"heavies" poems
Now in this season
It smells like sweet honey nectar,
Thick, warm pollen that heavies the air, that
Overarching succulent sweetness I can
Never find. I'm nearly
Dreaming in the midst of day,
Lack of sleep sharpens this
Feeling of loss that doesn't coincide with
The growth around me - My mind
Is falling back a quarter year, another,
Chilled over somehow in direct sunlight -
My hunger could be assayed with
Those honeyed towers somewhere blooming, but
I've not been told where to find them -
Stumbling along with aching limbs and
Exhausted heart, forced anxious smile,
Can't seem to find these supposed fruits
That hang down at reach, give way to new days -
Just quiet, vacant preludes
Along all these miles of solitude.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Storyline/storytime....by me... Are we doing time? Or is time doing us all equally? What a disgusting question to ask such an unpaid slave, where snow falls tear dropped to all snaggled brains! Du-rag heavies, untamed, unashamed levies to be breached!
Young ones to teach not to come where we are. Where the birds meet the bars, where man and woman leave in cars, as we shall not!!! Where emotions run dry, smoke runs high to clouds that don't stop.... Share with another you selfish generation, you greedy of celebrations, you hold to thy god no feast!!!!
666 is your name, fires you've tamed, as on thine own knees you worship the beast!!! Blizzard time sledded children's fun is naught to be found, just shackles around to frighten your inner cold! All stories here go untold, for you are apart of that story! You yourself are the story!!!
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
Are we doing time? Or is time doing us all equally; what a disgusting question to ask such an unpaid slave. Where snow falls tear dropped to all snaggled brains. Do-rag heavies, untamed, unashamed, levees to be breached; young one's to teach to not come where we are. Where the bird's meet the bars, where men and women leave in cars, as we shall not. Where emotions run dry, smoke runs high to clouds that don't stop. Share with another you selfish generation; you greedy of celebrations, you hold to God no feast. Six-six-six is your name, fires your game, as on your knees you worship the beast. Blizzard time sledded children's fun; is none to be found, just shackles around to frighten your inner cold. All stories here go untold; for you are apart of that story.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©prison poetry/written in prison dec 6th,2013.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
Space—
A great communicator
How we increase it with unfamiliarity
Or even…
Familiarity that is too painful
Like the way I tense
When you're in my mere vicinity
Vicinity—
Heavies the heart
Certainly relative to space
How having you near me
Can be my favorite thing one day
And the next
It’s hell and hard to breathe
Breath—
Subjective in nature
You’ve always made me hold it,
I wish I could have held you instead
But it’s different now
I hold it to hold back tears
Tears—
They’re neither subjective
Nor relative
They’ve always shown my grief
For the loss of you
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
It is hard to write about something you are always so full of
Constantly overflowing with that you can barely see the brim of the bowl anymore
from how often it has disappeared beneath the ebbing ocean
Sometimes they come so fast you don’t have time to decipher the foam
My heart has been held softly between two safe palms for over a year now
There have been times it has been caressed so carefully
I can’t tell the difference between skipping beats and catching breath
When its edges have fit perfectly into grooves eroded over time
for ten fingerprints that can’t be replicated
Codes we constructed together
and secret knocks only the hands of our internal clocks can count the rhythms of
There have been times they have squeezed a little too hard to tell
Accidentally scraped the surface without intending to
Followed by however much body heat is necessary to help the healing
With extra to spare in case of emergencies
Reality can’t keep the roses red every time winter comes to visit
But it has painted my laugh lines permanent
And keeps my dimples occupied
He knows the mechanics of my face word for word
he can read my heavies in a microcosmic glance
before they even get the chance to bite my tongue to stop me spilling
I am comfy in his loud and in his quiet
I am warm in his laugh
Soft in his smile
Giving back comes so easy when the receiving end is often mine
Falling further every day has made me best friends with gravity
And soulmates with the years ahead waving from a distance
Full of arms wide open
And two mouthfuls of laughter
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 2:31 PM UTC
When I sleep my body heavies
It sinks into the ground
It merges with the earth
And I become one with the sound
I become the words the tongue
When saying 'I Love You'
I become an importance that can't be replaced
My presence is irreplaceable and impossible to ignore
When I sleep my breath matches my heart rate
Slowing as I fall
So when it spikes again
And morning light rises
I morn the loss of my importance
The the need for me disappears
So my choices are minimal
I can either never sleep
Or never wake up
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
He was holding court between sets at the Texas Bar
(Not his usual stomping grounds, necessarily,
But the owner was a decent guy whose checks were good,
And a Wednesday night gig pretty much found money)
Going slow and easy with a scotch and soda of uncertain labels,
Having come to rest at that station where, as he sighs it,
Wallet tells me I prefer well drinks to the top shelf.
He’d been, if not a name name, at least recognizable
(He has posters showing him sharing the bill with the heavies,
Redding and Bo Diddley and Jackie Wilson,
Smaller font for sure, but there nonetheless)
Getting a little air play,
Even outside of niche Detroit and Chicago stations,
And one song which peaked
All the waaaaay up at seventy-eight on the chart.
*Lotta uncertain buses and club owners
Who never quite caught me later,*
He muses, a touch ruefully, but he finds some solace
(Indeed, he has become quite adept
At finding comfort where he can)
But, if he has not exactly prospered, he has carried on carryin’ on,
Getting steady work here or Chicago or Gary,
The odd campus Motown nostalgia gig in Lansing or Ann Arbor,
Even six or eight weeks in Florida
(Nice to be the young guy in the room for once, he all but cackles)
Covering the tunes the headliners sang in his day,
And perhaps one could say he is a Fleance or Percival,
Plodding onward from the wreckage of great man all around him,
But such contemplation is a luxury,
The province of lake houses and brokerage accounts,
Though he is fond of holding his thumb and forefinger
Spread apart just so,
And telling the listener I was this close to hittin’ it big,
Invariably following that assertion with a chuckle,
‘Course, that might not be measured to scale.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
hidden in the doorways are secrets in the night
earthly pleasures of lusts and passion's delight
that timeless joining too intense to wait
any nook in the wall and we won't hesitate
an empty corridor in a busy hotel will do
the thrill of capture, what if everyone knew
blind madness as hormones rage hot
an appropriate place, it matters not
up against a hallway, wall breath warms your ear
hands above your head now quietly my dear
two fingers slipped into silken folds
a gulp, a whimper, the silent moan be told
on a staircase, the perfect rise stand tall and kneel
taken my prowess deep, tell me how that feels
the echoes of passion crying in an empty stairwell
hear footsteps above and below mental warning bells
heartbeats quicken and breathing heavies to pant
in a world with too many rules, this is not one you can't
the temptation of the moment's wanton needs rely
regardless of the circumstance you need never ask why..
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 10:02 PM UTC
To miss someone brings time almost to a stand still.
To miss someone makes an hour feel like many and a day feel like a week.
To miss someone makes mornings gloomy and the nights long and cold.
To miss someone takes away energy and turns it into misery.
To miss someone heavies the heart and bruises the soul.
To miss someone creates an hate to light and befriends the dark.
To miss someone is an absence in the heart.
Which causes torture within ourselves.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
I was sent on the most urgent mission to rescue the tea!
It was the most dire of situations. The package of tea, having finally arrived after a very long journey from overseas, sat defenseless on the porch. It rested peacefully, waiting for the eager owner to run forth with open arms, tears streaming, and proclaiming such holy gratitude that all of the church doves in all of the world flutter in to flight the moment her heart rings like a bell at seeing said package.
And as it rested peacefully the most ominous form loomed on the horizon. A sight more terrifying than babies eating pickles and bears with no hair. The darkest, most heavies, most deep blue clouds were building ever bigger, and coming ever closer. So pregnant with rain that at any moment that saddest shade of blue was going to color the very town the package was waiting in and color the heart of the owner, that very same shade, unless I could possibly make it in time.
The story of the mission itself and the actual said rescue of the tea is entirely another story which just so happens to be titled "I was somewhere else, but I wasn't, but I was" which is part of the continuing chronicles: The Misguided Adventure of Stumblebum Fumbletongue. Out on sale next yesterday.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 1:03 AM UTC