"meed" poems
Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy!
Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.
I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer.
Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day.
And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!
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A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.
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i.
Cap-a-pie
I loveth thee;
Mine own, mine self
Mine whole, mine queen.
ii.
Lashes and eyes
I loveth thee;
Mine home, mine help
Best friend, and dream.
iii.
Leg's and thighs
I loveth thee;
Mine girl, mine world
Mine living, breathing.
iv.
Spirit and mind
I loveth thee;
I giveth mineself,
To thee in sickness
Or wealth, in good
Times or bad health.
v.
Marry and sedate
Me in passionate
Meed; thou art
Mine want, thou
Art mine yearning,
Mine longing,
Mine need.
vi.
Cap-a-pie
Mine
Queen;
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
7 Deadly SIns
I thirst for you with deep desire,
for you have lit my heart with fire.
oh angel do not mind me I am yet only here because I must,
though the way you move makes my mind fill with Lust.
I see you do not wear a ring,
that makes me want to sing,
oh angel bet you do not appreciate this insanity,
hope that I will not pay for my Vanity.
I feel my hunger has got the best of me,
will you be so kind to allow me to feed,
oh angel I hope my appetite does not make you leave suddenly
for that was a small taste of my Gluttony
I hear that your heart is made of gold,
might I get close enough to see or is that to bold?
oh angel pour me some meed,
then I shall tell you a story of my Greed
I can get pretty angry when violence comes near,
just ask the man over their who looked at your rear,
oh angel do not worry it is simple math,
you will never feel my Wrath.
I see in your eyes you are getting tired,
might i suggest you come to my place to retire.
oh angel never fear I will act like a man of the clothe
for tonight my sin will be Sloth.
I know you might be yet a little worried,
that I will not be at all nice and will scurry.
oh angel to night let it be put to rest this is not deadly,
I will make sure all who see you turn green with Envy
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
No God, no Demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once.
Heart! Thou and I are here, sad and alone;
I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain!
O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease,
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds;
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,
But Death intenser—Death is Life's high meed.
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XXXVIII
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its ‘Oh, list,’
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, ‘My love, my own.’
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All so grave and shining see they come
From the blissful ranks of the forgiven,
Though so distant wheels the nearest crystal dome,
And the spheres are seven.
Are you in such haste to come to earth,
Shining ones, the Wonder on your brow,
To the low poor places of your birth,
And the day that must be darkness now?
Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on
In the grey and mortal years,
The pure flame the smoky hearth it burned on,
The clear eye its tears?
Was there, in the narrow range of living,
After all the wider scope?
In the old old rapture of forgiving,
In the long long flight of hope?
Come you, from free sweep across the spaces,
To the irksome bounds of mortal law,
From the all-embracing Vision, to some face’s
Look that never saw?
Never we, imprisoned here, had sought you,
Lured you with the ancient bait of pain,
Down the silver current of the light-years brought you
To the beaten round again—
Is it you, perchance, who ache to strain us
Dumbly to the dim transfigured breast,
Or with tragic gesture would detain us
From the age-long search for rest?
Is the labour then more glorious than the laurel,
The learning than the conquered thought?
Is the meed of men the righteous quarrel,
Not the justice wrought?
Long ago we guessed it, faithful ghosts,
Proudly chose the present for our scene,
And sent out indomitable hosts
Day by day to widen our demesne.
Sit you by our hearth-stone, lone immortals,
Share again the bitter wine of life!
Well we know, beyond the peaceful portals
There is nothing better than our strife,
Nought more thrilling than the cry that calls us,
Spent and stumbling, to the conflict vain,
After each disaster that befalls us
Nerves us for a sterner strain.
And, when flood or foeman shakes the sleeper
In his moment’s lapse from pain,
Bids us fold our tents, and flee our kin, and deeper
Drive into the wilderness again.
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The young Endymion sleeps Endymion’s sleep;
The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told!
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep;
It is midsummer, but the air is cold;
Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold
A shepherd’s pipe lies shattered near his sheep.
Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white,
On which I read: “Here lieth one whose name
Was writ in water.” And was this the meed
Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write:
“The smoking flax before it burst to flame
Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.”
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1024
So large my Will
The little that I may
Embarrasses
Like gentle infamy—
Affront to Him
For whom the Whole were small
Affront to me
Who know His Meed of all.
Earth at the best
Is but a scanty Toy—
Bought, carried Home
To Immortality.
It looks so small
We chiefly wonder then
At our Conceit
In purchasing.
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Oh, factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our “nation’s foes” lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir’d in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur’d his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “war not with the dead:”
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber’d in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending “’neath the weight”
Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear’d,
Who for a time the ruin’d fabric rear’d:
He, too, is fall’n, who Britain’s loss supplied,
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe’s far-extended regions mourn.
“These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;”
Yet, let not canker’d Calumny assail,
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour’d marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.—
Fox! shall, in Britain’s future annals, shine,
Nor e’en to PITT, the patriot’s ‘palm’ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar’d to ask.
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He says, "Is this a stool?"
Turn it upside down and it is a wastebasket
Now it's a drum
There are no concepts
It is what it does
Anything you can use it for is what it is
A stool can be all these other things as well
Buddhism does not define
If you believe that, you are stuck with an idea
And are clinging onto it for spiritual security
You have a great laugh Alan
There is nothing you can hold onto
So man let go!
If you're enlightened you're like a dumb man
Who has had a wonderful dream
Nirvana means blow out
If you hold your breathe you lose it
Breathe out and you get your breath back
The ultimate reality is Shunyata
You don't meed any gizmos to be in the know
Every teacher of Buddhism is a debunker
He or she does it out of compassion
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC
be blunter not, be no folly still:
this is our heartland's voice.
we are not this land's tenant,
nor are we the shadows that inhabit
light — this is out highest meed,
we go on with nobler steads.
languorous scraps of warfare
and a ****** of metal heed the
clarion call of our oneness yet when
it rains all shall rend in rust
as how our nation
furiously drowns yet emerges
victorious past the renegade of hours!
in it and from it
shall rise the true meaning
of our blood.
our large voices mellow down
in our guts outdoing our smallness - there is a river of
phantasmagoria yet its
rustle is same in its breadth in
our deep land. o, yelp never a lie!
consider truthfully brutal
affording solace:
it is our form reshaping our body.
it is our wills carving our flesh.
it is the dreams that are ensanguined
in us that forge the arms of
our fatherland: language!
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
It is comfortable in this colored glass
among the barley, malt and meed.
To sit here in the place my father made for me.
Though warm bed beckons me to fall,
down comforter and pillow, wife's embrace....
I sit here...Still...
until late with weary eyes
I curse my retched luck that such a man like I
should feel so loved.
This faulted man my father made.
Drink!!!
and drink I will
Until I'm fit to let myself back in,
a clumsy thief in my own house,
making way with measured step
until I'm standing at the foot of my own future.
Is it his father that he sees?
or just the man that made him.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 10:45 PM UTC
The raven looms the scourged dead sky
And flies by night to summer high
To wisp what to a widowed brew
You think that's art?
**** you.
Alone the raven watches steed
And passes plainly soft; meed
To hallow falls and morning dew
That's art as well?
**** you.
My soul is that of burning ember
Subtle sparks to Fall September
I have not chance what claims I do
I'll say it again.
**** you.
I tossed that out in miniature times
Those seemingly fantastic rhymes
Yet weeks and nights you “artists” plead
For an ounce of something, not just ****
I'll **** some rhymes and call it art
It's painful cause you're not that smart.
You aren't unique and full of might
So let us real artists take flight.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
I can give you an invitation to ***
Or an invitation to love.
You must decide which one you're in need of.
For there is a different.
And both can create a world of trouble.
Except one holds more comfort.
I can give you an invitation to dance.
Or an invitation for romance.
You must select which one you meed the most.
Neither one come with a cost.
Upon this journey to get to that place.
Where we comfortable with that smile upon our face?
We must have a meeting of the minds.
Or we forever be searching for that special someone.
Our choice makes a difference.
Love, romance or general interest.
Cause after the conclusion of this journey.
We might regret the consequences.
You can offer an invitation to know you.
I can offer an invitation to know me.
For their is a different.
Especially, if we don't have the same interest.
A momentarily feel works for the moment.
While love last a little longer.
Just remember , there is a difference.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
I left no head unturned,
No eye dry,
No tongue wet,
Nor did I leave
Any joy unearned.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
You were, for a moment, my favorite read
Even believed, that, for a moment you were my personal creed
I gave good advise, if you only had listened to my heed
No amount of meed
Can pay back everything and succeed
But my heart it feeds
On nothing it ever needs
These feelings that breed
Nothing I want to feel indeed
Numb my anxiety with all this ****
I can't wait to pass the deed
I'm sweating bullets in constant beads
For my moment in the lead
My beautiful brilliance will be keyed
And my emotions can be freed
I can't wait for that special someone who'll have me queened
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
"In this wilderness your bodies will fall - you will suffer for your sins and know what it is like to have me against you."
The guilty do NOT go unpunished!
Punishing the children to the third and fourth generation.
The promise remains - blood was spilled.
You will suffer for your unfaithfulness,
until the last of your bodies lies to rest.
Yes, you will suffer for your sins
and know what it is like to have me against you.
Banding against me you will meed your end,
Here you will die.
How long will you treat me with contempt?
I am slow to anger, abounding in LOVE - in your presumption,
I will beat you down.
Do not despise my word - follow me wholeheartedly and salvation will inherit the generous promise I made.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
I had six lives.
Five, which were caged,
One, which I raged.
None as fulfilling as the last.
Alas,
I am here again.
For the seventh isn’t my end,
But the beginning.
For vanity’s grip —
Death’s grip has played my truth.
To see,
Or not to see.
To flee,
Or not to flee.
The future waits for no one.
In repetition,
A new future leads.
On a little ship,
I read the waves that bound me.
A scope in hand,
An empty map to meed.
With sheer will,
And the growing determination is all I need.
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 1:38 AM UTC
My legacy was
To be laved twice a day,
To disport myself around the garden.
Enveloped in my crisp creaseless clothes,
Encircled by the aroma of blossoms.
My gladsome day was rounded
Off with a dinner fit for a King.
My education taught me
To read, write and a lot more.
I was conditioned to expect nothing less.
Her legacy was
To toil the soil on the farm
In threadbare clothes.
Steeped in baked clay,
Engulfed by the stench of the fields.
Her meed was to eat
Whatever there was.
Her education was to do
More than her fair share.
She was privileged to expect nothing more.
We walked the earth,
We breath the same air,
Yet,
Like the two oceans,
Our lives never transgress.
Our challenge is to reconcile our inheritances with what should be.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC