"paradisiacal" poems
#*God's love is delight itself
it is beauty itself
it is tender yet fierce
sweet yet wild
steadfast yet unpredictable
enveloping yet freeing
captivating yet boundless
protective yet empowering
certain yet never boring
relentless yet gentle
secure yet mysterious
trustworthy yet exciting
all-consuming yet unfathomable
He is everything
you’ve ever hoped for, dreamed of,
longed after or imagined
and so much more
He is the Lover of your needy,
thirsty soul and He fights
continually for your heart*#
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
Feel the chains change in me tonight
Condense me to evaporate in want
The long of a bounce to another world
Light the fire to burn deep and fervour
A belly roasts in repetitive embers flushes
Hearts tied connate as the essence flashes
A tangle ribboned to last after the dawn
Testify as our sparks infinitely ignite dances
Titaniums of our tectonic plates merge motions
A convergence entwined in bordered emotions
Link me in the convections of transformations
Conversations of a lasting warm benevolence
Paradisiacal chum of a past in resonance
A photographic collection of a lived long life
Unwrap the snare, unwind the erased tapes
Lay back as we hide away behind the moonlight
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
A Bird, which will be of the age
is not good enough, | is or will be;
In order to be able to be controlled;
on behalf of the deaths of so many,
unique in the city,
In particular, the Church is the Church
by virtue of the form of the the fire in the green stars;
standardized, Mary was born on the bed
of Allah's Goat, Lord, this is my time,
The blood; head,
American adulterers here are golden
United Nations members Software
In the history of the sport doctor,
Another item that is contrary to God's,
Its features contained in the nutrition and diet,
literary experts thinking Igor
the name of the topic that is the true spirit
of Greek and Latin; The name of the old | one
together with its own nature; Brazil in the news,
and for the first time; Exercises early
in the morning; There is a clean slate
blind blind; Sunscreen is the rallying cry
on Wall Street because heat and women
do not produce Alchemy; Education
| changes to the garden and changes his focus
to focus on the Russian psychiatrist | |
whose Heroes are adults;
with Jews, all are members of holes
At the entrance to the project the green tea tree
in front of the French school in Virginia
is another; ||full of the country I went with him
to the next town,
where Black Hill was available,
free as smoke, Regards from the sand
at the beach; After watching the food
and Hills and Hills and Hills of *******
firings and labor unrest, the characters,
you'll cry, face south, a wise driver || | |
And it was the attacks of the servants,
Marcus picked the best fights;
Johnny Angel pushing her on her stomach
in Marcus's Museum of America
in England, boughs and leaves falling
About Einstein's wife's head; The Entire |
Beginner's football club piles on top
of the screaming woman
understandably horrifying for those
not involved, lest what is defined
in the term evil, is the same ******
of the trees; The happy city working
on the beach; Growing up I began
to stroll the paradisiacal part of the city.
The girl's glory bore witness
to ligroàkọsílẹ's second wife,
when the bomb hit the covers of adultery;
Ever trusting, the fornicators
taking the oil to the women,
Since in seeking you, I will see to it:
that they speak |||||
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
squirrels scamper
along the ground
from tree to tree,
living shuttles
weaving the natural world
into the human one,
creating a paradisiacal pattern
of yard.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
She walks on water as the stars reflect
their shining brightness only lightening
her paradisiacal face and unclothed body
beauty may have it's layers, hers always
more than skin deep in the selfless benevolence she
gives forth in every interaction she herself
engages herself within,
In my years of wandering, I have never found
a soul I feel so compelled toward, frightening even
myself with my augmenting attachment and need
to hear her voice, feel her soul, listen to her heartbeat
to see her smile, and know her stories and tales from
the days that passed between the time we last spoke
my heart skipping beats,
An internal battle brings forth, an ever forging narrative
of realistic practicalities and the contrasting drifting
dream lands, entwined with fantasy and longing,
fears and hearts, left on the line, of a blurring demise
restore my heart, set me free, allow me to love,
let me
be
hers.
© Sia Jane
---
“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.
The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.
He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.
Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.
Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.
Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.
They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)
Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.
It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.
Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
I am not sure what this numbness is
I can feel longing aching in my bones
My desires are whimsical and paradisiacal
I crave touch
And the tickle of breath on the small of my neck
I want to feel warmth against me
I yearn for hands in tangled hair
And lips caressing cheeks.
What it would be to feel alive.
What it would be to stay up all night.
What it would be to stand in the chilling winter air
inhaling your fumes of smoke, tainting my innocence.
What it would be to feel whole
But I am not in love (with you) and there is a void where my heart used to be.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
As it is
Is as it was
Is where it should be.
Nothing arbitrary, nothing haphazard
Helter skelter
Skittered
gone.
Set
path
plan
placed
perfect
Valhalla
Zion
Nirvana’d Welkin Blue Yonder
Paradisiacal Elysian Upper Empyrean Celestial Sphere
All very fuckingineffable.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
A little glimmer off a shooting star,
a wave of glittering gold-dust
sprinkled from a world, afar,
liquid life,
sprouting shrubs and growing trees,
a wave of evolution,
liberating the inanimate,
gifting them with legs and knees,
raging slivers of fire
mercilessly compressed and tamed,
birthing the light and Sun,
a magnetic core in the earth
holding us down, letting stagnant waters run,
the reigning darkness,
purged back deep into the shadows,
concealing the hole to Hell
where temptation whispers
and sin grows,
then us,
children of Adam, and of Eve,
living in virtual utopia,
in a beautiful world that we thieve -
for this world is not just our own,
to taint and manipulate,
but yet we still burrow deep into our selfish minds,
seeking paradisiacal perfection
that we will never find.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
a nuisance
scraping the sallow pavement
is what it was.
P ondering the truth and throttling
A cquiesence like it was a familiar
R use to be outplayed by vision plodding
I rises holding us against the
S ubtle egress of omens.
W arble no longer, paradisiacal birds.
I gnite no longer, city buoys.
T his is where they come to salvage ire.
H arbingers — dark, something fire
L eaves on damp graves
O ver grasslands lay quiet, felled dew
V ermilion eye seeing all
E rupt in a flash of a gun.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
I silence the whispers from my mouth
As the jaws elongate out of this life
It’s not a yawn but a mouthful whisper
The stroke of a songbird in seductive tunes
A rise of the pitched crescendo pinches
Stroking my ribs and the depths of my soul
He know me best and I put my case to rest
The king crowned with sorrow haunts me
Then he tickles me to the paradisiacal gardens
His groove holds me in the gorges of my dreams
His breath mists my breath as the weather drowns
His claws an embrace that scratches and taunts
Still I dare to doubt his flame as it scorches
He knows me best as we dive in the oceanic beds
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
i.
A sapphire raceme, Symbolic dimples,
Radiciform, Ak-Shabreeze, consecrated;
Impeccable temple's.
ii.
None remembrance, of bygone vice,
Resumption of the new; perpetual
Life. Ramate by ourn rib's, sedated
By the paradisiacal.
iii.
Levitating toes, aloft the colored covenant,
O'er the bended bow, of God's plan's that
Art meant. We yaw the pleasant valley's,
We strum the lyre's of ahava; taking
Slowly to ourn peach rim's, desired
Coconut and guava.
iv.
Yealing's of another time, artist's of the
third peculiar mind, by the creator's
Design; finding another, amid the
Pearlescent hue.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( ahava) dedication
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Suddenly I find myself tumbling up a spiral staircase
Unexpected deliberate actions
Never intended to travel to this place
Though paradisiacal, tears flow as I fight back the flood
Your voice breaks my silence
Words from your lips piercing, intrusive
Cut straight through to my heart
The levees break, the dam is loose
I cry not for inflicted pain
I cry for the long wait that has now ended
I cry for the many times I wanted this
I cry for the hope of gold and not pyrite
I beg for blindness to resist the temptation to lead me
The twists and turns
The figure eights that begin and end in the same location
To disperse and become straight roads in a long journey
One of hope and not hurt
Accelerating into elation
Surging towards togetherness...oneness
Intertwine
Intertwine
Intertwine...
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
Astra memories play forth in my head.
Star showers create endless wishes.
Plasmoid cycle their cosmic colors.
Seraphic tones turn into ethereal melodies.
Celestial trails in the dark wilderness.
Empyrean trees drop their light leaves.
Transcendental visuals of the night heavens.
Diaphanous veils of tranquilly allow my eyes to see.
Sheer emotion alloy.
Paradisiacal vessel of the expanding universe.
Expedition of endless wonder.
Fathomless destinations to reach.
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 10:54 AM UTC
The words brewed steam itches
Switches that are unexplainable
twitches of mortal flames
*the ******** stones wrapped*
like a newborn baby unknown
The look in your eyes is pale
the thought of you ails all flesh
in the window of my life
you have no place or reflection
like blurred mirror of the unwise
Professors and supervisors
transcend and ascend crafted fibs
Is it too late to try and sculpture?
Refine you to a mastery of change
like a culture of spirits rising
I would like to hold you inside my all
in the softness of my brain summarise
a scaffold structure of analytical glory
I would like to caress you close to me
kiss the dimensions of the edgy thesis
a trifle of paradisiacal pleasure and taste
Should I try and see your worth in a system?
A world whose lease is an unending debt
Where we are human competing for labour
A world where we are slaves of economy
Where we hustle along the automated robots
A world where ready or not we sink in demise
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
As the deposit in my shoulder begins loosening, visions of a paradisiacal oasis reveal themselves. I can almost hear the pina coladas being poured atop the pool bar’s island countertop. Cabana chairs, shaped like beds, perfectly host kissing parties within the nighttime’s ocean breeze. There are businessmen purchasing cigars outside of taxi stops and ******* within the depths of knick knack shops. Everybody’s stocking up for tonight’s white wrist band karaoke bash on the top floor of each and every all inclusive resort and nobody’s holding back any expenses.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Dreams, visions, hopes.” replies the Preceptor.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
I hope my body forgives me
For what I’ve put it through
I hope one day I see
The truths I heard from you
I promise I will try
Not to starve myself as often
But there will be hiccups and lies
As I chew and chew to soften
The food will make me sick
Though I may not mean physical
But still they call me “thick”
Thin is paradisiacal
I’m sorry some days I can’t keep down my food
Or I can’t even look at the label on that junk
I know it would taste good
But it would just add to me another flabby chunk
The number doesn’t matter
It’s arbitrary really
I’m stuck like the mad hatter
And the mirror floats about freely
Yes I’m scared to death
But the death is so enticing
I push and pull each breath
But the sharp oxygen is slicing
Tired and alone
I wander aimlessly
With no place to call home
I can’t say I do so blamelessly
It’s my fault I’m so messed up
But I want that skin and bones
I rinse my mouth with a cup
After throwing up dark tones
I hope my body forgives me
For hurting it so greatly
It’s not who I want to be
But I’ve gotten much worse lately
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
Even though, when the heaven split .
i will bear it upon my crest.
when the oceans overflown ;
i will swill them .
when the earth immobilize still .
i will roll it upon my finger tips.
such a challenge the dripping from thy holy lips.
that lets my orbs flow an ocean of blood.
that drown Noah ancient lost land .
but that cant find path down thy heart.
i cant only count days of agony of hurt .
days of actroce tearing and sad despair .
the idleness that is dragging me for fear of no repair.
the adventure that is hooking me for far recess.
are nothing but the mourning to thy soul no access .
if i can only see the paradise of thy eyes.
if the sentence total is my life without thee.
my deafening screams of rage .
will break all the tympanal of heaven and earth .
and the world will fray to death.
sublime creature ,flame of hell.
celestial and paradisiacal homage is you.
what a remorse !cause my weakness deep as bayou.
and the disdain of my cabal cause me to yell.
oh,for much sol to burn.
to sere my ocean of tears
if only you can now turn .
and move with me on this fume stairs .
and fly and shine like arcturus.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
In the street the amorous disasters
On the street my tiny forces
In the street the dead pigeons
In the street muddy gods
In the street the legs look stern
On the street my wishes overthrown
In the street my paradisiacal trees
In the street of sugar ants
In the street my modern loves
In the street the night lifted
In the street the mists dispel
In the street the shadows
In the street I terrified
In the street tiny wonders
On the street my arms for trunks
In the street deserted photos
On the street mendacious walls
In the street always diffuse
In the street names do not dress
In the street armed outside
In the street ****** trees
In the street biased eyes
In the street
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
without words
and their wondrous servitude,
i would only be
and cease to become.
as in a forest,
i shall then continue to flower
in the sharpness of swan-song.
like a beast dazed
into nothing and its bafflements,
even the triviality of a lone stone
shall vagabond through me
in a thousand days that pull
downward, refusing to reveal themselves and their paradisiacal nuances. their etymologies
star their deaths to a languid crawl towards an empty page.
all words trapped, slurring
in the radiant void, unbecoming of themselves and who i am.
if i am to be without poetry,
my then epiphanies would be scaled down to an epitaph's weight and its proper terrors;
to think that i cannot write anymore, weave anymore these words,
reeks of deathlessness, and i,
communing through the myriad dailiness of things shall exist only to be,
and not become ( as a single star is meaningless in the coruscation of the multitude - a constellation without moniker,
a god rid of sobriquet,
as a carpenter without tools,
orr an army without arsenals)
i am things vaguely not.
god forbid, if i am to be
without poetry,
what will i become, unknowing of
its grave rescue? these marvels
shoot off in the temporal flight
of this splendid fate, and if without words, then this shall only be, still afloat, a wild, directionless flight.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
gOd put a smile on your face
your eyes (half-thrush like two beings in the dark
and a gladiola of light spurns to chide in its bickering excess,
birds, birds of morning and paradisiacal streets half-wittingly
fork to single-handedness, a star is uttered and altars sing
rarely-beloved, a dance-song of soul) and their parenthetical
rush to what continues to live suddenly as if to say its conscious
death is a room without flowers.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
sweat rolls down his spine and the cats tail will sway to the pace of the nearby pocket watch, ticking down time til the world shall end and the sun will beam through the windows and the babies will scream sounding like birds ripping souls from the worms that lay low to the cold hard ground in the middle of fall and I promise, darling, oh I promise the clouds will cry tonight while the moon beams comfort the girl with that red long hair, who sings so horridly the boys go blind from nonsense. and that moment, her father will cry while sipping his whiskey and her mother will take one too many pills to ease the pain knowing her son will die and her unborn will never grow again. like flowers on the mountain tops, nothing will be revoked from your paradisiacal grip that carries the world on a stick.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC