's
Discipline, Jane O' Jane,
I'll soareth to the highest
Apex, mine plume's to expand,
Wing's to stretch; Yahweh's mighty
Word, to push them back to the gates of death.
iv.
So mine Jane,
I telleth thou this;
I'm not losing amour,
Nor am I tenderness.
I'm in the stage, of trans-
Figuration, O' soon queen,
We shalt meet in blissfulness,
Beautiful apparition's. Ghost's of
Old, ancient soul's, we'll tasteth
Cascade's of mezmerdade; bralishas
Of barinthia, thitherward the province of
Ourn holy one, next to El Shaddai, meaning
Elohim, also Jehovah, mine Jane and honey-
Bee. Aside the Almighty's throne, And elevated
Seat, his son Jesus Christ on the right- garbed
In robes that floweth with the vim of life. As there
Shalt be none need for the sun or moon, the creator's
Ourn light. A place that's right, wherein there art none wrong's,
Ourn sin's art forgotten within the angelic song's, these song's wilt be sung, on a basis of eternity; none ending, just befriending of the saint's at God's feet. Wisdom shalt be deep, from the beginning of ages, none more false prophet's nor greedy men to ruin the nation's, Concord within ourn Lord shalt follow the month's, as Jane, mine swain, it wilt be in this time's happening;
It's still thee I shalt want. So hold on tightly, don't let loose of mine hand, we'll trounce these dark bearers, and pour holy oil upon their head's, None more wilt they torture us, as they'll flee instead, before of ourn Lord, Jesus Christ, the risen, the man, the son of God, ourn protection, whom hath arisen from the dead.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
there is no worse folly
a raconteur can make than
the forgotten pen
or utensil
acrylic or stick in dirt - so be it
the dwarf ignored
the arbitrary sidekick
the austere tool
the maker of magic (also known as,
history, as
recorded by big, bad meatsacks
and sometimes hungry sheep luxuriously garbed as
wolves)
who/what/when/where/why
never/stop/asking/questions
my deity, the earth said
no one is right in this world
we tells it hows we sees it
i reject your reality, you undo mine
with a simple twist of your mouth-muscle
who's to say who has a say
I say, no one not one none of us.
I say, keep writing bards.
the world's a desolate & treacherous stage
the world's a blank & ***** canvas
the world's not so much an open book,
as it is an open cave with mysteries deeper
than ocean depths.
I say, keep writing bards.
swim through the carpal tunnels,
the holy grail lies somewhere down there,
it looks and acts like an ink well.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
The ring slides gently onto her finger
Till death do we part
he promises her
A vision of beauty garbed in white,
She stands there, with wide blue eyes.
Struggling to take in this sight
He closes his eyes.
As their lips touch
he watches her white cheeks
Start to blush
He smiles, knowing that this woman is his bride.
The beauty of holy matrimony.
The fusing of two hearts.
A covenant made to one another
To love and never part
But in the rush of it all
I guess we forgot
To cherish and care for
Instead of casting in our lots.
Men, lead your houses with love
And when troubles come
Pick up your Bible
Instead of your bag
Women, support him
And when times get tough
Start caring
Instead of quitting
You are one spirit
Not just two bound by words
And when there are problems
Look to The Lord not the world
Marriage is a mirror to Gods love for us
And gives us a glimpse into that blessed day
When Jesus will see his bride lifted up.
He bled for that day
He took all of her sins away
Just so he could love her in this magnificent way
A vision of beauty garbed in white.
His scars were for her
He took on the torment of the world for her.
He wiped away every tear
And whispered in her ear
You are so much more than all of this
More than that blade on your wrist
More than those pills clenched in your fist
More than what the world made you believe you were
You are beautiful and you are blessed
you are a princess
That is getting dressed
For her glorious wedding day.
This is how it is meant to be.
This is the standard we are meant to meet.
Love doesn't have terms and conditions
It doesn't require complete perfection.
So If they cannot love your flaws
Then they aren't capable of loving your all.
So when the day comes for you to say "I do"
Make sure it's to someone who loves you for you.
After 50 years
She stood by his bed
His eyes were full of terror
Not of what he was facing
But of facing it without her
Both of their eyes were full of tears.
After a lifetime together
His promise was fulfilled
She sobbed " wait for me"
And he answered " haven't I always"
Then with his dying breath he promised her
Till death and then forevermore.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Yes, it was a hot day for a black wedding,
I swapped my life for a golden ring,
I did not check those sinister omens,
As I volunteered to change my cognomen,
All our families, garbed in black,
Once hitched, there was no turning back,
A fateful dark matrimonial,
Indeed, a disastrous ceremonial.
'Twas already a dim bleak wedlock,
Nuptials in black was a shock,
So much for my late spouse,
Yelling at me to clean his house,
Is biology destiny? I used to ask,
Is housework only a woman's task?
Once, I swapped my soul for a golden ring,
Yes, it was a hot day for black wedding.
(Tough!).
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 4:31 PM UTC
If the stars are just a doorway to lifetimes that could've been,
I suppose I'm hoping a night like this never ends.
Where I've found myself in your embrace,
gazing lovingly into graceful eyes-- you and your
words, lips, & promises.
Time may sour hope,
but it proceeds to season love.
I suppose-
the sweetest would be this temptation.
If you ever dare say those five words
longingly I've yearned for--
to come out of the pome mouth of your's,
clothed in the darkness
but illuminated by the basking moonlit night.
Say them,
say them.
So resonant the sky is given light:
"I'll never let you go."
& infinities are far longer than promises,
your voice so vigorous, so dignified.
Garishly-
as I awake the next morning
the corrosion of my ear's occurs
while your proposal came across as thunderous roars
upon vast skies and growing grounds;
the salt of the earth is mixed with the rain.
Children can sing, can rejoice
in this reassurance--
today and tomorrow shall not be forecasted with any pain,
we're in the same hours.
Hold me closely,
that if the Rapture were to take us
mislead;
equating how pure our love had been.
we will only be garbed in what is our redemption
wholesome & good- willed
I would rip through the edges of every cosmos
to perceive where this would take us again- and again.
As fate would have it,
In every universal tear
we are
together always
A backwards code
never to be deciphered
perhaps, not in words
but in tone and more importantly
in a ribbon wrapped song
A song of us—
crossing oceans and aging old,
but if not love and cherishing one another
was it not worth our weight in gold,
as we are richer than one man
together you & I.
held close,
hand in hand.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
A sultry wind surges o'er the Mediterranean.
Rosy fingered dawn wakes the world,
As I habitually walk the lonely path to labor.
A melancholy song sounds from the barley field.
Hypnotized, I follow through undulating grain,
Which lithely tosses back and forth in dance.
‘Neath a willow, amongst the barley, sits a girl,
Garbed in a white tunic, playing her angelic harp.
Her hazel hair weightlessly sways in the wind.
Her olive toned fingers pluck with mastery.
Nobility marks her solemn dark brows,
That sit atop commanding, umber eyes.
The harp's supple bends are a tribute
To the lady's long limber figure,
As she directs wind and waves by ballad.
She looks up from her earthen dais,
Eyes aglow with a playful, sultry look.
Pierced by her gaze, I awake...
With her, my wife, beside me.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 3:12 PM UTC
I gaze into the lapis lazuli embedded behind your eyes
And I read the words that are engraved on its pristine surface
“I hide in the dust of diamonds and bathe in Luna’s glow”
Inscriptions of a fiery passion from the heart of Aphrodite
What deities were praised to conjure such an immaculate apparition?
A vesper turned mortal by the north wind
Gilded in the feathers of seraphs-on-high
And garbed in the fineries of the seventh son of a seventh son
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC