"palisade" poems
you left your blueish dress
twisted by the pool’s edge
like a cold monument
to every single misstep
and my heart is overwhelmed
with visions of a dancing grave
via crucis in the morning
carry me to our palisade
while these tiny arcs of light
leave my eyes, breaking easily
and your voice keeps me awake
i believe that i need this
you were wrong
i am nothing
but one more familiar face
amid the pageantry
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where
The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.
Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.
She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC
You will know the house,
Caught up in a spell of tales played out for a century or more
Within earshot of whispering catacombs
*** mortuis in lingua mortua’
You can’t miss it –
Architecturally complex, ornate with ormolu,
Elevated, enigmatic, a work of art.
You’ll be enchanted
But take heed, its façade will beguile you.
There is no sweetness of honeysuckle,
No singing of ascending larks to embolden the heart.
The plot is strewn with hen-bane, stinging nettles, snakeroot.
Generations tell of a skinny hag feeding on innocence,
A path scattered with ashes of children
Whisked away with a broom of silver.
Don’t dare to stray beyond its palisade of porous bones.
Don’t bide your time admiring its guilded thistle.
Appreciate if you will, this well-crafted masterpiece from several angles,
then make a hasty escape to Viktor’s Great Gate at the end of the walk.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 8:56 AM UTC
In the midst of everything
I linger and stare
at pallor stranger
passing by
and I gather thoughts
with eager ease;
hungry prey
with moistly lips
Awaiting on some lonely stroll
with woman-hood not far behind
and look upon her nightly walk
her path I follow with gazing stare
Better days, her beauty speaks;
returning from some horrid dream
of young fantasy at home she left
longing to be with shining gleam
in my stranger twinkling eye
Not knowing that our paths will cross
she does not weep for love that was
but dreams lightly of love anew
When I pass with tender step
from staring silent on my stoop
I hunger lust forevermore
and wildly I shall proceed
Succumb to me my little bird
like melody on palisade,
and sing me songs of kingly halls
that echo deep in eternal crag
In darkness feast I shall on her
in waking dream I shall become
until too late the deed is done
in nightmare lover's hands lay still
Oft these thoughts of wanton things
that tend to drive my waxing dreams
waning not this horrid inkling
monstrous thoughts with monstrous wings
Barking mad in empty head
this wretched thing it does not sleep
to leave me be I wish it now
and bother some more lurid soul
and cast down he from highest steed
from peak to deep by cavern cold
chasm wide like open arms
embracing the forgettable
the last of man will lay at rest
his voice will wring among the stars
his body lay beneath the ground
his mind that murmurs in the void
Mortality shall be driven aft
to deeply bowels of hubris Hell
where no man can utter cry
of wanton deed or lustful way
Where the tallest man
to walk the Earth
is the tallest man
to stand beneath it
All the while his heavenly thirst
is nothing short of bliss
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
Through the street lights and brutalist cliffs,
blinking beams echo my breath.
Laughter still bleeds in my throat, conversations still pierce my ears, alas
A Kodak haze, a synchronized buzz
and agony is gone. For most are
nothing but pines,
A sleeping balm, a charming whiff, all the
same submissive to a whirr.
As a child, they left me in awe
Now I know they're nothing more
than a palisade for the sea. Those
that bid time in the isometric
backwoods, simply haven't the clue,
that no concrete can still her.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
Alas, awakened to the glorious smell
Of grieving petrichor and lichen
Intoxicating scents of spells,
Has left my thoughts forsaken.
Aggrieved, unclean,
I wash myself in the river,
Alone again, once with my mind,
The cold water does bring a quiver.
Rushing gently across its bend,
Its current does drag along
A heartache inside a massive depth,
A misery that floods it anon.
It seeks to help wash stains of past,
Blood from mistakes without thought,
Caressing my hands as I dip them in,
It cleans at the souls I’ve wrought.
I’ve brought spite to all I’ve been,
I bathe in hatred and stigmata,
Correctional growth of paradigmatic folly,
Proves equality to tumultuous fodder.
-
There has been death here,
Drowning and sickness,
Villainous nature subjugated
To corruption and bleakness.
Disparaging remarks whispered of men,
Bring to light lost life and love,
Discouraging thoughts of mine herein,
Anticlimactic and soulless above.
The trees began to whisper,
Moving slightly in the breeze,
I thought I would move quicker,
But something that couldn’t trapped me.
-
Bringing about a fallout cloud
That kept my mind thus smoked,
It is hard to cherish anything
That the water itself could soak.
-
I wanted to leave,
But I was locked in the wood,
I began to need it,
Like any Stockholm would
The treasure trove in which I was kept,
Was something of a fairy-tale
It hid monsters, death,
And only one nightingale.
Its swansong allowed me to sleep,
Gorgeous at night, it cast in weep,
A story of one so scared, The fear of bleeding out
One day upon the growing creep.
Vines and lies surrounded me,
Its whole existence was false,
Nothing could be this natural,
And the dead forest scoffed.
-
Could there be someone else here?
Doubtful, I began my search,
Through vasts I spied, time again,
But nothing upon this earth.
The forest fell in love with my heart,
Its emotions curious to her,
She tortured me with affection,
My reality was blurred.
I found my way across her floor,
Trekking miles to a never-end.,
Purgatory does not know this pain,
Hopeless abandon, fell unto myself to fend.
A trip, a fall, unique and random,
I impaled myself with a sharp cry,
A sharp palisade jutting out, I then whispered
“What if I don’t want to die?”
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
When the night falls,
I am at my best.
I could topple from the sky for a saunter amongst the wingless owls arbitrarily.
Carrying my futile attempt on serving the sun with a contempt glance,
As I let my imagination run free like nine jockeys in one horse race.
When the night falls,
I am the captain of my own ship.
I could set my course straight to my hiding place without any further ado;
Where I'd sail to where dreams and phantasies collide until the clock strikes two.
But most importantly,
When the night falls, life isn't like crossing a palisade or walking through a horrible gale;
Life isn't like a perpetual movement of climbing up the rickety stairs or losing a bet to the middleman.
Life isn't as stilted as when I stood dead on the yawnful street or as boisterous as the crowds watching King Louis guillotined to death.
Because there is only peace.
The skies may be the blackest black; the air may be the emptiest space,
but none like the night
where I can sit and stare,
and watch as the moon and the stars
shine my way.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
We met at the junction of your misery,
both high-strung and molars grinding like toothache.
Maybe it was my fault
Or maybe it was your folly,
But neither you nor I were aware
that this was a swath that brought us to our disrepair.
I should've known better,
I should've handed you my resignation.
Even heaven knows you've always had a palisade mouth;
sharp edges with misspent words,
teeth kisses with minor incision.
But we were shipwrecks coalesced by force,
fate's own masterwork where devils meddled their crooked hands in the ***
Like a time bomb awaiting to explode,
we were in for our imminent destruction.
But I had nowhere else to go.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
You were too good to be true.
I realize that now,
and I wish that I never met you
'cause then baby,
I wouldn't be so use to kindred words,
beautiful eyes,
somber smiles,
and tearful goodbyes.
I wouldn't miss your smile,
that silly smirk you used to tease me with,
the tickles,
the gasps,
the sloppy, desperate kisses.
But,
I put my heart out on its own palisade,
paraded it down empty halls,
and left it alone to fight a war it would surely lose,
with yours.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
There I sit,
On my beautiful Nel,
The big girl that always lights my world.
A Russian Don by blood,
But she’s a Texas cutter to me.
Here we sit,
Watching this wonderful West Texas sunset.
She grazes on some prairie grass;
I chew on a cat-tail.
I wish we could have ridden,
With Jesse and Bill,
And become legends,
Here in these hills.
The canyons would echo our youthful cries,
Of excitement and joy,
While we just ride, run, Live.
Maybe in those days,
Nel could have run in the pastures,
of an old Texas myth,
and I could have wrassled some cows,
to earn the spurs of my grand-father’s,
father.
If we were on the trail,
Drivin’ some Angus and Belgian Blues,
Up north to Kansas City,
And maybe one night,
The boys and I could sit around the fire,
And stare up at the stars,
Wondering which stellar painting,
Looked most like our horse.
I want the times,
When Grand-dad and Nana Ma,
Would sit on their porch,
And gently swing another night away,
Like they had done,
For the last 50 years.
Nel would be my company;
My loyal bride;
While I rode south towards San-Anton’.
And we would meet up with,
Travis and Bowie,
To fight Santa Anna,
As he rushed the ol’ palisade,
Of the mission where I would die.
The Bexar province would weep for we few,
Who stood for the ideals of a noble, new nation.
Yet,
All ideals eventually come and go.
Well, me and Nel,
We ain’t never seen a cattle drive.
We ain’t ever been outside this here pasture.
So our dreams remain dreams,
And our hope remains void.
My Cowboy Dreams,
And her beautiful mane,
Grow faint and grey,
Every Single Day.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Waiting Still for Tomorrow
Deafening tone,
Makes me not alone,
Continually singing a sorrow.
Bring not today,
For I beg keep away,
That lament until Tomorrow.
It whispers so loud,
“You are lost in the crowd,
Lost in a sea of harrow.”
It’s censure grew — strewth!
Mocking my sad truth,
Threatening what follows Tomorrow.
I attempt to evade —
Stopped by a palisade,
Yes, stopped by a wall of yarrow.
Plucking mere few,
Intent to make new,
My wounds and be healed by Tomorrow.
“Sweet yarrow await,
I shall be kept late,
By that tormentor who inflicts sorrow,”
But yarrow soon will fade,
Leave my mind in the shade, and
My heart waiting still for Tomorrow.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
“Give me a reason to live” He said,
staring into the abyss that moaned his name.
“I can give you a thousand” I said
Grabbing a hold of his hand in an attempt
to ****** the satisfaction oblivion will gain.
The feel of your lips against my skin
Burning my flesh,
Lingering.
Your fingers raking through my hair,
Pulling and claiming what’s rightfully
Yours.
The way my fingers fit
So Perfectly in between yours.
The way our hands move,
Creating a Play with mere shadows.
Our moans
Groans,
Shouts,
Screams…
The way they are mere instruments
In creating a beautiful, sweaty symphony.
Darling, if not for me,
Or our memories,
Live for yourself,
Live to create new memories,
New favourites.
Live to be something,
Someone,
Forget thousands of reasons,
Baby,
You just need one.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
My eyes threaten
to pull down the
curtains,
drop all its weapons,
all those lasers
and surrender
to the sweet lullaby
that my mind serenades
it with,
putting it on a palisade,
ready for the darkness
to envelop my eyes,
and the colors to brighten
in my world,
where i get to see
all that I wish for,
you and me.
I am ready to see you again,
to visit you once more.
So,please,
just take me away,
have mercy...
---------------------------
Shh let it
take you,
stop fighting it,
and just let go.
Stop the silly
war
you rage on
with the forces of nature.
It only wants
to help.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
it's in (behind (and flittering)) the palisade of your *******
and empire of crimson beats 10,000 times more magnificent
than any razor of dawn slashing nights enormous throat
the precious pumping of its chambers sweltering majestic pulses
and from the ***** of your love comes galloping your aromatic
flavors. a tongue of passionate lilies bubbling incandescent. and
the habitual crescent of your lips. it,s loved more astutely by no other
save this I. dithering about the delicious hillocks bounding from
your ivory femurs. a blossom in the courtyard of your hips. more caressed
than
. i
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
I'd construct you a Kingdom
out of the salt-bleached bones
of past lovers
Hollow out the marrow
the femur, fibula
Develop instruments out of them
flutes, string chimes, reskin the drums
for your arrival
I'd ***** walls so high
That they penetrate the clouds and wage war
on the skies
Submitting the sunlight
Trapping it at your feet
And each day at the gallows
memories of old will die
for you to sit comfortably
If you grow weary of the palisade
and develop a longing, an ache
the forest, and it's density
is just beyond the gates
For you to run and smell
the richness of freedom
without requiring its taste
But please, return to the comfort of my walls
the protection of my arms
Before the walls collapse
before the Kingdom lays to ruin
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
It's cruel and indecent of me
to expect you to climb
these walls
They are my walls,
I realize that now
To hide behind
to shut out the light
I care not to see
So I built this palisade
and from the ramparts
I can see you struggle and fume
It's my fault
I know
but I can begin to see
The sunlight
through the cracks
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
i.
Tis, she is
That lost artwork that hangeth on display;
In the supernal supernatural museum of the creator's stage.
ii.
Tis, she is
That lost sculpture mankind hath overlooked;
In the hall of cherub's and serpahim book's.
iii.
Tis, she is I
As I am her, we art not separate, we art fused together;
From a otherworldly dimensional world.
iv.
Tis, we art from the palace
Filled with the water of life, in a flowing chalice;
None ill-will nor malice, just a palisade of intimacy.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
if i know a strength then i know a weakness
(and i know it)
come
right over
here and i'll
tell
you
what
it
i s
(i'll whisper it to you)
and it is you!
it is in your slightest body's
cavities that is where it is
the 2 immeasurable heaps
of your breasts(who between
them hold that flittering stutter
of your love muscle)over your
tummy they distend perfectly
roundest and nubile
and over what a belly
that patient field of softest dermis
(but it's not perfect(and that's why i love it)
)it's besmirched by some little coarse darlings
who meander down its sloping palisade
into the impolite swarm of your hips
those dears creep down into a sturdy
copse of sharply culled(by little pretty pink
razors when you took a shower last night)
filaments(and those prickle babes poke and
tickle my nostrils as i build into your strongest
smallness a leaping vociferous erosion,
'
'
,
.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 5:15 AM UTC
i.
Betimes, in the ages of shadowed black
Stripes were mine Mark's, scar's on mine back;
I cried for a rescuer, a healer of medicinal fact's
She sprinkled me with her babaylan docteretic caress.
ii.
The tincture's she Gaveth me, were godly induced
Whenever her lingo speaketh, mine heart goes loose;
As tis she knoweth, she maketh me feel better to
She's a lullaby, when I cryeth, a queen, a poem, mine muse.
iii.
Tis she's mine solace, mine palisade palace
I'm the mad hatter, as tis she's mine wonderland Alice;
She maketh men crazy, with her beautiful charm's
I loveth mine queen, the angel in mine arms.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
An old fairy-tale book molders silently
in a cardboard box, in my airless attic.
A coat of dust has stolen its grandeur,
the pages are dog-eared from generations
of small, sticky fingers.
Inside, a castle succumbs
to ten years of neglect.
The knights slip into apathy,
leave their armor unpolished,
and start to ponder
a change of career.
An empty-headed princess
languishes in her tower
among yellowed love letters,
with no hope of the rescue
promised to her
in twenty pages or less.
There isn't anyone left
to fight the dragons, nobody wants
to believe in them anymore.
The children averted their eyes,
and slowly built up
each palisade guarding
the magic left in their heads.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
How do you make love?
It cannot be fabricated,
Desecrated
or violated,
But is to be vindicated.
Maybe perhaps,
We should have waited.
So how do you make love --
From the back
a view of what is now behind you,
Love made,
But with cheap materials
Nothing that can last,
Regret from the past.
--
On the top of what seems to be
A sweet serenade
On a Greek palisade,
The sunlight feeding the love you had made,
To only be shrouded by the moons grey shade.
Making love,
An experience
To be experienced
Through the love of another.
To create the blessing of physical love,
Found new in the rhythms created by the beat of baby,
Unmatchable love made by unconditional lovers.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 6:44 AM UTC
the siege begins again
as it has and is and always will
stay inside the castle walls
there's no need for this
we shall build and rebuild
the bastion
these walls shall never fall
after the last
swore they
would never be
breached again
swore none would
come close
but here we are
they surround the palisade
they tempt you with gifts
and batter you with armaments
they fly different flags
and different banners
they carry different faces and
different names
but always the
same catapults
the same battering rams
laying siege with their
sharp tongues
and gilded hands
come to burn
come to plunder
come to take everything away
for days and weeks
the siege continues
tearing at these walls
you worked so hard
to build
and rebuild
but you're tired
you are so tired!
of fighting
of tending to the wall
why not let loose the gates
and allow entrance once more
don't let those thoughts consume you
you can't let them in
they'll burn you down
they'll burn you down
they'll steal you away
and ruin you
you can't let them in
you can't
fall for that
trojan horse
again
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
Dry Well
A Gift from Fort Apache Energy, Inc.
“We will be drilling with a fresh water mud system
which has no environmental impact.”
- Allan P. Bloxsom III, President
As woodland creatures shy until the dark
Drift as a silent blessing through the trees
At dusk some sad folk gather ‘round the wounds
Gored geometrically into the ground
A palisade of wood and water and earth
Now guarding nothing but pale desolation:
A pond of death whose hydrocarbon sheen
In corpselike stillness entertains no life
A sewerage ditch bedecked with human turds
A dumpster skip piled high with promises
Piles of unidentified white powder
An unattended garbage fire, a shirt
Some bolts, planks, screws, sandwich wraps, cigarette butts
A cargo cult of curiosities
Liturgically in statio around The Hole
That venerable new hole, that hole of hope
That fabled argosy laden with dreams
That fell into the depths, and never returned
At dawn a tower stood, adorned with lights
By dusk it was folded, and stolen away
Like the long-storied tents of Araby
Or a Roman camp in the Teutoburg
Abandoned among the darkening woods
For the curious primitives to poke
And **** about, chattering in their tongue
About the marvels of a superior race
Who make no environmental impact.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
by: W. A. Marshall
There’s a thornbush blocking my path
its branches shudder
from dust devils
like the tormented
coat of a colt -
the spectral bush must burn,
for me to see
through the canonical flees
that clutter the infinite path.
My splendor is disguised however,
it hides inside my chest
I point to my breast
a parched mark of the sun,
cauterized by nations,
an open country itemization
goes further now
with the bush burned and gone
down into a damp stairwell
the lane leads me -
where I can hear
distant hammering of fists
on rusty cellar doors
beyond view from mounted kings.
Their whispers never heard
a fat consequence
that I shave away and away
day after day
in order to admit to myself
my impatience inside a palisade
causes me to stagger.
To escape my flight
or hide when the dark night
creeps on fog and seed
howling winds blow
down the staircase
and into the cellar
where the moon collapses softly
along my reoccurring path.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
we sing the concrete jungle
(you can get lost in the country, too)
in fact, you can get lost anywhere that is
and people that drive away from their problems
thinking that it really is location, location, location
are lying to themselves
because the reason he decides to take a job in Utah,
probably isn't because he hates where he's at, or because
his boss is a **** but because the unease that pulses through
his hands tells him, verbatim, that *you could belong somewhere
else, you just need to keep moving.* If you've ever tried to run
and talk sense into yourself at the same time, you'd know that
the two aren't so much mutually exclusive, that you're either
running or you're thinking and most people
don't like to be
alone
with themselves, so we've perpetuated the notion that distractions
are healthy and ourselves are not, that most thoughts are too heavy
to bear and the crack of each cannon drives you borderline pyschotic,
so we hide in the trenches or break for the trees,
pretend we don't exist,
pretend we don't hear
what goes inside our heads
and all the feelings that could
be real that churn inside our chest
like the taffy machine in Depoe, Oregon
wrenching and loving and yearning and angonizing--
how we've learned to so mercilessly ignore ourselves
is beyond me
so when we pack up our travel trailers and claim that
anywhere is better than here, I'd propose that everywhere
is the same, and here or there, whether between the red rocks
in Moab or the aspen trees in Palisade, while ultimately different
coordinates, look
just
the
*******
same
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC