"leafed" poems
my subject, mrs. ((brown?))
for this speech is
going to be: obesity. ish.
you see I remember
the article you handed out to us,
loos-leafed,
fresh-pressed,
a dry white piece that told,
in simplest terms,
the most inarguable & bland facts
about !healthy eating & !weight loss!
but mrs ((whatever)), I want
to tell n and the entire
******* crisp class,
that obesity is a load
of steaming ****
from someone who’s really fucki
ng sick (you know how much
better it stinks then)
that obesity
was made to be glorified,
I don’t tell you this—
I ****** jiggle it to you,
grab my santa clause puch and
shove it at you--
tick tock
we wait for the clock
to tell us what
s to come,
except it makes us guess
--see this:
a mid-age woman, mother,
fat & previously fat,
goes in for stabbing pain in the chest, or
chronic diarrhea,
seeing stars & no energy left.
((this happens))
the doctor says,
well let’s weigh you n see
if you’ve lost
the weight I told you to lose before
remember Sharol
now Sharol..,,,, sweety…..
you weigh 55.62 lbs over the
state-set “healthy limit”k,
so we’re just gonna give u these
diet pills & I promise they work,.
all nach-yer-awl u see, none of that
waterweight ******** [! excuse my language]
and in about 3 months you’ll lose
half that overweight,
and I promise the starsll go away and you’ll
feel right tip top okay now that’ll be
$60 & come bac k in a month to tell me
how much you’ve lost okay
haha but that’s alrightright?
she was unhealthy
&
doctors make you healthy
only her brain cancer maybe, or like, colon
cancer or literally anything other obesity
kills her in about 3 months
bc the **** doctor would only
pretend that she cared
what
was
wrong with Sharol, sweety…,,,
im sharol and so are you and
so is your uncle & so is
your mother, probably
because most of us are “obese”
& the only cure for obesity
is the cure for the term
“obesity” you see
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
This, this garden I made you, the garden of flowers,
I hope you might find strength through them.
On the right, the bees work to find it's honey,
and the daffodils on the left are still so blue.
The lilies by the small creek, and the rows of many flowers
stand in every color. The green-leafed willow I planted
holds them underneath the red sky.
My heart fades, my strength fails,
but your soul, like this, is a garden ever-beautiful.
Your lips are apple blossoms, and your hair falls like the breeze
of the morning. Your kindness, like a hot shower
after a full day of work, you are so sweet, kind.
You take care of the weak, and do all that is good.
Like a mysterious tree in the garden,
You stand beautifully.
Now many things stretch for mystery and desire in this world,
but my bride, my bride, my beautiful bride, you set them all free.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
we had too much to drink and
you saw your mom crouched in
the corner smoking a
cigarette through her
neck hole
you missed with the marble
ashtray and shattered the mirror
with the hand-carved gold-leafed
frame
Melissa screamed
I followed as you tore through
puddles of sunken sidewalk
until you sat
at the bus stop and buried your
eyes
I put my hand on yours and
felt your raining pulse
we got on the bus with the
red and green stripes
hopped off at Wong’s and
bought 3 dozen eggs
to throw at the
lighthouse
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death
It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,
White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace.
8.4k
found
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
flannels
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn
it’s lovely.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
**I had dinner again at our favorite Japanese ramen restaurant
I sat next to your fading presence and the lucky cat statue
Had the usual ramen noodles, pork broth, spicy miso, and your favorite side dish
Then got drunk off a pitcher, hot sake, and your absence
A crowded room leafed over until
I was the last one to leave
I sat in my car out in the parking lot listening to your favorite acoustic song "I don't mind"
Then clarity opened the passenger door sit and sat next to me
I realized that night, during that moment
That being alone wasn't too bad but I was still completely lost without you**
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
What happened to the beautiful boisterous screaming queens of the 80's full of Gloria Gaynor dancing on bars & pianos & teasing & strutting & grabbing life by the *****
Every time I go to the Op Shop & see a pair of size 11 patent leather red pumps I think of you & put them on & walk around the shop just to remind me of the fabulous times.
Are you making lounges in the shape of Cadillacs or corsets or sculpting **** - tail glasses delicately gold leafed - centre table?
Back up x 30 in the Botanical Gardens at Mardi Gras & remember the good times, the sad times, the Carmen Miranda, feather boer, wig, **** & lipstick times my friends........
smooth jazz grand piano
.......
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work
startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world
of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman
the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide
during the long winter, have come to fling themselves
against the over-sized picture window in my living room,
songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime
so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out,
to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the
tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown
hydrangea, which captured autumn’s maple leaves, worn
like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay
and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the
brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row,
to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window,
a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched
by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies
exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed
hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed
out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing
and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against
the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into
the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade
for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden
i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill
and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks
and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
The Mountain keeps all secrets. Crusted lichen on timeworn boulders. High altitude longing for alpine daisies. Carefree blossoms, long ago plucked, gone to seed, restless in the fertile ground. Wildflowers bloom shortly sweet, fleeting paintbrush to layered canvas. Fairy slippers lost on crumbling doorsteps. Glacier lilies pressed between avalanched pages. Forget-me-nots in forgotten blue hollows. The common harebell feels anything but common when seen through a lover's eyes. Forest tiger, your bulbs taste bitter. Purple lupines sage with fuzzy-leafed logic. Fireweed, ***** unadorned, eternally reaching. Lousewort, spreading phlox, leave this scarlet alone. Listen to Indian Henry, it's bad luck to trample what is sacred. The devil dreams behind steep and sheltered walls. Keep to the Wonderland, bypass this Trail of Shadows. Seek ancient hunting grounds, steadfast shelter in the wooded clearing. There is no pearly everlasting along these old trails. Paradise lost may never be regained.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
I've slowly fallen, like Satan, from the graces
swapped paces and places, to capture different faces
but the wanderlust on my breath is strong, taste this
It's hard to bond when half the time I'm gone
black hair, curves, four leafed clover thong,
afternoons snoozing and browsing Netflix
flashes of my life till I'm on to the next bit
I can't get no respite, I just might break my next flight
for this chick, hopeless romantic, can't stand it
but lately I've been ghost on this whole scene
mind stolen like my future is a bandit
who's mind set is all about the greed
a fiend for the green presidents that sink further into my dreams
calling my name, telling me it's worth the pain to gain
have pockets on swoll with no shame to get a foothold in the game
thousands would be pocket change but the man in the mirror
doesn't look so set, half ****** dressed for bed
wishing he could disappear for a bit, maybe never come back
the king of disappearing, yeah he likes the sound of that.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 3:51 AM UTC
"In order to achieve success, you need a little luck"
While true for some, I do believe
That as roots grow down, we grow up
Roots may not stick out
In the eye of the beholder,
But they allow the fruit to sprout
And make branches that stand shoulder to shoulder
Dig in deep where none can see
Your roots are what will reign you
And when you're finally a tree
Remember what sustains you
Success is not a four-leafed clover
Or three sevens in a row
It's digging over and over and over
Then refusing to let go
It's choosing soil and sticking to it
No matter what may come
It's built by sweat; it's built by grit...
And a healthy amount of sun
🌞︎
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
I leafed through the DSM this morning
diagnosing every ******* person in my life
incessent character flaws,
maladaptive responses
that ache in my mind,
and shatter my "normal"
expectancies of human behavior
In all of the descriptors
"has a strong desire to be the center of attention"
"is often inappropriately provocative or sexually seductive"
"Exhibits odd or eccentrive appearance/behavior"
"Seeks excitement and stiumulation, often acting on impulse"
the only person I could really diagnose
was me your therapist
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
The drunk is hanging still
from his father’s old shoelace
and the gentlemen are inside
below the starry billabong
hunching and flinching
and forgetting their prayers.
Cattle of darken faces stare at me
and all I see are diamonds
a dim reflection
of those sweet dreams
that belched a fire on a squall.
Her dark green eyes reminded me
of those few days the midnight shone
a moon clinging from her *******
and the leafed body that she wore
She told me to disappear
behind the prairie we both built
and then burned her luscious look
across the lamp lit afternoon.
A thrush died cowardly
and the soldier broke the rotten gun
well, no timber man could hold still
as the drunken old man drew on the wall
the memories of those born to kneel
before a pair of dark green eyes.
The blatant look stood astride me
but I could never felt a thing
so I dreamt of paradise
welling from the blazing riverside
And as the wind swelled cold
all I saw were her dark green eyes
–they dwindle swiftly to the night –.
I felt a dire shot
as the shoal of words I’d forgot
kindle the last midnight moon
and all I could do is sleep away
leave the pledging river to shine out
just before the aurora from her crown
shut down those dark green eyes.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC
On hot summer days that strech ouy like this
Bird and bug song harmonized in the air
Cool water splashing with the sound of kids
Hearts start to be wild and do as wished
Leafed breezes blow away all hardened care
Creatures come from the dens in which they hid
As stars draw in like a smooth panther fur
And future folds out, bright and unsure
Music calls out in the dead of night
As all come out to camp, dance, chat, and play
We try our bravado and our own fright
As summer nights flow into the dog days
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
I mourn for skunks.
The squashed, flattened masses
***** mashed, their stripes scattered
Matted masks disguising unseeing eyes
Through how many fields have they run?
Once sweet babies, small noses, downlike fur
fleeing to their final place from green leafed bowers in a terrible act of asphalt bait n' switch
Let us all grieve the sacrifice which,
Unto the motor gods
Has been served.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
I went down to the maumee river
Behind mine place,
Ànd picked some yellow daisies on the water's edge
And other flower's....
I picked them for mother in honesty!
Though tis I loveth flower's as well,
A wonderful adding on to God's green earth I walketh upon;
As after I picked those flowers,
I started walking up the steps back up the hill to mine apartment
As I noticed along the way, a little clover .........
"As tis I thought I wanna find a four leaf clover"
Not finding a four leaf clover at all!
One little one stuck out so amazingly!!!!
I found a five leafed clover
Never have even found a four leafed one in mine life
As now today I hath found a five leafed one........
As I think ( is a five leafed one double the luck?????)
Not sure...
Though as I cameth back upstairs to the apartment
And handed mum the flower's;
I found a tiny green bug I've never seen as well,
So tiny
And beautiful stitched..........
As tis that little bug;
Followed me upstairs by holding onto mine collar
What a cute ******
As tis today's
Been an amazing day......
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry...
True story lol no joke (:::: five leafed clover
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Intoxicating
you give me a high
I'm addicted to you
and I can't tell why
you're totally wrong
in so many ways
but you strike on my match
and set me ablaze
With so many layers
I want to uncover
You're unlike the rest
A real four leafed clover
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
Wind, you, this oak grandfather clock;
That clicked and knocked in Nature’s wind;
That grew and leafed and once housed things
More and less than clockwork. I grew
Once in the sweet season scents,
Ignorant of axe-men and axe-wounds,
Who, sent on their rounds sent
Me to be wound. Slung to the
Round, conforming blade
That confined me to box. And yet
This age would be young were I but
Livelier wood. Hands
I may have, but my rings are now lost,
And my boughs and roots, once strong to climb,
And my new-leaf shoots, gone now for chimes
(Do they comfort your nights, my new-life screams?)
That are of a gold less precious than green.
My youth was the joy of wind’s breath on my branches –
Before your deep breaths in the chore of your winding.
Now we have purpose, but once I had meaning –
In whispering and twisting and creaking and leaning.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 12:32 PM UTC
My fearless general
Full-blooded son of our nation
I call you
In these uncertain times….
I need your courage
And extreme nationalism
For I am surrounded by
Anemic Filipinos,
Merely like myself,
Unable to act and speak
No dynamism-
A lack of principles
Where could you be, my general?
Surely a man like you will never hide
No wound, no bullet, no threat
Can ever make you bend your knees
I hear no cried nor pleas
From your revered lips
My strength is failing me
I need your blood
Alone, I cry
Believing myself to be incomplete
Embrace me, for you are magnificent
And there can be no other
Through the years
I still remember
How I leafed the pages
Of history just to place your name…
Maybe time ran so fast
But to me you were never last
Because you last….
Tell your brothers what you
Could do for love of country
I know and I have felt
You are my first
And foremost general
And I shall carry you
Upon my shoulders
And stroke your head
While you sleep on my lap
Because you make me want
To tell the entire world
That my general is a Filipino
And I am proud to be his comrade!
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Today I got a new sketchbook with an embossed leaf on the cover-
saying-"Nature's Best."
And the inside was so white and clean
I was scared to draw in it
to mar the beautiful pages with the unforgiving
mark of a pencil.
Thinking that I wasn't worthy enough,
I didn't deserve
"Nature's Best."
The most beautiful song I've ever heard was sung by a German Choir,
and I remember thinking-
that maybe, German is a beautiful language after all
hidden only under the angry tones
of fighting and ugly
hurtful words.
Vogel im Kaff, it was called.
I'm not sure, but when I used Google translate-
it said-
"Word not found."
Maybe it wasn't in German after all.
And the people who tell me-
"Ugly."
"Fat."
"Why do you even live, anyway?
It's not like you deserve it."
I know. I know that I'm not worth anything
But sometimes, I actually catch myself in the mirror and think-
I look nice
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for thinking that. I'm sorry for hoping,
for believing.
I'm sorry.
And you know that feeling?
When you're in public
frantically searching for the right chord
on a piano song.
Sitting a spotlight undeserved
Playing for people who don't need to hear this
"music"
Like cracking open a egg and accidently mixing the yolk with the white
when you're trying to make a crème cake.
A desperate feeling that's sort of scary
because your brain knows that there's no way out.
I wish all minds had a delete button.
Throwing myself into learning different languages-
I thought that if I could speak
German, French, Italian-
then I would be exalted.
That somehow,
all of that would change my personality,
Who I was.
Guess we all have a "no refund" tag when we're born.
The type of people who-
"Belong everywhere, but don't fit in"
and the type who
"Don't belong anywhere-but fit in anyway-"
Which type am I?
A leafed page of the book,
folded over to conceal ***** words.
You know, if you look at a picture long enough,
what you once thought was beautiful will begin to peel and fade
exposing its unperfected innards.
If it's that scary to look at something already "satisfying"
what would it be like to look at something not even close to perfection?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Sometimes she is a steam train,
All fire and noise, sizzling, powerful
Too hot to touch …
Almost.
And sometimes she is tree
Growing, blossoming, strengthening and seeding,
Increasing to a golden leafed complexity,
Before disrobing once more
And yet she is too a river, deep with secrets,
Wide with acceptances, bubbling and meandering and
flowing gentle round obstacles
Then is love the water that makes all her ways possible?
For then rain cannot disappoint
Tis drought I fear most.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 9:32 AM UTC
**Each day passing by in a wild-eyed dash
In truth my soul fell aside, but bluer birds still doth call
Missed that cardinal harken when I set down my last two cents
Kickers of tricks, scroll-ers of myth, bottlers of ships
Knew it all along, just couldn’t stiff the rest
Refuse to capitol, refuge atop the pious politic that steeps these hills
Is it not hard to tell? The meanings of what buys in bulk
The people is we, of what sells slicker than plot itself
A minority rule, hid reasons from majority fooled
That is working trade class, taught to chain drive
The gleaming sheen glowing green, crowning jewel¬¬¬ is as mist and steam, fleeting as the wash of this worlds seething seas
We, the misanthrope of being, bloom in the warmth of idea
Only to recede at the water mark high of each our lives
Authenticity bless the distant time, costless venture to each about die, salute through another caesars’ dilated eye a definition
Eons in annunciation; immortality flashing by
Reverence cannot lie, not long at least neathe a chipping patina
Gold leafed by the hand of man, coerced creations’ fondling finger tips strips thin, leaving us then to watch the weathering
Not a one may ever remember for too quickly or too timely
Arrives dismemberment, a cyclic certainty, often relegated falsely
As loss or gain, truly misspoken frames for reference
At any given attempt to render the language of tongues, oh speaker the son of the morning shamelessly ****** by predecessors increasingly lavish
Phonemic savage; life running rabid, splicing love over the atom
The simple one whom tends a patch of what he calls “cabbage”
Knowing always the wordless truth that is his field fallowing
Unconvinced by everyone, save himself if nothing else
Penitent candor dangle, frameless wonder can you hear the thunder?**
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Let soles touch floors
on hills, in bars, between cafe terrace doors;
beside scarred walls that bleed paint
of the young, naive, those who cannot wait;
only to be scrubbed down by the thick bristled
brush of the Gendarme in white.
I’m 22 in the 18th,
with a one bed roomed house
high above the wake.
Next door is a wafer thin, paper thin,
not-that-thick-let’s-the-sound-in
wall; the portal through
to another war, of words exchanged
by a relationship estranged by
lies, cheats, drug filled leaps, missed-another-call
in Tuesday’s heat.
Here we take tea without milk,
waste time on the Pigalle, free of guilt.
We let warm metro, subway air
melt our faces,
as we stagger back a few several paces
not to be knocked down by taxis, brimmed with cases of
those visiting and leaving, staying around until the end of the races.
When will you calm down Paris?
When will your children lose their
keys to their cars and cannot drive
quite as far?
When will the tourists leave, so to uncover
the real autumn leafed workers, stretched
inside suits and dresses, only to be late
to that members meeting starting at 8?
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
i built myself a home in your chest
a safe haven, a tightly wrapped package
and you evicted me
i looked at you through my camera lens and saw all the beauty
my eyes had failed to pick up on
the fabric of your soul
the smooth skin of your hands,
twirling your hair in your fingers,
you are beautiful
you are literature
words on a page, kept consistent through years of handwritten notes
passed back and forth between quiet children,
i highlighted my favorite parts of you, and underlined the parts that stood out to me
a well-read novel, dog-eared and leafed through,
i memorized your body,
smiling warmly when you put my emotions into words
i don’t read anymore.
we shared cigarettes together in my car,
letting all the words we were too afraid to speak
leave our mouths in the form of smoke,
leaving only the stale smell of burnt tobacco,
to remember you by
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC