"mayflower" poems
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Things sometimes fall apart
Among sisters and brothers,
No matter what they once were.
Childhood picnics and dreamy games,
Memories of trips with Dad,
Since Mom was tired of us.
We would climb Appalachian peaks
Or drive to look at the Mayflower.
Every summer there was a golden week
A lakeside cottage and all-day swims
In crystal water, becoming mermaids.
But time passes and bitterness accrues.
Imagined slights grow like slow tumors,
Never excised but nurtured by some.
I go to college and am freed
From the poison of ignorant rage,
From the creeping depression left
Like diesel fog on an endless floor.
Four or five years of delight pass
With only hints here or there
Of a sibling’s misery at home.
Of a once close sister, Maggie,
Who is ignored and never loved
By any man she pursues.
She blames me for it, for reasons
I have yet to fathom.
Of a brother, Francis, deluded, drugged,
Steals the family car in a rage
And drives to New York City.
Of Deirdre, the middle sister,
Whose friend who knows men who feed
On her ignorance and rebellion.
Only Susannah tries to rise above
The maelstrom of misery.
I send her to a school far away
And she sheds despair, at least.
Decades drawl, children are born to us,
While the bridge between us, obscured,
Sags and frays under weight of rancor.
Christmas dinners and birthday parties
Turn into chores, invitations kept as scores.
Petty grudges, like acid, sever the bridge
At last, all ties are abandoned.
When we are all grown and scattered,
No one speaking to anyone else,
Unaware, uncaring about the others.
Only Susannah visits me and smiles,
With no ulterior plan for insane revenge,
Or accusations for errant slights.
Her once dark hair is grizzled and wild
And her girlish skin now creased.
But her treacle eyes, “black aggies”,
I used to call them, still shine.
Only Susannah writes a letter,
Wishing us well and
Healing scars made by others,
Returning the word “family”.
To my basket of small treasures,
I carry with me
Into the twilight.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 10:52 AM UTC
when he left
all the oxygen in your lungs
was replaced by the sea
no one ever told you
humans can breathe
underwater.
but now he whispers
that your voice is louder
than the riptide in his eyes
and promises that
someday
he'll let you tell him the
story
of the boy
who went to war
and lost atlantis.
understand that
water
takes on the shape of its
vessel
and he is
sixty-five percent
fluid
hold him.
bury yourselves
together
as one drop
in one ocean
one hundred
more times.
he is
seven percent blood rushing
half a percent beating heart
and it doesn't sound like much
but it's
enough.
you're shore
if only for
tonight.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
I woke up today at the border of the morning, in that old war bunker, crowded with boxes and medical supplies, missing the asphalt and the tree line
Half dead and unaware, in this undead pharmacy, taking fragments from the shelves
And who's really gonna stop me if there is no one around?
Wasted all of my prayers on all of the obvious things
days spent walking miles to the pawn shop, or the futility of looking for what to take with me
My visions of thin skin are poking at their veins, of which I'm having memories of in unrelenting fashion
and though I'm only 23 my heart feels like a chasm
of mayflower proportion
I think to write you a letter, think fast to find a pencil, but there never is one, so I crumble up the paper
I think to write you a letter, but there never is one
But it'd be cruel not to leave one
So with all the strength I can muster, with the most minimal of treasures that haunt this long abandoned shelter,
I am hardly able to form words, let alone sentences
The crumbled paper giving under my childlike formed fist
And I see my face in Judy Garland's, in the glass, my reflection in a framed picture
my Judy
The last letter
Spilling out from my lips
I am not beautiful yet
I am ugly to the very core
but I will rearrange my bones, if not for this, then for that framed picture
and what it reflected
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 12:56 PM UTC
.
****
**** *****
Wiener Pecker U
nit ***** Piece T
ool Thing Shaft
Member Doink
er ***** Cack C
hour Chub Pud
******* Wanki
W a n g D ing
a ling Ding Don
g Kielbasa Brat
worst Meat Pop
sicle Meat ther
mometer Bolog
ny pony Salami
Sausage Tube
steak ****** P
orkSword Nood
le Banana Corn
dog Magic wan
d Staff Divine R
od Love muscle
Third leg Tonsi
l tickler Power
drill Jack hamm
er Wedding tac
kle Bat Club Rod
Pole Joystick Ja
ck-in-the-box S
kin flute D-trai
n Mr . Happy B
a ld - headed yo
gurt slinger Lon
g **** Silver Ji
my Johnson Kn
ob Captain Win
ky One eyed W
illy One eyed M
onster Peter On
e eyed trouser
snake The Sala
mander Horse
**** Lincoln lo
g Tootsie Roll F
Lesh trombone
Meat stick Meat
whistle Dobber
Wanger Woody
Shake weight T
iffy Frank and
the beans Ch o
a d t h e dirty
wise man *****
Harry nut cann
on Flesh flute
Satan's clarinet
Sexophone Th e Mayflower ( on
account of all the Puritans who came
on it ) The Wea p o n of A s s
destruction junk mail
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
The faded flicker of the far off clock was my only source of light. Until I picked up my phone and let my 2 A.M. thoughts run rampant. They made my fingers race across the screen. Made them play tag. They swiped and pinched until finally there you were. At 2 A.M. you were in my hands again. You're smile was as wide as ever and your eyes held the same glitter like they did when you used to talk to me. And You spoke about me even more. People would often come up to me and say that my name was all that would slip off your tongue. And I remembered that snake. The first time it brushed against my lower lip wanting access like a lion knowing that there was more to life than it's own cage. But to everyone, you spoke of me like I was the one who made the sun rise, who put the stars in the sky, who made the wind blow, and who made your world as you knew it turn.
My 2 A.M. thoughts made my fingers dance again. And another you appeared before me. All dressed up. Like we were married. But far from it. We sat like we had to save space on the Mayflower. I was in your lap and your arms were around my fragile frame. And I knew I would never love someone as much as I loved you that night. And my 2 A.M. thoughts brought me to the messages. Where are little "I love you more" fights were held and our futures were voiced. Remember that?
I was only a few months older than you. And I remember saying that I had to wait longer for my soulmate to come to me. And there you were again. In my head talking to me when we were bestfriends. While tapping on the plastic on the screen, the fingers fought for their right to voice the will of my 2 A.M. thoughts.
And I wrote about how I met you so far, way back when. I wrote about the dances we went to, the dates we laughed about. And then ultimately the 2 A.M. thoughts brought me to the deepest places I never wanted to let set free again.
And they scrambled on the keyboard of the phone! CAPS LOCKs, sorrys, pleads, and begs. Explanation after explanation and so many what if's. And I read it and read it. And only now did I realize that I was choking on the tears that you left me with. And I continued with the rant, and blamed you for what happened and blamed you for the causes. And then I stopped. And wept into the cold tear stained pillow, screaming into it like it was my last shot at everything I could ever have been. And once I felt numb enough to pretend that it wouldn't bother me anymore I let the small sobs escape my quivering lips and I destroyed the barrage of words that was my 2 A.M. thoughts. And instead willed my hands to let the fingers dance once more as I typed:
You're coming back, right?
_________________
You're coming back right (sent 2:35 A.M.)
(read 2:36 A.M.)
. . .
And the dots they came.
And I waited.
But inevitably,
Just like you,
They left me with the question:
You're coming back, right?
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 3:59 AM UTC
I do things that as a kid I promised I wouldn't
and tell myself that it's alright when I probably shouldn't
because my brainpower
could be used for staying power
'stead I fly for cover like birds in a rain shower
We go bad like curds on the Mayflower
hoping we can make one moment last eight hours
forget our jealousy
convinced we're making memories,
but something in my heart keeps on telling me:
Somebody tell me why I'm so mad
and why growing apart makes me so sad
sometimes I wish I could go back
I really wish I could go back
I've made mistakes, and I know that
I have a good heart, but I'm so bad
sometimes I wish I could go back
oh how I wish I could go back
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How mine isolation dost mock me; for
Only the lonesome make sharu fotay.
Bedchamber so hushed, bedchamber of many tears; how I feel thy ivory paint,
How I feel thy pain here.
Hallway so narrow, hallway that breathes, O' hallway, O' hallway, listen when I sing.
Grab mine hand, O' hallway of mine abode,
Mine feet do walk quietly, on thy carpet; thy soul.
Spirit O' spirit, how heavied thou art, soon shalt thou depart; for the world is to much.
Mine skin yearns for kisses, mine fingers for touch, O' many hath wishes, guess I ask for to much.
Mine hair screams loudly, to be caressed, ruffled. How gray art the welkins; when a poet's love is muffled.
Mine hand tis weak, from not having ones grip, mine lips chapped; no wetness
Nor mist.
Mine dance is off, with none holding of hips, mine glance is off; eyes pained
By watching worldliness.
Mine old worn out ninety-sixties Beatles boots art worn, tired they mourn; they've
Walked many miles; on trails I've turned.
They've walked through streets, where dope addicts fiend, I've been that pusher, that user in scenes.
I've dreamt, I've dreamed, hath had many emotions; with mother and dad, I've smoked and mind opened.
Mine hope in God strong, unearthly, outspoken; I'm here on thy globe,
To bring hope to the hopeless.
Mine garb is bygone, outstandish, I'm Irish, Scottish, two types of native American Indian blood; Chickasaw-Choctaw,
From mother's generational flood.
A Greek man's inside me, one of biblical times, with french royalty, even Charlemagne, is connected to
Family of mine.
As well french power, and kings and queens, emperor's, empresses in mine relations; who ruled Rome with
Maximus, and around
Constantine.
With pilgrim cruor from England, that came here on ships; on the Mayflower they traveled, to this place of new bliss.
Even tis I am Swiss, these art mine bloodlines, O' how mine souls old,
A gold refined.
This is me O' Lord, thy lonesome son,
O' this is me God, thy writer
Of love.
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How much longer O' loneliness; til
Thou shalt go away.
Tonight, O' tonight, shalt be silence once again;
Thus the dream of being held, is just
A thought with none end.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
All the people, all the people
They love to hide and seek
When there's champagne and the bands play
That's when they come
All the people, all the people
They always leave too soon
As they seek out from this lighthouse
No Mayflower
In June
In the room full of people
That always talk so low
When they can't find my best side
That's when they'll go
Oh, all the people, all the people
They won't come back for me
When I sailed home I held on
A Mayflower
Lost at sea
All the people, all the people
Won't let me play hide and seek
When I scream out in this big crowd
There's only me
In the room of their rumors
Of a world I've went to see
All the people, all the people
They never smiled at me
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
speaks the sepia soldier, what say you-
the grass no longer greens
nor is greener blurred through waters-
temperatures rising tasting compromising flavors
savors sun-kissed fables
staples followed Mable
Mayflower, spring strings with color
streaming ribbons gleaming
glass against fingertips
and breath- like a tiger, or a rat
frantic like the dying man's last rap
prayers echoed like-
air.
falls from the precipice to another peak,
"we never speak"
precious, precious, pretentious
quote us phrases, lay we down like concrete,
in concrete
surrounded by concrete where we'll dance and it won't matter that
we aren't dancing
May 18, 2011
May 18, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
I'am,
what i am.
The lowkey Siren.
Lemme sing you a song.
While I place a curse on
your mayflower.
And drag us all down.
Captain,
I'm not one to **** with.
Under the borderline sun.
I'm a career psychopath.
Working from home.
Beneath the ground.
I once called home.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 5:05 AM UTC
pure is water
underground
oh la la
set in soul
sings in tome
oh la la
still pilgrim nigh
prayer whereabouts
in-ground
romantically in
that stone hall
oh la la
there tirelessly
ensconced hers
with life
she pensively
peruse her asylum
in ecesis
when bread broken
with wax bean
oh la la
and this d'art
a priori again
her curio
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
~
come sit with me
i'll tell you secrets
secrets buried in the
far side of the moon
like how your name and mine
and the word 'love'
have two vowels
for a special reason
how words like
'heaven' and 'chrysanthemum'
cannot be spelled without
your name in them
how that smile of yours
could abate the void of
a thousand galaxies
and how everytime i make
a vague outline of my soul
i end up with a picture of you
come sit with me
how sometimes i wished
i was a crocodile
so i had no tearducts
or a earthworm
so i would have five hearts,
you could break them all
and i'd still not cry
how i could spend eternities
interpreting abstract in the
neverending brown of your eyes
or writing love poems at the
back of your palms
as march unfolds like a mayflower
this thursday feels like
a delectable dream
a dream that belongs only to us
come sit with me
come sit with me
~
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC
Yiska sits in the classroom
listening to the teacher's yak
or not as the case maybe.
Something about Pilgrim
Fathers and a Mayflower,
she stares out the wide
window; feels the numbness
of *** where's sat so long.
Some kids are out on
the playing field. Cricket
or such like. Wonder if
he's there? Hard to see
from here. The girl next
to her elbows her elbow.
The teacher is talking
to her. She focuses her ears.
Others stare at her. She stares
at the teachers eyes, watches
his lips move, strains to hear
his words. Have you been
listening? He asks. She nods.
He wonders; pulls a face;
looks at the blackboard,
writes down more. She
picks up her pen; scribbles
down; watches his hand
move chalk across the board.
Benedict's hand moved
elsewhere during break;
his lips on hers; she can
still feel where his lips
wet her neck; feels with
her fingers. Scribbles
the words, black ink like
flying birds. She rests her
cheek on the palm of her
left hand; scribbles copy
of the teacher's words;
senses the place where
Benedict touched. O to be
touched, touching, touch,
the teacher stops and looks
around; his eyes scanning
the room; he settles on her
beady-eyed. Have you got
all that? He asks. Yes of course,
she lies, dreaming of Benedict,
she opening, in her mind, his flies.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
The tulips have gone over,
Here and there, their bloomless stalks
Are like decapitated
Corpses in some religious
Foreign state. The Mayflower
Is in bloom like a splendid
Bride, white blossoms, and hidden
Branches, where many birds hide,
Whose beautiful songs echo
The countryside, a chorus
Of angels in paradise.
In the house, curtains are drawn,
In the bedroom, a woman
Lies strangled over her bed,
A red cord about her neck;
Her blue eyes staring lifeless
At the pink flowered curtains,
Which seem faded in the sun.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
They said that,
tragedy holds the greatest power,
to unite a nation together.
Have we ever stopped,
to ponder why it is,
that we were not as one?
From the infant steps imprinted,
by the feet of the wide-eyed;
Pilgrims blew a farewell to the Mayflower.
Their minds were immature to reality.
Survival was a game,
but not played unaccompanied.
It took not a great mind,
no,
but the acceptance of another.
The knowledge to see the greater,
the talent,
in one of a counter race.
Neither built a feast,
off of hatred,
false convictions,
or flesh coloring.
For,
it was built from something grander..
Unity.
Turn the clocks.
Let them tick away.
Where are we now?
We brawl..
over the superior race.
We debate on who,
constitutes to the degree,
of having a worth to life.
Our streets are sprawled with blood,
some of those who preach the protection,
of the violence that is destroying us.
If we,
were to be the pilgrims,
1620,
would we hold hands with whom we did not know?
Or would we choose to perish,
only for that,
the hand reaching out,
is unfamiliar in shade?
We suffer,
because we refuse to see.
We fail to give the hand,
to those we have grown to seem unfamiliar.
Our mindset refuses,
to except a difference.
Thus,
we are allowing ours streets to be stained red,
We suffer,
because we do not help ourselves grow as one.
Unity.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
the cat to the boot and the boot to me
from me to the gun and from the gun to my man
my gun screams and rustles
just like that couch in the garden of yours
my man is true and confident
the truth and the confidence, themselves, told me so
in a gathering held at Sicilia
and there was also a wom'n
she laughed at my striped pants and kissed me farewell
I travelled along with the Mayflower fellas
in a tiny yellow rubber boat with black stripes
they told me a tale about a guy and a gun
with a cat and a boot
or could that be a different tale?
I don't know
better ask Grahame, that fact twister
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I Stopped to Pick a Flower
I saw today, a little Mayflower
blooming from the broken ground
born from a dry earth and dry eyes
It grew there without a sound
I stopped to smell, and maybe touch,
it's dewy visage was a delight
I saw today a little Mayflower
that had grown throughout the night
I'm sure I've said it a thousand times
Life comes with no guarantees
Don't weep for me, for the lesson you see, is I am that little Mayflower
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
She saw the bald man
Gemini split the mirror
her mayflower's june
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 1:04 PM UTC
*Over time
Conversations reflected in the middle of something more than just a memory of somthing nice it's something more
I can't explain why cause
It's not straight yet nor impressive to me cause you are fine but your not mines to adore but in my eyes tonight your someone special to me your like novel of high speed baby
don't spend the rest of you life on the internet accessing a beautiful love interest of someone you don't want like for real I know how you feel and you should know who you are baby
Just listen to soundscapes and stare at the stars endlessly it would be like what you shoulda seen before just stay in this please and put
theses missing pieces together and then come back again to light the fire to the place where angles go
Yes I know sins are heavy as stones,
Time will show
I promise if your mind is right
You'll be talking and feeling righteous forever on just cut the nightmares short
And leave the ******** alone honey
Say no more pain
Say no more headaches or walking around into long hallways just stick to original relationships that actually make sense to you
And and forget to paint a picture of it darling
Remember Im on your side
My presents has arrived to you with my happiness I arise tonight Mayflower may I put my hands beside you right next to the bottom light*
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
The thought of the text you last sent me doesn't stray too far from my mind.
The feeling of walking through Mayflower park is one of very deep nostalgia.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
alternately titled: breast ****** fallacy hi-jinxed!
In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version
swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically **** cleared
on a stack of video nasties,
and ****** 'zines
now she can live rest of life
guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop
with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,
who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)
shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
****** free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird
mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that *** hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ***********
of Peter ought to be heard
where sudden sound
sans ***** seams burst
**** strapped unseen bulging Johnson's
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
automatically immersed
within ****** tabloid pulp pit
***** sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,
NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eylit
of trouser snake split)
yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
a mayflower
is please
the art
of law
to pursue
investigator of
its pill
when a
foothill is
mother to
triumph of
ill while
you are
nature's force
here but
taken true
elegant again
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC