"plaques" poems
Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!
Sick
Wearied
Weak?
Looking in all the wrong places?
Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?
Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!
Dog nights seem more teething!!!!
Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!
The I loveth thou's
And thou more....
Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,
Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!
Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?
A pity to God
And me!!!!
Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!
Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
I've sang for you
Danced for you
Bled for you
Bowed and curtsied
Dogged and *****
I've fought for you
I've won countless times
Ribbons and plaques
Handshakes in the dark
The game continues to play now
in my head
for you
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 8:56 PM UTC
Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!
Sick
Wearied
Weak?
Looking in all the wrong places?
Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?
Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!
Dog nights seem more teething!!!!
Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!
The I loveth thou's
And thou more....
Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,
Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!
Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?
A pity to God
And me!!!!
Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!
Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
I am a man obsessed with perfection
No amount of smoke and mirrors will lead me to misdirection
Like an arrow I fly straight into my target, my goal
Falling short is not an option; I must accomplish my journey and feel whole
Although I feel as though I’ve been placed into the pit of Sparta
Punished for my greediness, looking up at the light of accomplishment, wondering how it’d feel on my skin
But that is only where I begin
Fore I shall climb from the darkness of the pit and become a martyr
And I’ll do it with ease, if that’s what it takes
Give it everything I’ve got, know the stakes
I know this will one day consume me, ruin me, destroy me
But until then, I take who I am and display for everyone to see
I’ve struggled all my life and now I’m going to make it
This isn’t no ****** there’s no reason to fake it
Open up to show my true colours, for better or worse, rhythm or rhyme
Let the earth spin into darkness, I’ve got nothing but time
Knock me down, I’ll be returning like a mummy, bringing plaques and placing a curse
I’m only getting better, for my competition it’s bound to get worse
Nothing can keep me, down not even the weather
Like Icarus I’ll gather my feathers
Spread my wings wide and fly
Leave the sky
Go passed the moon and to the sun
Make it melt, bask in revenge and call it done
Fore I am a man obsessed with perfection
I am the juggernaut of progression
Although only I see myself continuing this momentum
Irrelevant, I will seek my destination running through shadows like a phantom
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Hello! Its me always on the cell phone? I tunes
Hello Hello does anyone acknowledge
Someones hello do not disturb sign movies of art
Getting awards all hearts next role part
Hello private lives desperate house wives
Writers words that move us hello please don't leave us
A friendly hello greetings and deadline meetings
Please don't hurt anyone's feelings
Getting closer no impostor
Stars shine hello my dipper
Like the golden rule running like
A mule the competition
The compromising position
Just the hello- transition
Getting awards surprised
Say what you mean
Words should be
Crisp like lettuce clean
Cafe French roast hello mingle
No awards to be married or single
Instagram beauty
and the beast pictures to hustle
Climbing the diamond door
Getting awards hello a title
Moving towards the winning line_____
Fast and furious "Valentine"
Computer hello apps trophy
Getting awards your happy
Over the Judy rainbow
Metal awards and plaques
Seeing monuments and hello
Hollywood graves
But no-one hears me
The "Yellow Brick Road"
Were off to see the wizard
Hello! Oz
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 6:58 AM UTC
Subliminal pest
Wailing wall of ****** clots
Mosquito swat plaques
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Those marble plaques in the cemetery
hold no dead beneath them
yet in the rising mists of winter evenings
when night like loose dark pebbles
fall from the sky
can be heard hooves of trotting horses
from the rows of cold white stones
and on nights favored by moon
is visible cavalry in scarlet serge
with pith helmets and carbine rifles
piercing the terror paused wind
with cries of vengeance
mirthful in washing blood with blood
on the fields of Cawnpore
dissolving into marble white stones
steeped in the peace of moonlight.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
I still can't go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn't trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of maintenance
I can't look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn't
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it's insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can't have that
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
To: Patty m. and Steve,
cc: Q
Re: what’s a mediocre man to do,
(freshly mind washed by the
requisite hours of deep sleep,
that washed away the webs
and dreads of yesterday’s
factoids, lactoids, and brain plaques(
so he can perchance, begin again,
(with fresh slate, white chalk screeching
on a freshly sponged whiteboard
~
*(or blackboard when he rues the
upcoming with dreaded calendar
notifications notarized notations of
dead lines)*
You see Stevie,
this piety poetry piercing of the soul,
(is a daily face washing, soul scrubbing
of two spies (MadMe vs Metwo) both madder ‘n hell that life has ass-signed him a nother bothersome empty day with the curse
of justifying his existence)
oh yeah baby,
it’s a contest, a contest within,
(and i am appointed and disappointed to be
the Sec’y of the Interior who has the key to
the broom closet, and is/in charge of his
own corners cleanup, and besides a broom,
he ain't got no tools but stale words and he’s gotta figure out nice smelling new combos to
justifying his occupying his
siloed-sole-soully space place)
in the uni(as in sole, one)verse
universe verse, get it?
445am Monday Monday
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:50 AM UTC
They said they wanted to take the molars of
Those fleeing danger that they had escaped
By the skin of
Then leave the reward of sanctuary beneath their pillow whilst they slept
As if they weren't having trouble enough already
With where to rest their weary heads
They said the rewards were many
And wanted to make completely certain
They weren’t being too generous
Because giving gifts gives rise to greed
So they decided to take the teeth
And ensure those safety seekers
Knew exactly what being bitten means
And those who sought for something more?
Those bitten by these charitable actions as much by war
Their wounds didn't heal
And they found sores on weary feet
To find they had grown hungry mouths there too
The shoes that ate the distance beneath their step
Yielding bite marks as footprints and yet
They stored safety as a promise
In between records and held up blue plaques aloft
That said "I was not born here on this date
But I belong here" and I've history and a home to make
But for all the shiny pennies that they saved up in a jar
The princess dentists could still feel each
Generous donation, milky beneath their mattress
And each asylum seeker kept them up
And we clean teethed few, who always knew to brush
For three minutes before bed
Lucky by grace of birth, seas and a few miles more
Looked at these dentists questioning
but they shook their head
Warned us of the toothache of their seeming sweetness
So tell us about dental hygiene
how to floss lies from our gums
or else wait for all our teeth to fall out
Have them taken from beneath our pillows
Where we had gracefully saved them like we were told to
Constructed into fortresses
Utilized the tooth extraction cotton buds
as comforting ear plugs and pulled the wool over our eyes
Let’s wait until our retirement
Till we realise the Toothfairy wants our bones
Not just our molars
and we pushed away those who only needed
The chance of rest and the chance of somewhere
new and safe to show us how to smile
So brush your teeth tonight
And be thankful
you will never know that those who turn away from you
Will do so, because your breath
Still stinks of all the **** you so readily eat.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC
Israel foreshadowed in Egypt
Untouched by the Plaques
Passed over by the Destroyer
Egypt broken and bowed
With strangers, Israel walked free
Handsomely ransomed, a nation is born
So shall Israel again be in the Tribulation
As light for sight and salt to taste
And again with strangers
In haste and with bitterness
Come out of the World
Raptured as the First born of God
Jan 23, 2020
Jan 23, 2020 at 5:23 AM UTC
An insect dives at my head,
A winged Kamakazi attack.
I'm startled, I think of ways
To obliterate. My mind returns
To peace. I see the beauty
In the moment. The insect
Charged into battle
By darting at me -
Life's biggest threat:
A distressed, depressed
Excessively oppressive
Life form known as human.
The insect was only armed
With bravery and valor,
A war hero with no chance
Of medals or statues,
Eulogies or plaques.
Scarcely a memory.
Forever.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
I came back, from the great fight,
With my heart in a mess,
My mind began to crumble,
And my strength was ebbing away,
When did I forget the victories already won?
Cover up the truth, see the conquering line receding?
When did the spots reduce my vision?
And my dreams lose their bright contrastings?
I have found, that victories in life, are not like plaques on a wall,
But wrestling belts, for you must always fight to keep them.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
i am on a bus and i am sitting next to a girl i haven't sat next to in a very long time.
we used to listen to taylor swift and now we are listening to poetry that makes us cry.
i am so much happier than i have been because i am looking at art and i feel like maybe,
if i try hard enough,
i can become art.
the colors remind me of my old bedroom and they remind me of my old best friend.
she was in the hospital last month, because she overdosed.
i promised her once that we could talk about our end, but we never did.
i wonder if she ever thinks about me.
it is one am and it is raining and i am wishing that he would paint my portrait to keep in his pocket,
to immortalize in a frame that is prettier than i ever hope to be,
on a wall next to painstakingly created flowers that hold more emotion than i will ever feel.
the moon has a special hold on poets, but all it is doing tonight is making me wonder why my hands don't pull angels from stone and beauty from destruction.
i am wondering if i am still alive, if any of these people are still alive, and if the dead feel good about themselves.
i am wondering why i feel so different than i did last year.
maybe it's the dress and the notebook and the quiet steps i take because i don't want to disturb the art,
or staring long enough at a stranger that i can pretend to know his story, and that he wears his father's watch.
i am on the bus and she thinks i am less sad because she is less sad.
but when i look at all the art the first thing i feel is jealous, which is really the same thing as being sad.
i want to spend forever in the glass rooms but i don't deserve to, because i am so selfish.
i think that if i look at monet and picasso and van gough for long enough i will absorb them,
but i also want to walk past them, to the pieces whose plaques contain only a lifespan,
with no detailed description of the reasoning behind the use of numbers hidden in the abstract.
(picasso put them in so he could stay in touch with reality.)
i think that maybe that's why i am doing so much better in math this year.
i just want to stay in touch with reality.
because i have been staring at "evening mood" for half an hour and all i feel is sad,
because after the sunset there is nothing but darkness and that's what the night brings and it's what thoughts of you bring too.
it is called sandstorm but it makes me think only of the sea.
i think i need to get away from here for a while. maybe i will go to the sea.
i haven't been on a bus in a long time, but here i am.
i spent the day as something i have always wanted to be.
we haven't talked in a month but she still thinks i am beautiful.
why am i crying?
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Our corner graveyard
Looks so inviting,
The lawns are cut,
There's solar lighting.
A wrought-iron gate
Is freshly painted,
Shade trees shelter
Graves of the innocent.
The Italians built a mausoleum,
Where pictures of their deceased greet them,
Looking full of vim and joy
At having pictures taken.
Beneath the temples, in the crypts,
Celtic crosses and brass plaques,
Olympians and outcasts,
All professions, our world's best,
Lie wasting just like us,
In their oak, brass-handled coffins.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
Do not look like that, Cora
I have done my best, and I do
I paint and that is what I do...
you know, you know, Cora;
we have known each other
since our childhood:
O for the days of Vermont
the summers of joy and fun
when we were but children
and our hopes were high -
and my mind breaks and my heart weakens
when I see you and the children now
and that I cannot put food on the table
give you the things you need
I can paint, Cora - oh for the life of me, I can -
but I do not know how to haggle,
how to beat the mind of those who undervalue my work
how do you make money
when but art is in the heart?
There is nothing else within me...
I walk in the world an innocent;
‘strange’ they call me, Cora
I try, I try - O I try
I paint plaques and decorations if necessary -
but the money, the money eludes me
it is only paint that sticks;
and I can paint
and that is all I know and that I can do
when the agony blows like cruel storms in my mind
You know, I try, O you know
my spirit nearly breaks
Cora, Cora, Cora
I have done my best, I do
to put bread and meat on the table
for the children and you
but money eludes me, it eludes me
I paint and that is what I do -
you know, you know, Cora
Do not look like that, Cora
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 5:14 AM UTC
There's a museum
where love once welled freely,
a collection of relics and odds and ends,
carefully preserved behind glass panes and neat labels
gathering dust and history.
Sometimes I walk the quiet aeortic halls
treading familiar corridors to the echo of footsteps,
to read the plaques and leave fingerprints on the windows
exhibiting the old lives and old loves,
which have traded technicolour for antiquity
the night watchman of my own heart.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
When in Rome
No browsing is allowed to the public
50 miles of unreleased documents
The lies of Jehovah witness
Every story of every lost prophet
Curiosity of a Californian
Talk about blessed
Talk about blurred
I lost myself in ancient knowledge
I need to know if aliens exist
Only 24 with a 4 year old kid
Running around like lighting hits
My son will grow into God
Cause i will not let him fall for the nicktoon facade
They told me hip hop is dead
but
This is more like the Zombie apocalypse
Just woke up from a rapped up coffin
War and the churches involvement
Racks on racks full of top secrets plaques
Home of the brave
Home of the raves
What you know about spiritual warfare ?
Plug your ears n blind your eyes
That psychological propaganda will make you lose your mind
Dont pay attention to the predictive program
They want the silence of the lambs
Your not a herd of ham
Your super humans
The time has come to save the planets
Let us stick together like working magnets..
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
I am a leech hungry for pity.
I say I want death
but what I really crave is recognition for the life lost.
If I cut my wrists
will the red flash like warning signs
in an empty road?
will the blue of bruises
cry out to you like a lake in the desert?
How much will it take for you to see me?
I'm sorry my tears are colorless
they cannot paint the story of my pain
they cannot make the ribs of this cathedral
a stained-glass window.
I am as silent and grim as a cemetery
looking peaceful in just the right light.
Look beyond the beautiful
mausoleums,
the ivory plaques,
the angel statuettes...
dig deep for the decaying bones
the foul smell
the dead body that I am,
being eaten and gnawed by worms
and invisible, microscopic, living things.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
yeux de TwiligLanguecoquette
Me noyer dans ta bave
Vivifier moi tranquille veut
Sable nuits nous Endulge dans
Obscurci par l'opacité des duskiness
Préparez-moi dans airify fraîche
Jog moi comme au sein ont été clarifiées
Faire un tour
Montez,
Talk toothsome
Sirupeux ludique
Glissant sur ourn propre amour
Sueur Ambrosial
Pas savoir aux hommes ou aux fantômes
High Hopes rester élevé
extranjeros amorosas contrairement à la plupart
Chéri
Bien fait
Kins d'exposition au-delà
Non destiné à la page en kiosque
Éveils subissent-sons popping
Sécréter les crys de chiens hurlants
Dynamitage comme un sprite
Délicieux sur des plaques d'esprits
Plébéiens à l'attribut non du monde
Brutes de la romance désespérée
Nous feras danser l'amour de la mine de danse
Nous seras valse dans laquelle tu ourn étapes
Voyage un de l'autre! ( french)
English-
Twilight eyes
Flirtatious tongue
Drown me in thy slaver
Vivify me for tranquil wants
Sable nights endulge us in
Obscured by opacity of duskiness
Brace me in cool airify
Jog me as within were clarified
Take a ride
Get in,
Toothsome talk
Syrupy playful
Slippery on ourn own amour
Ambrosial sweat
Not known to men or ghosts
High hopes to stay high
extranjeros amorosas unlike the most
Darling
Well made
Kins of afterlife exposure
Not meant for newsstand page
Arousals heated popping sounds
Secrete the howling dog crys
Blasting out as a sprite
Delicious on plates of minds
Plebians to non world attribute
Brutes of hopeless romance
We shalt dance the dance mine love
We shalt waltz wherein ourn steps shalt
Trip one another!!!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
people turn their backs
they can't handle emotion
they run with the packs
they can't handle devotion
they only want stacks
financial promotion
their names on the plaques
of outstanding notion
people turn their heads
toward their satisfaction
no tears are shed
struggle is a distraction
they look straight ahead
toward their transactions
they walk on the dead
to get to their attractions
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Fredrich Kunath is running out of
World, but I’m resting from work
For a while, so I find my way to
St. James’ Square and ravel up a
Pinch of tobacco, hands trembling.
Behind me, work goes on, and builders
Grapple with drills: the sounds fall
Down from rooftops on all fours.
The sun is in mid-morning, and I
Leave the London Library (of which
I am a benign member) to walk
Around. I pass the Ritz, and the
Underground, and a tourist stops
Me and asks in broken English
Where the Palace is. His family stands
Behind him, bleary eyed and puzzled;
I point him away, and he walks away,
Brown hand pushing his cap out of
His eyes. The crowds are cold-blooded
Today, walking in the sunlight keeping
Pathways congested for a while.
At 11:55, I give up searching for
Nothing, and settle down at a little bench
In Green Park. It’s a quiet space, where
London keeps its cars away, keeps the
Shadows of its buildings at bay.
It’s misty in the park today, and
Around me, people clutch their cameras
Taking pictures. I’m in one of those
Moods again; the ones where I get
In my car and drive around, wasting
Petrol on late night drop-ins to the
Mark Eaton Crematorium, to visit
Slate plaques. Will I run out of
World, like him? I stub my cigarette
And leave, swilling out of the park
And walking back to the Library.
They have some famous dead members:
George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, amongst
Others.
Running out of world seems fantastical
To me: I rather think he ran out of
Time.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Stern men line a path, to
Doors with plaques stating former occupants:
Chopin, Churchill, Napoleon III.
Overhead flags hang early evening shadows
From ornate golden arms
Across the first of nine or ten marble steps.
And up them walk folk with schmoozing faces
From cars with private drivers
And windows tinted black.
White limestone porticos are
Split by solid black adorned with gold,
And expensive gowns in violent colour.
And I notice the eyes
Fixed on my passing
As I slip into familiar grey.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
The grieving wind led our solemn steps,
and screamed through the ranks of sodden planks,
each encrusted with numb, brass plaques,
fervently recalling local lives lost.
We trudged over those memorial boards,
sponsored grief borne by each grain,
as again salt dripped into the Mouth of the Severn.
At the pier head our tears contested
the callous grey waves
and lost
again.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC