"momentous" poems
This love we share is pure and true
it will not falter as others do.
We have found the half that makes us complete
oh what a momentous feet.
I am so very much in love with you
our love is endless, pure, and true.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
i.
Beset next to me
Coadjuvant to mine need's;
I couldst not asketh for more
Mine Reyna's all do I believeth.
ii.
She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies
Her suntanned dermis is momentous;
Wallowed in her oversea's memories
A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented.
iii.
In Luzon, the older part of the firma
Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's;
Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour'
To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's.
iv.
Covered head to toe
By these inked protection's;
Spelling out the word's
Brandon and Jane's resurrection.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
The momentous buzzing of battling beasts
Gets lost between the cracks of creeks
You and I, we take our seats
And wait for the show to begin
I wanted fire so I brought flames
But you are like water, so I am tamed
Patience and love, they are the same
You won't catch me asking for either
The sound of malicious marching bands
Outside my door as I sleep they stand
And await my green light crescendo hand
But here it is, locked up in yours
I served my sentence for baring teeth
At those who hung me up like wreath
So you, you are a quantum leap
I am no longer fearful of taking
The air it always sounds so still
On either side of my broken sill
The silence it will hurt until
I hear an impulsive tapping
The gorgeous drumming of Gatling guns
Remind me of your silver tongue
You leave me like a hit-and-run
Please come back; I want more
And maybe, the worst kind of hell
Is where our demons play so well
They make each other swoon and swell
But really - are we any better?
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
The day I fell off a mountain, these shoes were on my feet
When I lay broken upon the jagged rocks, these shoes were on my feet
When we walked the valley and through the creek, I felt Mother's natural peat,
The day he slipped, I rescued him with these shoes upon my feet
We made a fire and sat in peace with nothing but the sleet
The day we grasped and found nothing there, these shoes were on my feet
We drank the icy cool that she gave to us with open mouths to greet
When rubble and we flew with momentous speed, these shoes were on my feet
The day you brought me to the sunny hill I felt the heavenly heat
Nothing below us once off the edge, even in freefall these shoes are on my feet
Together we hike and row and climb like two brothers always in beat
I look down to see nothing but rock and know I die with these shoes on my feet
Rocks we skip on the glass-like river so smooth, eloquent, and neat
We approach our doom with mighty force my shoes laced on my feet
Singing of folk with not a care in the world, I and my brother do speak
We do collide with the rock with unspeakable speed these shoes take the shock for my feet
You lend me your tool out of kindness and I know it only takes two for a fleet
Our bodies cease to move but the water still falls, these shoes twitch not on my feet
I lay beside you, it feels safer than home here with these people tonight that I meet
My shoulder is bashed and I lay on my front, I look back to see the shoes on my feet.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
Solitude is a blessing, forced by a changed mind.
Reflection and analysis rule the quiet times, pondering.
The feeling of completeness overwhelming, enjoying.
Disconnected madness from the daily normal grind.
Lost in the maybe, envisioned joy supersedes reality.
Euphoric pleasure tempers the momentous soul.
Searching to re-establish the understanding of clarity.
Heart closes almost reluctantly, unexpected peace returns.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
On its back,
The cockroach,
In a jacket of red wings,
Slender legs,
And bulging abdomen,
Like the tummy of African statesman,
Its legs wallowing in despair,
In the air,
Stamping the spread eagled,
Hind and forelimbs,
Of the poor anthropod,
Kicking and waving,
A cry for the succor,
To be freed from ebola,
Or breaking the *** tether,
Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty,
Three districts under leprosy,
In the domain of the bull’s eye,
Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate,
Its salient manifestation,
Then the cockroach kicks silently,
Anticipating for salvage,
But when the domain owner comes,
He steps with full weight,
His foot dressed in military boots,
From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara,
On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall,
Bursting its stomach but hopscotch,
Spilling the white stuff out,
Of poverty and mental dilemma,
Amid hopelessness in future and history,
As terrorism mires tomorrow,
When China reigns today,
At mercy of contemporary panjandrums,
Moving from white to black
And from black to face book,
Killing those who fall in commercial love,
As if money is the ***** for nuptial night,
But only to go forth ignobled,
Without making momentous affinity,
In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom,
Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table,
Without scorn and regard for true African blood,
Where will I apologize?
If the ****** bug
Enters my head and heart,
To blind my logical eyes,
Only to open wide
The senses that see and feel
Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
procrastinating is my hobby,
ask
someone if you don't believe me ,
baby i lay around
as i please
&
work at my own leisure,
incredibly you fail
to understand i am me
and
i love more then like the way that i am- gorgeous courageous
coco golden skin,
painfully
i know you feel the threat of
my momentous appeal
keeps
you you & yeah you -- mystified.
guaranteed your days are filled
with shock and frustration,
haa haa hee
how very exciting to me seeing your not as experienced as I,
unlicensed to tame what i'd never give
freely,
repetitiously you've played the game,
failure must be a sweet pill sallowed whole huh?
adequately i compel my strengths -- my naivety makes
my appeal that more interesting,
call me uniquely imperfections
rarely made in to what many can never comprehend,
my life is my dialogue to my very own daily soap opera
la di da da-- it's more then my sultry walk
as i pass you on bye.
in this corrupted jungle
you have to win or be inhibited by
what others may call taboos,
whew weee your so serious,
chasing prey only to tease-- lingering doubts?
catch me-- i bet you can't.
innocently the line's been crossed
yet
speak not of what should be!
only-- this--
is what you'll know ; procrastinating is my hobby!
I Am The Lioness!
(some may be lost on what i wrote&say; but ok lol)
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
After weeks spent parading around, letting everybody and their mother know the day is near, we are finally here. It’s the night of your 21st birthday. 3 shots, 2 beers, and a joint or four later, and I’m feeling pretty alright.
Your mother brings out your baby book, the entirety of your childhood life simplified into pictures and momentous small enough not to cause the pages to crease, meticulously placed between two hard covers.
She flips through the album, licking her fingertips between every other page and reading aloud the entries with the most significance to her. Suddenly she stops and points to a date.
January 19, 1997. The first time you smiled.
I look over at you and you smile back at me. A smile so radiant, there’s no need to explain the significance.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
I've moved on.
but she stalks at his profile
all day long
I've moved on.
but she kept the photographs
of their unsuccessful love
I've moved on.
but she always visit the momentous event
of their love and wanted it back
How ironic,
people says they've moved on
but deep inside there's still
something wrong
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
Lines of coal take form, again and again, on this coldbound evening
as blackened fingers and wear reveal prints typically unseen.
Beautiful and unique and hurricane lightning tattooed yellowed paper.
It was untouched, like the charcoal, for ages as it sat in the corner
underneath the easel gathering dust and cobwebs.
It seems that the spiders have had a plentiful harvest this autumn,
what a shame to rid them of their feast this month.
It'll be winter soon and they're going to need it.
What creation is permissible by destruction? Any?
None?
Can I make up for it, I promise:
I'll draw them a web and weave you into it.
You and I and They: we'll all feast.
We on Art and they on flesh.
They'll never miss those material pleasures ever again.
They'll never need to build or wait or **** or eat.
We'll never need to either, not after this,
this momentous occasion of focus and dedication
when my arms and lamplit desk burn from satisfaction
and our faces grimace at the completion
of something so wonderful, on paper.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
Blessed with matchlessly magical Parents,
Their supremely good, serenely happy raising,
design our thought processes.
Their loving, comforting storytelling skills,
leave indelible footprints and heartprints.
Thankyou God for this Benedictory Love!!!
Blessed with a bombastic Brother,
self-styled natural, perennial itinerant,
Sentinel of sisters life-long.
Sentiments flow unabatedly,
for our illustrious, boisterous beloved younger.
Thankyou God for this Blissful Love!!!
Blessed with delicate darling Sister,
who wears expressions benignant perpetually.
Wiitty, gritty, easy-going habitually.
Evident protected favourite of all surely.
Fondest moments born in her queenly company.
Thankyou God for this Harmonious Love!!!
Blessed with solicitous Husband,
His silent romanticism, macho protective ways,
smoothen tumultuous paths.
Terribly correct and sober better half,
Brokers peace, plots life's happiness graph.
Thankyou God for this Angelic Love!!!
Blessed with an endearing Child,
Whose arrival, auspicious, momentous and miraculous, Rearing the divine and sublime born,
definitely, a definition for the guardians.
Our child, our panacea, promise of better tomorrows.
Thankyou God for this Supreme Love!!!
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
I never knew those glossy eyes
Could tell such great lies to me
I never knew the promises you told
Were merely screens to the lies that were to unfold
I never knew that silent banter
Was a way to conceive acts, to reveal an enticing enchanter
I never knew I would question love
And think all we had was not pure, graceful and simple, like a morning dove
My only sweet escape from this, was the swirled twilight
That formed between the glowing horizon and the tranquil skylight
As I sat there on the tethered rock
I came to a conclusion that I might ironically be mocked for
In general life is a conspiracy of activities to deceive
So join the crowd, before the game is complete
Or in return, for being so humble and veracious, life will equal to a momentous defeat
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
The world was never going to end
in fire.
It was never thought to.
Now. Thunder comes on.
The raincoat boleros around the street.
Momentous,
One two slow slow one two. Earth splits
/ an avocado, molten core discarded.
In the southern hemisphere they are waving flags.
Complimentary colors crawl up the sky tiding in.
They are dancing.
Ba-cha
-ta,
Me-ren-gue.
Their hemisphere Charybidises,
trees genuflected.
Quiet. The puddles are sleeping.
In the north. The hemisphere has run aground.
It capsizes. All the bands are going
down playing.
Rain panics off the timpani
prisming.
The brass cherubs in the clouds.
The strings red shift.
At the equator,
an umbrella floats:
1 bird inside it.
She prays in single syllables. Help.
Please.
Quack!
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
Come prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,—
Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre
Blazed with momentous memorable fire;—
Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these?
Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease
Tragical shadow’s realm of sound and sight
Conjectured in the lamentable night?…
Lo! the soul’s sphere of infinite images!
What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast
The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van
Of Love’s unquestioning unreveale’d span,—
Visions of golden futures: or that last
Wild pageant of the accumulated past
That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
2.7k
he was there
enough that made my insides shake
terrified with every move he made
the air thickened -
a sharp tang of something else
i hope he didn't recognize
how even his slightest move sent chills down
down my spine
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?
________________________
My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!
Encore
of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds
What happens after ecstasy?
Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?
_________________
...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….
_____________
As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!
If only I could be—
more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy
_____________
But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!
I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....
______________
Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart
The Ancient Flood was jealous....
Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
Remembering—
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...
a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Sometime in everyone's life, withered
leaves will not grow back and one autumn
will not pass to spring. Sometimes we know.
Suffering. The constant visitor hidden
like a shadow silhouetting our life.
Every slow winding hour, we move closer
to when limbs falter and senses numb.
Endings ever lie hidden like a corner
sudden at the far end of a thrilling road.
Sometimes we are sure, we are more than
the frame of bones. Suffering is inferior,
deliverance is the greater truth. But:
we don't care, the thrill of weakness
is more attractive than the calm of Self.
One momentous journey, out of the
false-lit comfort of familiar darkness.
These that stalk us: disease, old age, death.
One man could see it all in one evening
what takes us many lives, may be.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
A student of mine sat on the steps
Clenched, clammy, and bulging with strained strength
Periodically overcome by shadows of pathology
This night he begged for help through gaps of cyclical consciousness
A funeral trail for clarity ambled solemnly to the gymnasium
He was surrounded, and they plotted, and advanced, and he was engulfed
They were upon him like a ****** seeking seed or vulture carrion
He seized on an arched back and suffered under octodemons
On that hard wood floor under dead bulbs that swung like momentous pendulums
My student transformed into a tiger leaking rage from rusty cage
Explained in eloquent detail and prophetic tone his will to ****
Blacking out to full extent
He was amygdala, he was instinct
Battling grown poachers until they stole his fearsome fangs
Clipped his claws, and painted over his stripes with calm
When contained, vicious umbra cat turned tranquil
We sat circular and played lobster ball pass with our toes
And talked about buses to New York
His mother taught him to be a songbird
While the streets moved his feet
Goodnight Archery, we hugged
I wonder how he's
Breathing
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 8:24 PM UTC
Lying on the bed
I think of what to write...
....words don't flow out
of my pen
my mind is clogged
vaccum surrounds me
I've ****** all the noise
into my self.
It's waiting to explode.
I realise I am too conscious
of myself,
I realise I am trying to pretend.
My pen leaks out
a random flow of ink
shaped in words
I strike them out
they don't manifest my feelings.
I don't want farce to appeal
to the eye,
I want honesty to touch
the heart.
I am waiting
for my words
to strike a chord
with the strings of my heart.
I am longing
for clarity
that will give my writing
a sense of purpose
and shorn it
of its randomness.
Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is a clean slate
I want to colour it
with thoughts
and feelings,
I want for it to
lose its barrenness
and be fertile
with imagination.
I want for it to
be bereft of fear
for it is,
the place
where revolutions were conceived
and philosophies were born;
the sole reason
for Man's greatness.
It boasts of coveted freedom,
which,
feared tyrants failed to ******
it is a guiding light
to the often faltering humanity.
It has been
subject to manipulations,
deceiving history
into changing its course;
scripting moments
of momentous change,
all, of course,
owing their occurrences
to the enchanting influence
it wields over the body.
Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is deluged
with a rush of thoughts
flowing in and out,
a haze of colours
mesmerises me,
letters, words
dance before my eyes,
songs play out in a loop,
a multitude of
smudgy-outlined faces
gazes at me....
....And I realise
with an epiphany,
It is this very train of thoughts
I shall elaborate on!
Lying on the bed
I think I know what to write on.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
They link together,
number and days,
strings of value
punctuated with semicolon winks;
(and consonant curved smiles.)
A grand unifying theory
hanging Baubles, Bangles
and bright shiny Beads.
The impulse Force of changing
momentous Month bending
light years in frequency of days,
mega-Hertz too compressed
up longitudinal mornings
and down transverse evenings
of negative pressure silence.
>intercorrelate.sync.JPC.+.FB
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
February 23, 2019:
Freddie Mercury tells Mary Austin
“I think I’m bisexual”.
And my heart beats like mad
Because no one else has connected to
A secret like this before
No one else notices
The drum beats of my chest
This isn’t even one of the three times
Tears fall
Unhindered
Pt. 1:
He tells his band
His family
That he has it
It’s an ending that is known to the world
But in the moment
Aids is not life-shattering
Because of the sun that filled his soul
And it fills theirs
As they promise
To break a hole in the sky
Pt. 2:
His hand rests gently upon
Jim Hutton’s
It’s accepted
His arms wrap around
His father
And his father’s wrap around him
It’s accepted
Pt. 3:
The opening bars
To chords
That only hours ago
I’d deemed my favorite
Begin to play and his life
And its end are played out with it
I’m glad he got his happy ending
Through drops of water
I tell my dad
That this is it
(Unbidden) Pt. 3:
I researched immediately after the dream-like
To see if that’s all it was
A dream
I try to explain
But my mother is stuck on the
Anti
To something she didn’t even know
Graced my reveries
I push down doubts
Doubts that have filled the both of us
Him and I
That still linger
But
It’s a moment of light projected into
My soul
A moment so gold-coated
That a vision of the same words almost
Leave my lips
And fill the comfortable silence
Of my dad’s car
They don’t
But unfazed I vow
To remember
Golden
Silver
Bronzed
Freddie Mercury
When they do.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
Reality is drowned beneath the waves.
The bubbling crescendo
Sounding forth its mockery
At my resistance.
Anguished cries are muted
By the vast liquid’s gossamer grasp.
Each arching crest curves around my soul
Cocoon like it entraps me.
Explosive waves roar their obsession.
Each powerful white tipped crest
Rolls with the joy of loves persistent tattoo.
White water propels me headless
Towards destiny’s ocean
Its power rushes through my veins.
Tossing me over the edge of reason
The Tsunami consumes me in its passion.
Heart pounding within my rapturous journey
The water falls away into distant oblivion.
Suddenly I am ****** free of its tenuous hold
It’s vehemence crashing me against the scared shore.
There the marks of our passing remain a constant reminder
Cherished scars to be carried on loves momentous tide
Like a Tsunami come to claim the soul,
Love seeks my full surrender.
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:56 AM UTC