"missives" poems
1 poet,
0 thought;
Wordy,
Often
Reaching
Deep,
Pens
Obdurately
Excessive
Missives.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:29 AM UTC
Acceptance called out, evoking astonishing silence
Ringing in a whispered new kiss
Of velvety sensations murmuring sweet promises
Such delicate pure visions of bliss
Unforgettable missives powerfully pulsated within
Profoundly affecting all feeling
Shimmering on the edges of what has to be
Treasured without any ceilings
No confines, shorn of imaginary bounds to present
Nestled in shining perfect peace
Acceptance called out, evoking remarkable silence
Ringing in a spectacular release
When our eyes meet tenderly, with arms open wide
No imaginary bounds or ceilings exist
Just the velvety sensations murmuring promises
In the sweetest taste of your kiss
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
love between poets: “who will be between the sheets next week
when I’m gone,” she lets sigh-escape,
as she watches the backyard paradise parading landscape
of animals before the bay, perfect day sure to come,
her new pets obeying the early morn sunrising awakening call
to rise, everyone playing~parading, before her royal summons,
no coincidence, finger-of-god, two by two
this while I’m kissing her neck,
my arm around her *******
and the he-intent on slip sliding down
to the small of her back,
obeying his innate,
worship worshiping and giving up,
all he’s got intense intently contentedly
unfazed, unphased,
non-nonplussed,
he’s been interrogated before,
heart is pure he answers:
next weekend when you are back in situ,
thousands of miles away, airplane housed for hours,
writing poems of love from the lost and found,
recalling this exact moment,
how I worshipped your presence,
and these words:
You will be with me in every breath,
our sheets will radioactively emit
ions and molecules of our scent combined,
and present as present your perfume can be,
elicited, elixir, you and me combinant
she turns from the bay-view,
the animals who now mutually
worship her adoration,
watching, focused on us as observers,
she lifts me up and smiles,
replying*
“oh my lover you’re the cad of cads,
king of the baddest poet-lads,
the gist of what is wrong with the best of men,
her, pressing me hard to her chestnut hair chest,
she, falling down into my eyes
take me back to bed, liar,
let me add to my aroma,
to ensue, to ensure you will miss
the best love
you had partly, insufficiently, and unhinged
completely
I’m your lassie, you my lad,
my king of cads, my lover poet,
thief of my poems and my secret speech spells,
escalating senses of one’s imaginings”*
and,
along came the rest
of what was freely given,
for love between poets
man and
a woman,
is a someone, somewhere,
sometime summertime
thing
*I will still smell you in my
heart, and send to you ballistic missives,
words to explode your tear ducts
when you rest in sheets that met me,
when you’ll know me by my odors,
cry out loud so that you’ll scare our animals,
no matter how many tides wash away our residue,
you will never unknow and be forever unprepared
for my return,*
even though we will be each, a thousand unwritten poems away...
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Call me to the mountains once more,
Oh sweet, murmuring gusts,
And remind me who I am.
Sweep up my laughing toes to the tops
Of these proud outcrops
Then give my breath to the dome
When after looking out, I see my city,
But not my home.
Bring forth the rich perfumes
of startling everything-ness from the valleys,
And after I have drunk the proud skirts
of these verdurous hills,
Let your sweet touch guide me up,
and pin my head to my scoping bed.
Then hush, let me be as I espy
My gentle, distant, giant lovers,
Dependably rising from the East,
with supernal gossiping
for my cognizance alone.
Let me imbibe their wisdom
until all my queries and qualms
slip from my eyes,
dissolving into secrets
and thanks beyond measure.
One last request, my swift-flowing friend,
Wipe these wet lessons from my face
And carry their essence to the edge
To Karman,
And meet the angel who waits without air
To carry my cosmic missives there
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 5:54 AM UTC
HP sycophants . . .
Why would someone prop up hacks?
. . . Idiots praising.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
*the cost
of
'a post-strophe fee'
is a pouted heart
placed in parentheses*
(yet still on that ledge:)
1.
like the tail of a kite
caught on a wire
or high branch of a tree
waiting to be eased off
and breezed out
free
it hangs upside down
seeing 'everything'
tipsy-style
as its force is slow-drained
2.
this apostrophe
is
the mere tail-end
of a dragon
(in a pit of exhaustion)
dragged in deepest-red ink
leaving an inimitable trail
with emphasis on sincerest care
brackets are just (two curves)
which jealously guard
all what lies inside
while giving so much
love in indivisible power-curls
3.
better to
let nature runs its course
of rivers flowing
and wild winds
while beetles walk on stones
yet
while trying to make a mark
with missives in the sand
the waves make sure
to wash them all away
best then
to let know
in this now
that some things never die
(it's enough for veracity to flap its weary wings)
4.
flee then
this finest core-duel likely
there's always..maybe
the next now
(all the previous
were not quite squandered
in cold flight
but unexpected loss)
and
no use hiding from one's (own) shadow
for kites will take off
and fly high
in the sun
where shadows have no place to hide
*futile wondering
if it really
(has to)
spell
catastrophe
it does not*
(it really does not :)
S T. Saturday. 27 July 2013
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
*HP sycophants
Why would someone prop up hacks
Idiots praising*
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.
To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.
One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.
This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.
One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.
No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.
2.1k
I set a paper rocket flyin', and it hurtled into space
breaking off gravity - all the way to Mars orbity!
Now everyone's surprised, coz a mere paper rag
flew up high and reached that rarefied lile where
only the costliest of junkets lounge leisurely by.
They said you're stupid, you got a paper twit to beg
and you've wampered even that away: how dares
a hungry haggard send missives down the skies?
I stand staring, starry eyed. This is an old squint,
that I got learning to look the other way as
my brothers starved and pottered on the streets
when cotton and coal funneled to Manchester leets.
But last heard, papa John's makin' paper boats
to swim by them snooty stars and there's a scramble
at my yards to get some ******* to the Moon.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
~For Lila and the others~
there exists
a subset of us,
those who
for whatever reason
do not write,
but “just” repost
other’s work
Above see the word
Just
emboldened
for this selfless task
is justice inherent
For this act of bringing others
to our over constrained attention is an
action of justice,
or more profoundly
doing away with
injustice of
our human limitations
We could spend days entire
pursuing the works of others,
but life and the extraordinary demands
of writing anew, when the spirit is upon us,
are oft unable to spot, isolate, and
highlight
capture
the best of the rest,
and bless those
who reorient our eyes
away from our own bounded rivulets,
to the tried and truly, away from
habitual familial familiar good stuff,
but bring us revelations of gems,
caught within the mass maskings of missives that grows hourly, exponentially to
out attention,
to reorient
our attention,
to their filtered selections
Let us say in unison then
a blessing of gratitude
to The Reposters:
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, to give thanks to those who enable others, to reach us this season
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 2:42 PM UTC
My life is a series of "do this" and "do that",
Not actually doing what I really want to.
They say it's for me, it's for the best and whatnots,
Everything's more of what I'm expected to do.
Then came a reckless boy who called my life boring,
That was something I wasn't really expecting.
The first experience he gave me was a piercing,
He changed the way I see life, not even knowing.
04-19-17 // 12:46 PM
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
If only a little eye of newt,
or mandrake root, or hemlock bark,
could turn these loathsome suitors
into lovers handsome, tall and dark.
They paste their unappealing photos
next to profiles trite and silly,
and send flirtations cut-and-pasted
into the ether willy-nilly.
Don’t you know my time you’ve wasted?
I have no interest in your wooing.
Instead of listing your opinions
there are things you should be doing:
Learn to listen, read more books,
lose 15 lbs and use some manners.
Answer emails, learn to cook,
travel widely, study language.
Say what you mean, do what you say,
you’ll find a date without delay.
I haven’t found the witches’ brew
that will turn boys into men.
'Til then with dating I am through,
and bitter missives I will pen.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
Like you perhaps I am the heathen who sifts through the
hazes of a blood soul sentence. One that is forged in an emptiness
that cannot fill or find space between remembering or forgetting past entrenchments.
With the shackles and shapings of exemplary upbringings, coupled with history's ancestral machining hands I am defined by, predictable to and quintessentially fixed in most certain consciousness.
My thoughts are parabolas of yearning sent in all directions to past and past participial futures. As each return without geometric certainty they are repeatedly sent again - missives to unknown or perhaps unfriendly oracles: what is known is that all go unanswered.
Perhaps endemic to each lived experience is the perfect folly of presumption that it is possible to rewrite the past. The angel's kindest mercy being to reveal the conundrum for which a state of equilibrium can only be reached by one anointed practice; which is, to accept that transcendence is in and of itself an illusion.
MChallis @ 2015
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
Some nights, I would set sail
To a thousand words on paper,
And one by one, they would get lost
Beneath the rip tides of your skin.
In sentience and in sleep,
Darling, you are only as real
As the last verse I wrote
On the crumpled walls of dusk.
While the world slaughters dreamers,
I watch you, begging the moon
To drop pieces of itself on sea foam.
I am a slave to your every step.
Tucked underneath crystalline sighs,
The stars would come out to put up tents
In the corner of your eyes, their light
Guiding the way for misguided missives.
Moored to your voice, I listen
As you speak in the language of waves,
Your words undulating with my metaphors,
But stirring holocausts for the heartbroken.
But you are here, and the lines between your eyes
Get tangled up with thoughts bred by midnight.
Your hair, your hair, they tessellate and play
With the colors of honey and amber.
Perhaps, if one were to crack you open
The light of a thousand adjectives
Would come seeping out of your skin.
I am but the shadow it will cast.
And in shadows, they whisper
That dreams can get lost
In the vacancies of the night.
Every night, with you
I set sail to my words
To find them
And lure them back.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC
The weak sun and clouds
A blanket from the back seat
It's your warmth I miss
Seagulls are massive
Intrepid and audacious
I carry the scars
Wrinkled and 60
From another century
Nothing has changed
One expensive stamp
Short missives over Assam
Wishing you were here
May 5, 2023
May 5, 2023 at 5:24 PM UTC
Po-hymn
**To whomever you pray to,
And if there is no such icon,
Then I hymn-hum to you, this tribute**
Let all my mistakes, my typographical errors,
Like writing poem and getting back po-hymn,
Bring delights to keep, to grow ancient on my face,
For from every accident, we grow and bend,
New tree leaning towards our collective inner
Sun Ra.
I am no David, psalms and hymns,
Unreadily exist, so dug deep Lord,
To write this prayer, for my brethren.
Just one day, someday, let heaven
Grant only poets births, no passings took.
Give us goodness and grace
All the poems of our day.
Shed special light all about our faces,
From our shoulders, rise up insight inside our heads,
Brighten, enlighten, give us eloquence and sanity.
Let our missives dismiss the gloom,
Polish, remove the tarnish, we cannot secret
From the all seeing confessions taker,
Honesties writ daily but never published.
Give us meter, yes, give us rhyme,
To make sense of the grey days,
The black hole invaders,
Given iris-shine be our responsibility,
But a sweet nudge, prithee,
Enhance our impoverished ability.
This Sabbath day your fog-hide
Your gift of bay and beach
So quiet implore, beseech,
Keep the sailors safe,
And your poets saved.
I ask much.
But I ask for all of us,
There are so many such
That are booster-chair needy
That I am succumbed, overwhelmed,
Enormity fearsome needs help even from a deity.
Small words, big hopes.
If you cannot grant it,
Won't wait for intervention,
Do it myself, answer prayers one and all,
Best I can, starting now with this
Po-hymn.
July 13th for always
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Now! the damson crush of swallow wing
to foal the brays of uwound April,
in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail
that agitate these pagan grains.
Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak
the gates of prickled secrecy,
the platted creed of wren-song
yolks the whiting peeks of May.
Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn
of nether-world calligraphy
with missives of anemone to
prose the woke terrain,
so a gattling shack of magpies prat
along the miscreants of bine
that heckle servile atrophy in
lung sweet roots of anchored sage
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
The glacé savor, O' e'er how I needeth her so. O' she's the candelabra inside of me, sparking fires to maketh me whole. What's mine is her's, as what's her's is mine. Colonstias courting, O' to Highway Banadero; mine feet do I find. O' she canst healeth the blind, as tis I once was, mine sight is returned, as doth God through her work, didst thou not knoweth? She's a seraph by birth. Aloft the star's, she went through Apotheosis; hostess of the holy missives, O' how I received her amour long ago, afore the times of humankind's admission.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Still in your pink sleeper
Poking your smartphone
I watch the raindrops
playing dribble on the patio
Looking over plastic frames
You search through missives
Dark eyes still intriguing
Captivating as our first encounter
Still overwhelming
This urge to embrace
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
There is no juice in your meat
No sweet to your thin
No beat in your heart
No wheel on your cart
Little love for your mind
And these missives I have signed
With relish and gusto
Religious ink writing - Irreligious rite inking
Pages full of pelliculous thinking
My pages, filled with the ridiculous
These are my letters to you
Filled with more letters
Held up to the light to cast shadows
And can be seen right through
Guessing thoughts of green giddy meadows,
Of guarded gaffling men,
Of tygers and lyrical zen
My hand had paused and drawn a blank
And you saw that too
When you held up my letters to the light
You read from the cover
Just by my tone
I knew of your other lover
And how I'm made to suffer
How I'm faced with a Hobson's choice
How you've covered up and drowned out my voice
With the moans of your new paramour
With the valiant slew of groans striking to the core
How you've used a hold on my heart
As your bully pulpit
To propound how I need to be fully sculpted
Not the man I am,
I persist,
and I abide,
Not for your amusement and no longer by your side
I feel as if my heart, the conductor, is ablaze with St. Elmo's fire
At my back, a church choir
My funeral,
no,
the inhumation of our consociation.
A pit replete to swell,
on to hell.
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
At rest, the motions seem sublime,
as we prepare our circular climb;
The winding 'round of colors' whims,
beneath the rock's exotic gems.
As the tale entrusted to our elders,
life's epic journey starts to smolder;
The planet's rage urges from its core,
and soon our days will be no more.
So moving quickly to escape our fate,
from the destiny of trials and hate;
Now gathering missives from the sun,
no longer fooled by anyone.
We face the climb just as we must,
before our hearts turn into dust;
and cheering on are clouds of rain,
Which spill onto our wounds with pain.
But then we see the course return,
exempting souls from hurt and scorn;
While climbing high yet much too far,
we've failed to capture heaven's star.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
In box ghosts
In god we trust
Picture from forgotten toasts
Friendships cyclical, boom or bust
One, two, three, four
Boldface type between the junk
Plaintive missives to ignore
Memories stored within a trunk
Friends arrayed 'neath a tree
Once upon a summer's eve
Kept in touch with none of thee
With a pen we took our leave
Scattered comments, wish you were
Scattered ashes, dust to dust
Given a choice of you or her
Follow always wanderlust
Blinking cursor, monochrome screen
One truck passes on the street
Slowly passing fields of green
A moment's thought, then press delete.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
*Fall in love with a writer
She'll write you a universe
Imprison you in the web of her words
Keep you forever in her embrace
Fall in love with a writer
She'll not brag about how you mistreated her
For she'll just put her feelings into words
And keep it locked to herself
Fall in love with a writer
She'll never get tired of scribbling missives for you
Nor gets tired of loving you
Because she'll make you her world.*
**Fall in love with a writer.
Fall in love with me.**
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
eyes fall again as intuitive meteors
and it all heats up at alarming pace
this want grows strong over an ocean
that we just don't account for
you want something
something shocking
and I cannot see why
it's so important now
we gallop together across the moors of our land
never looking back
always forward into the waiting light
shining
shining
you say you love me so much
this reciprocal fount we drink from
unstoppable flow
we are making headway into the night
disregarding the long gone moon
who has tipped over to the other side of the firmaments
silent covenant in confusion
I want you so much
we stroke each other to madness
and whip each other to sweet and high want
you drive your missives very deep into me
you rush along so
I hold you back
I tell you
I want it
slow
very slow
you seem disheartened in the heart of your throb
I hold you tight
I take your hand and lead you back
from easily mired traps
we both know what we want
but time's a hapless passerby on a rickety scale
let's have fun and go slow
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
she sits by her window to write,
ever fond of the morning light;
not a day passes when she fails
to pen an epistle to him
she envisions him pulling
the missives from his saddle bags
perusing them a second time, a third,
admiring her chancery cursive
a year now since she saw him:
steady on his steed, his regiment
waiting, eager to join the fray, to ride
north under his proud command
perhaps at eventide, she will
write another letter, in case she
forgot anything she intended to say
this morn, or just to reach out again
before the setting of the sun
a cloud passes as she signs
her name, another as she folds
the paper; soon it seems, a gathering
storm--she places the letter in the
envelope, its traveling home
she turns the candle to pour
the wax, then presses the seal;
another story from her to him
ready for its long journey
the stroll from her room
to the mantel in the parlor
to the pile of paper that grows
higher above the hearth
a cold cavern of late, for
without him, she eschews all
things warm--for she knows
he must be freezing in the
cruel ground where he fell
(Spartanburg, South Carolina, Winter, 1863)
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC