"goest" poems
"In the grave, whither thou goest."
O weary Champion of the Cross, lie still:
Sleep thou at length the all-embracing sleep:
Long was thy sowing day, rest now and reap:
Thy fast was long, feast now thy spirit's fill.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
Chose love not in the shallows but the deep:
Thy tides were springtides, set against the neap
Of calmer souls: thy flood rebuked their rill.
Now night has come to thee--please God, of rest:
So some time must it come to every man;
To first and last, where many last are first.
Now fixed and finished thine eternal plan,
Thy best has done its best, thy worst its worst:
Thy best its best, please God, thy best its best.
13.8k
Let me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
How fast the flitting figures come!
The mild, the fierce, the stony face;
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
Where secret tears have left their trace.
They pass--to toil, to strife, to rest;
To halls in which the feast is spread;
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.
And some to happy homes repair,
Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare
The tenderness they cannot speak.
And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
Goest thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?
Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleam again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?
Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
The cold dark hours, how slow the light,
And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.
Each, where his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not.
There is who heeds, who holds them all,
In his large love and boundless thought.
These struggling tides of life that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.
7.8k
Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
A living image of thy native land,
Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies;
Lone lakes--savannas where the bison roves--
Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams--
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams--
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair,
But different--everywhere the trace of men,
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air,
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.
5k
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
Ah, paled and faded leaf. of spring agone,
Whither goest thou? Art speeding to
Another land upon the brooklet's breast?
Or art thou sailing to the sea, to lodge
Amid a reef, and, kissed by wind and wave,
Die of too much love?
Thou'lt find a resting place amid the moss,
And, ah, who knows! The royal gem
May be thine own love's offering.
Or wilt thou flutter as a time-yellowed page,
And mould among thy sisters,
Ere the sun may peep within the pack?
Or will the robin nest with thee
At Spring's awakening? The romping brook
Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on.
And shouldst thou be impaled
Upon a thorny branch, what then?
Try not a flight; thy sisters call thee!
Could crocus spring from frost?
And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die?
Nay, speed not, for God hath not
A mast for thee provided.
4.2k
Oh do not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember, thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know,
To leave this world behind, is death,
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapors with thy breath.
Or if, when thou, the world’s soul, goest,
It stay, ’tis but thy carcass then,
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.
O wrangling schools, that search what fire
Shall burn this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her fever might be it?
And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For much corruption needful is
To fuel such a fever long.
These burning fits but meteors be,
Whose matter in thee is soon spent.
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
Are unchangeable firmament.
Yet ’twas of my mind, seizing thee,
Though it in thee cannot persever.
For I had rather owner be,
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.
3.5k
Feet,
Wherever thou goest today,
Whether it's near
Or far away,
This I'll say
For this I know,
Whither thou goest
I will go,
This I beseech thee
This I pray,
Whither thou goest
Don't leave me astray.
2.3k
Oh mad hatted,
push cart rolling,
wanderer
wither goest thou?
Are you looking
for cans?
coins?
money to keep
on living?
money to keep on rolling?
I hope you
find your way
or at least
a place to
stay.
You're not alone
mad ***
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Topping a rise comes a knight,
armour soiled and stained;
weary yet elated
riding his black steed.
The Princess in her tower sees
and gives a delighted cry.
She leans out her window
and hails the knight:
"Ho!Brave knight!
Whence comest thou?
Tell me thou seeketh me
for I wait for thee."
"Truly",answered the knight
"It is for thee I am come
my fair lady
and to take thine hand."
"I've sailed the seven seas,
toiled through forests and mires,
traversed deserts and dunes
looking for thee".
"Oh the joy!"whispered the lady
and cried,"My brave knight,
glad am I to hear thee but
Didst thou slay the dragon?"
Answered the knight,
"My dearest lady,
I have fought the giants,
conquered the orcs
and tamed the lions."
"Oh brave art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the mighty dragon?"
"I have escaped from dungeons,
caverns with unnamed fears.
Scorpions and serpents
I have crushed to the earth."
"Wonderful art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the fearsome dragon?"
"I have ridden the behemoth,
subdued the depths,
searched the clouds and
fiddled with thunderbolts"
"Magnificent art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the red dragon?"
"Lady,you are besot
with the dumb worm!",he said.
"I wonder if she",he thought
"has been crazed in that tower"
Sighing forlornly,
said the princess
"I canst not leave here
till the dragon is dead."
As the knight turned away
to ride back,she asked
"Whither goest thou?
To slay the beast?"
"Nay lady,nay
I go to slay the dunce
who wrote you
into that tower."
"What meanest thou
my dear knight?!
There is another knight
who dabbles in magic?!"
"Nay lady,nay.
He is not a knight.
He uses his quill
to weave his musings."
Cried the princess
"Oh mighty sir,
Oh Weaver with the quill!
Canst thou hear me?"
"Yes dear lady,"said I,
"What do you desire?
What can I do
that will please you?"
"My dearest Sir!
Oh my bravest hope.
Slay the dragon
and make me thine."
"But my lady
as much as I desire to,
you should know there is
No dragon in the story"
(Silence pervades)
"Oh my dear knight!!"
cried the lady to the rider,
"Slay this goon
and we shall be one."
Uh-oh...Time to put down the pen and run.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
The problem with phantoms, rings so clear
Like fear, they don't just go away
The more is learnt of the world, the smaller it becomes
The less of open space is felt.
The mnemonist lives in a pretty tale
And heads the way off rocky shores
For, oft a fool will come along
And wilful, bash his mind on reef.
Spill then thee, cantankerous spirit
Thy guts of ill-placed rancour
For in puny efforts to uproot
Fresh soil turned is...fresh soil turned.
The more we feed on empty words
The larger grows that aching void
Engulfing all but esurience
Engorged thus, thee will choke.
A mere gesture of goodwill
And extending act of kindness
Will conquer every wicked sentiment
And leave thee broken ... in thy own mess.
So, thy tiresome pictures on the wall, we see
Paint on, dear artist, paint on
These very merry parties, ye assemble
Will ken thy sharp and twisted ire.
Push on, weary soul, try to find thy heart
Thee seest not thy efforts fall in vain,
Fail to latch, for thy error sits too tall
In the absence of saving grace.
So caught up in thyself, art thee
Thine eye too bright upon the prize
That thou did not see thy plot at play
Thy goest yet on; breaching full redemption.
Weave thus thy tale and clothe thy mind
For, in this act, thy mind doth shut
So ill-fitting thy own garish attire
Seams must needs split eventual.
Seeketh truth and truest, thy find's a trove
But sadder yet's the day, indeed
All vouch that in thy heavy plunder
Its value now plain conferred.
Treasure trinkets, happy hoops
Whatever be thy favour's currency
When day is done and swift sea smoothes
Revered will always be...saving grace.
Star Toucher, 17 February 2013
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st.
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May Time disgrace, and wretched minutes ****
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure.
Her audit, though delayed, answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
1.3k
The dichotomy of the psychology
Of love is the thin line between
I am and I can be.
The taking of the status quo,
Lining it up before the firing line,
And asking Prisoner Heart if
Last wishes they posses,
Wishes wasted to confess?
The prisoner says:
**I am the standing status quo,
When I should have been the
The questioner, on the firing line,
asking always, firing this bullet,
Quo Vadim?**
"Whither goest thou?"
------------
An admirer of your indecision,
For it is the mark of
The Questioner...
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream;
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy,
Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.
As lightning, or a taper's light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak'd me;
Yet I thought thee
(For thou lovest truth) an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou sawest my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts, beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.
Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
Thou art not thou.
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me;
Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
1.2k
Away you go paper plane,
Bring my presence to her.
Wrapt in this missive is pain
In each my mile goest my sane.
Travel safe my love,
Every inside contains pathos.
Health thy wings spread free,
And let winds take you to her with glee.
I do not know your return,
Or would you ever shalt be.
If ever you return a reply,
I'll be here waiting for your paper to fly.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
where goest thou deep
in concrete streets
of a wicked jungle
the rumble of
unsettling events; intense
concentrating
on escaping
these decrepit patterns
of useless existence
resistance to causualties
turning into familiarities
rear back to attack
fatal norms and society
pressing beliefs into skin violently
picking through dirt like worms
makes you squirm
and crunch the skin on your face
disgrace
to humanity
with their one ounce of sanity
equally dispersed among the public
disruptive you say?
that I've ruined the peace of this virtuous day?
do you sleep at night ?
with the right kind of dreams?
he beams at a perfect system
that thrives in secret tyranny
the irony!
enough to make you sick
and **** on the shiny shoes of the opresser
the ladder to heaven has collapsed and burned
so LEARN how to deal with death life and birth
ON EARTH!
this wont pay off after
no factor of mortality
plays into "divine reward"
like a ***** you're bored of misery and law
so thaw the boundries of
adventure and ambition
petition for ignition
to the revolutionary fire
the dire need for more wood to burn
take turns
melting away
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
trace your faded prints upon the dirt
around them, mud congeals to form my hurt
failing falling stars confuse my path
I shuffle feet for miles but stay inert
all false the trails refusing to subvert
antipathetic strands to stir my wrath
The trees all flay themselves to spill the secrets
thou swore undying oath to never keepest
lest all worlds align to hide the truth
Pausing, taking breaths beneath the deepest
floors of pits that tenderly would keep us
undestined, lost and wild to know our youth
And seek you out I must, I must, I will,
at universe's end, a galaxy
where we would rest, reborn; become, to be
where every breath relaxes into still
Ever will you walk alone, until
you witness me in my entirety
Come, my unforgotten one, you see
arrival less one is a bitter pill
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
Tarry I shalt, for ye mine dame. Whither thy nature goest; To shalt I followeth by intuition. Onuppan the van Gogh atmosphere, shalt we be interlaced, I canst sense thy trail; A grail of a holy special place. We art not physically as one at the moment, but by mine death and beyond I shalt meeteth thee. Lord, I beseech ye to maketh a way for me and mine lass, to become as one, under the sun; in these time's of slow and fast. All do I giveth to be with her heavenly father; Mine blood, mine sight, mine hearing, mine life. Mine aorta befoldeth her red pulse; I am her lord, tis she is me. As tis I shalt waiteth to toucheth, kisseth,holdeth her whilst she sleepeth. Tarry I shalt; for ye mine Jane, mine soulmate, we art one. One in the same.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
wither goest he?
traveling, traversing, rehearsing
the good doctor lingers in the doorway out
sometimes forgotton, but always, ever, perpetually
omnipresent
dictations and suggestions, hunches corrupting
helping one last time to cauterize, sterilize
cutting off the umbilical cord to humanity
nothing to slow it down, nothing to hinder, nothing to feel
cilia burned, silly-a me to allow it
is it a neccesary burden. a beast with a broken back
still slogging, blindly, towards an imaginary finish line
hoping there is only darkness there. rest. peace
he misses his shell. the whole world is asbestos
this is his hell. the soothing water sputters the flames to smoke
and miles away, tonto points and deciphers.
********* is what it says, soaring eagle
the white man is so trivial
primitive in his circular command center, melting legos to heat his hearth
hiring ****** to eat his heart
a trapper keeper. a pointed rose. a poisoned tip. a mental rip. a freudian slip
this place has no ass. I mean.. class. class is what i meant.dammit
surroundings never touch the surface of my skin
and quantum physicists only complicate this perspective.
**** your logic! and **** mine worse..
why must everything be rehearesed? this is a curse.
a verse of a song I sing with a gun to my head
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
I trace your faded prints upon the dirt
around them, mud congeals to form my hurt
failing falling stars confuse my path
I shuffle feet for miles but stay inert
all false the trails refusing to subvert
antipathetic strands to stir my wrath
The trees all flay themselves to spill the secrets
thou swore undying oath to never keepest
lest all worlds align to hide the truth
Pausing, taking breaths beneath the deepest
floors of pits that tenderly would keep us
undestined, lost and wild to know our youth
And seek you out I must, I must, I will,
at universe's end, a galaxy
where we would rest, reborn; become, to be
where every breath relaxes into still
Ever will you walk alone, until
you witness me in my entirety
Come, my unforgotten one, you see
arrival less one is a bitter pill
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
"Intreat me not to leave thee,
or to return from following
after thee: for wither thou goest,
i will go; and where thou lodgest,
i will lodge: thy people shall be
my people, and thy God my God.
Where thou diest, will i die,
and there will i be buried:
the Lord do so to me, and more
also, if ought but death part thee
and me."
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
*Where goest thou my sullied Grecian Princes?
Where takest thee now, thy perfect soul?
Dost thou ken the sharpened knives are drawn to blood thee
To slice thy tomorrows, rent un-whole.
Dost thou know thy tangled gambles are undone now
The visigoths, then angered, are now wild.
Preparing to dismember thee completely,
Preparing to dessicate thee now my child.
Who will sing thy piteous song of supplication?
Who will bid to share thy brimming cup of blame?
Whence are they who once proffered compensation?
….Vanished one and all… in crimson puffs of flame.
Hollow now the howls of lost redemption,
Empty now expressions of regret,
Gone are all the notes of promissory
Blown about the halls in winds of cold forget.*
M.
6 July
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
Tantamount to traitorous slime slips through
Unknown to me and most certainly to you,
Augmenting the treachery, bilious and bold
With a heart bent on glee and a conscience onsold.
Wither he goest the admirers do flock
With an indolence bent on quite mindlessness stock
And the weft and the weave of the right and the wrong
dedicate the tonelessness found in the song
Where an emptiness lurks in it's grey woven gown
'Cos the crowd's given up and gone out on the town
And the brainlessness bent in solutions then sought
Means the curtains are closed...and it's all been for nought!
Marshalg
6 July 2017
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
April sheds tears for her time now is over
Departing in flourishes golden and red
Cascading leaves in a curtain of windfall
Settling now to a bright windblown bed.
Gone is the tarnish of summer’s oppressiveness
Gone the abundance of flourishing grass
Enter occurrence of snowflakes in treetops
Puddles of blue ice harder than glass.
Wither thou goest are chill maidens dancing
Wither thou venture there’s fog to the breath,
High geese are flying in formation arrows
Butterflys, faded, departing to death.
May now upon us with icy cold zephyrs
Cloud, nimbo-cumulous stacked up on high
Thunder intrudes with drum roll of Winter
Whilst fork lightning flashes across the cold sky.
Warm scarves and beanies are worn with knee-boots
Firesides crackle in glowing, hot hearths
Starlings in thousands, now settled to roosting,
Shall flock as the morning migration departs.
April relents with the tip toe of gentleness
Satisfied, smiling, her role is replete,
May muscles forth with rambunctious-ness bristling
Impatient to hasten sweet Autumn’s retreat.
M.
Joyous, to be strolling in a country lane, in the swirling leaves of Autumn.
30 April 2016
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
In an epoch of dissonant raucousness,
The land reeks of corruption.
Humanity to dilapidate
To a seemingly ages-long anguish.
Excruciating; it torments the soul.
An odious scent,
A deep well eminently putrid,
Foul enough to send legions
Forthwith, cowering,
Caterwauling in trepidation.
Although, notwithstanding, it subsists:
Beneath the contagion
Of a ravenous plague,
An invocation, a call to permute,
A purport to exhume
What has gone adrift.
Where goest thou, oh relic of yore?
From the toxic shores
Of newfangled premises,
Thou hast been washed away.
A feeling of predilection,
Of warmth and affection,
Thou art forgotten, unfamiliar, hitherto.
Long overdue to recur,
A matter of time, it is such.
And thus so, we shall wait
In the sprawling gape
For the fervent abstract of love
To once again take its shape.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC