"peregrinate" poems
of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning. But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,
6.3k
In thine aromatic causeway,
I wilt peregrinate thine
Soul, which is a hallway
That leads me to a railway
Of amour's finest tastes;
If tonight's the last night
Of mine, I seek to seest thy
Face, hold hand's, with
Grand plan's shaking
Rhymes as cosmos
Trace. Doing mine all to please thee-
To showeth thee mine many reasons;
With thee I am so graced.
I'm sorrowful mine dear,
Mine tears as year's stack dust to
Bones that waste.
I feelest out of place; out of thy arms.
I need thine enjoin, bring me close that I may feel thee, a warmth of charm. I want to be sent to heaven's stars, a place to fly and float, no devils or ghosts; nor any drunkard's bar's. Fain wilt I be to hold thy arm,
As the burn burns hard, and nothing negative may enter in. Babes of old, washed clean of sin, nothing to loose-all to gain and security to win. Making music with the sound's of ourn snoring.................
Under mystical spiritual willow trees. Heads aside another, connected brains of information-
Souls alike, forever a blessing. Love to flow wild, from the celestial beyond's dressing.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedicated
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
You - Fulgurite
Embalmed fusion
Amorphous plasma promenade
Molten concision
Peregrinate branches groping ambient orbs
Sabulous composition smoothed by bolt of lightning
Ubiquitous – infinitesimal – sublime
Atmospheric timbre brandished in your wake
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
In the midst of broken dreams,
lies an obnoxious and hellish tragedy
closes my eyes, looking void at it seems
an uncompromising reality
hauled me down like gravity.
An alluring agony
filled the depths of my soul
and I gyrate in my own catastrophe.
Peregrinate on the path of desperation
for I only discern the world full of sorrow and temptation.
Woe and tribulation torment my soul
melancholy reigns without control.
Vexation amalgamates with my grief
but this darkness leads to no relief.
Desire bawling for a release
wanting not a thing but only for peace.
Tried to conquer
hence, turned me into a monster
inside me is being slaughter
I am no good, but a living disaster.
Noxious gas of grieve
every inhale makes me pale
evilness is now the master
hath no power to make it leave.
In the midst of broken dreams
lies a tragic yet beautiful tragedy
open my eyes, the darkness beams
the grip of reality
pulls me like an abysmal gravity.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
It’s hard to be human in a world that rejects the concept of humanity.
We meet hostility before humility.
We fight over space, before we create it.
How many boxes can human minds create before we suffocate, cease to exist?
How does one perceive higher intelligence?
There is no measurement,
For intelligence is acceptance…
Accepting the things we cannot change,
For after all we are human.
Who is your maker?
We made ourselves, so they say.
So why can’t we change ourselves?
Why can’t the Deepak’s and the Oprah’s deal with the deep matters of the mind.
Still trying, defining, living our nearsighted visions
Falling haplessly into hyper realities
We enjoy short lived tales on the backs of constructed fallacies
Those who have eyes? Why can’t they see?
History is alive, when I live it inside of me
Yet there is still a "rock a tree and a river" Maya Angelou
It is possible, they teach us more than we wish to discern.
We are a fortunate species, not robots.
We can sit for years contemplating the obvious.
We can ask for answers when there already provided.
We can keep fighting the things we won’t win
We can still try to be ruler while we are being ruled
And still question humanity when we are human.
We could carefully plan or courses.
Peregrinate upon rich soil that we never laid.
Drink water from those rivers that we never made.
See beauty in things we didn’t design
Take fruits of the field, and make ourselves wine.
To be human, then, is quite strange
And if you never listened, never heard, never cried
Never seen, never thought, never tasted,
Never felt,
Then perhaps you are not.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Our feelings
like stars in the sky
only on clear nights
we see, but aren't they
always there?
Their trajectories
Their orbits we trace
through age
We master not of
their destiny, but
some shared voyages
To peregrinate, even
on cloudy days
We've learned to
believe in and trust
our feelings—
our celestial guidance
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Geography, she is a Queen,
who's sovereign to Fate,
her jurisdiction facilitates
the bounds on which actors play.
Entanglement, or otherwise,
a soft impression left,
a silly thing to introduce,
a solemn thing to guise.
She is the master of the late,
she rises beneath the sun,
and yet, when all is said, and done,
she propitiates no name.
So whatever, winds the wit
that could match her own,
to take a leave, the actors bow,
and peregrinate home.
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
The moon and i
Share a chaste tie-in
The moon running along, we peregrinate to umpteen dwellings; unceasingly together.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Frisky horses in the glade—
Variegated flowers there grow
In pulchritude never to vade.
Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Beauteous soaring olden trees
Whose leaves wherever you go
Whisper Monroe in the breeze.
Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Chirping birds in the vales
That sing merry notes not sorrow
Whilst reeling off olden tales.
Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Opalescent clouds there waltz
In splendiferous coats all aglow
In hues of mulberry and topaz.
Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Whisperin’ enchanted glassy rills
Without care like the hunter’s arrow
Peregrinate beneath rolling hills.
Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Many a sequestered strange bush
Whose hinds in fresh numbers as roe
Gallivant to churring of many a Thrush.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
May/14th/2021. Evergreen State.
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
Beauteous clouds hang upon the sinking deep,
Ineffably in coats with no stain upon ‘em seen.
Susurrus zephyrs evermore chime and sweep,
Through leaves bedight in hues of golden green.
Susurrus leaves rhythmically sway and sway
To the susurration of the wild blue yonder.
Fugacious clouds enrich every fading day
In opalescent hues upon heaven’s shore.
Salubrious flowers waft ethereal scent upon air,
A scent of Elysium on earth, a scent of loveliness.
Lugubrious seas call it a soothing balm so fair,
And softly whisper comely olden tales of the seas.
Splendiferous olden golden hills roll evermore,
Wanderin’ olden rills peregrinate here and there,
Whilst whisperin’ euphonious murmurs of yore;
Such—such mellifluous music unto a naked ear.
In the emerald state, upon every river bank
There groweth exquisite merry flowers of gold,
All flowers of novelty beauty—all wild and rank.
In the emerald state—pulchritude is all to behold.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Evergreen State, August 16th 2020.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 4:28 PM UTC
Eons ago in many a vanished day,
There once stood a Hut by The Grey Hill
Twixt trees by no wind stirred didst sway.
Her floor of silvery shine like a sun-kissed rill—
Of all bird's feathers was her roof,
Her door of burnished gold hewn,
Of chalcedony her walls. Beneath her roof
A vase of all hues of a mulberry moon.
And In that Hut dwelt an aged aged man
Whose strange and novelty curly beard
Kissed the ground, and as white as a swan.
No string of hair beheld upon his head.
His fiery eyes were as steady as forever,
His voice akin to a roaring thunder's tapestry,
He who was the last of dwarves of Nineva,
That now wherever they dwell is but a mystery.
One perfectly glorious noontide, so they say;
He took to hidden paths of an enchanted moor,
And as a wind surreptitiously vanished away
To be beheld by mortals nevermore—nevermore.
So vanished that novelty Hut of The Grey Hill,
And now, peregrinators who peregrinate in that land
Hear mellifluous music like whispers of a rill,
And at eventide behold a vase in a colorful band
With no strings attached—but pendulous in air
Like as a motionless cloud hanging upon the sky
Whilst gazing about mountains in robes so fair,
So it hangs in opalescent hues unto any naked eye.
Alas! Though extramundane the vase—none canst remove,
For when thou dare gravitate, sweet music no more,
But discordant melodies like as a hateful wave
Beating against a galleon, & thou art spirited evermore.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Tacoma, Evergreen State, 03/02/21.
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 5:22 AM UTC
Thou, thou, poor sheep of the Lord,
Now that thou art as still as a stone,
And unto none thou canst not say a word,
Unto friends of thine all but forlorn
As wilted marigold upon a sullen grave,
With eyes melting with saddest tears
Galloping down like as a lonely wave
Doth peregrinate from shores to shores,
May thee know wherever thee wander,
Thy ineffably mellifluous melodies
Unto our ears shalt always be a wonder,
Pleasantly mellifluous as of dawn songbirds
Till by celestial shores we'll meet again,
And there we'll shed a tear nevermore;
For there's no sorrow nor any kind of pain
But rivers of mirth for all to drink forevermore.
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Tacoma, Washington. 3/21/20.
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 6:33 AM UTC