"seraph" poems
Like the gold at the end of a rainbow
Lives an angel off the coast of San Diego
A dark skinned beauty with a sunshine halo
Found her in the water and just had to say hello
Her siren voice still echoes in my head
Whispering my name so gently
with her bated breath
Her blinding smile is still burned into my eyes
Even in the dark of night
or against the great blue sky
On a vacation escape from reality
I found her, or maybe she found me
We fell into an ocean of sensuality
Until we were lost at sea...
Aquarian Mermaid
I swam in her lust
and I drowned in her love
Nautical Erotica
Wishes granted
By the gods above
Dearly beloved seraph
Enchantress of the Sea
Sing your magic siren song
Heavenly, to me...
Angel of the Oceanborne,
Navigate me home
Across these waters treacherous
Everywhere I roam
Her siren voice still echoes in my head
Whispering my name so gently
with her bated breath
Her blinding smile is still burned into my eyes
Even in the dark of night
or against the great blue sky
Aquarian Mermaid
I swam in her lust
and I drowned in her love
Nautical Erotica
Wishes granted
By the gods above
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.
so cool.
demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage
sleepover
sleepless
starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.
pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity
rotten thing.
you ain't the boss of me
paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap
heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.
oh how special.
yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.
these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.
drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
The seraph sky on ebony night,
A white marble of placid light.
Casting to the living glass,
Haunting, the feeling's elapse.
A time of gardenia drapes,
Hanging the mourning wall.
Scent of ambrosia fogging,
The pavement covered in moss.
Portraits of Celts amidst,
Drifting upon moonlight mist.
Eyes delving, ears opt to hear,
Voices whisper of ancient fear.
An oracle muses the unguided,
As trees speaks the truth.
Humanity strives to be the art,
Yet only remembers by a few.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
I could write the loveliest poem ever,
A lonely dove went cooing by and by,
Yonder rill, yonder hill, yonder river,
Whilst it winged into a clear blue sky.
Lovely is the sky in her robes of blue,
Velvety blue I mean, as eyes of thine
Never bestowed upon any seraph,
That upon my soul kindled love divine.
I could croon the loveliest tune ever,
And whisper it upon rivers of time;
That fairly stream by and by forever,
A tune that in thy heart could ever chime,
If only I could glance at thy bright eyes
To once stray upon shores of paradise.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute’s well-tuned law,
Bound about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh—but smile no more.
5k
lotus in a mirror
its roots clutch crepuscular slums of dredging mud
deep dark stagnant
thick with worms and milk flower petals
we remain nourished
wisdom expands into darkness
all of us students in the school of shadows
irreverent desires reverent
wise children of light bathe in waters
of cimmerian shade
*** death and regeneration
are celebrated in ******
of feral lucidity
souls are soiled by devils
the bog swallows bones
to bloom seraph's and cherubim floating
the third eye open
a cascading light
secret kiss
a breathless eternity
at the root
flames lick
open orifice
of ripples silk
empyrean *** magicians
weave
hips voodoo
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
i.
Agone day's, I kneweth not amour' mine godly Apostle
I only understood fear, sorrow's, none outlook for tomorrow;
Though I kneweth, ourn creator wouldst send me a seraph
Twas I, was only a serf, I didn't not deserve a queen and a angel.
ii.
I never couldst discover where that secret treasure was hidden
I looked, and waited, and hoped, also hopeless on the find;
I wore mine heart on mine sleeve, waiting, waiting, none to be,
But now I do knoweth, Jehovah hadst his plan, thee: one in tan.
iii.
Yahweh tooketh away, all the substandard's and ourn past strife's
Just at his right moment, in his will, not ourn own, he made right;
He parted the sea's, and moonlit dream's, for me and thee lover
For me and thee queen, forever to be; eternally husband an wife.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
What effort!
What effort the horse makes
To be a dog!
What effort the dog to become a swallow!
What effort the swallow to be a bee!
What effort the bee to become a horse!
And the horse,
what a sharp shaft it steals from the rose!
what grey rosiness lifts from its lips!
And the rose,
what a flock of lights and cries
caught in the living sap of its stem!
And the sap,
what thorns it dreams in its vigil!
And the tiny daggers
what moon, and no stable, what nakedness,
skin eternal and reddened, they go seeking!
And I, in the eaves,
what a burning seraph I seek and am!
But the arch of plaster,
how vast, invisible, how minute,
without effort!
3.7k
My Kite
The view of purplish branches upon the trees and
Looking beyond grassy mountains on the horizon
Bring back memories of my childhood days,
Wading in a nearby creek and flying my kite before a sunlit sky
And then recalling the wind beginning to blow.
Magenta leaves would decorate
Branches of both growing and fallen trees-
Wild geese soared above and deer were running freely
While my kite was carried upward by the wind
As highly as those trees would ever grow.
My kite I believed would carry that mysterious spirit deep inside of me
Into which I had placed all my faith and trust
The tail of my kite seemed to cross the sun, though far above me
I feared the demons’ of the woodlands following me as I walked-
But with strong assurance I pursued my kite wherever it would go.
Dark clouds began to cover the sun one day and
Branches upon the trees were seemingly blackening
While lightening sharply illuminated the sky
I believed a storm was rapidly approaching.
As fright and haunting disbelief inside of my mind began to overshadow. .
I have told others that my kite held within my protective soul which was always with me
Because I saw it to be an angel dancing freely in the sky
I believe my kite held inside the spirit of a seraph,
That saved me from all that betrayed and hurt me
As the voices inside of my mind had often told me so.
Years have passed and that wind was always fierce and deceitful-
Breaking the string with which I held my kite-
I sadly watched it as it flew higher and higher towards the sky
Until it disappeared behind those approaching darkening thunderclouds
Vanishing beyond my sight- leaving me frightened and alone below.
Years have also passed since I lost my kite which I believed was my guiding illumination
People would laugh and say my mind had escaped reality
Now I can see that there is no one to save me from those demons of this planet
I still hide the pain of loss of my spirit of salvation behind laughter and a smile
But that does not erase the void I feel inside and that is an unrelenting sorrow.
Claudia Krizay
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
The circumambient wings of a seraph
Obstrepously monastic within
Dereliction contemning the
Mendaciously obsequious;
The bathos of ablution grittily
Jejune fulgerating the engrossed.
The chaldean lachrymatory
The ligature of the darklings rheum,
Volently acclaimed
The paladin necromancers
Circumfluous wintry orbs
Ardently accosting the chasm
Lasping tarnation fructifying
Acedias roborant,
Heavens ignoble lassitude
The boreal scope of causality-
Hells predacious moil.
ELEETE J MUIR..
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
Five four three two one,
Fire spews,
Flames violently shoot out of the golden boosters,
Cold ice breaking off the shell,
The white noise fills the air,
The ground shakes with panic,
And liftoff,
The manmade seraph lifts into the sky,
The Golden Flame forcing it further up,
We watch not with excited eyes,
But with sad hearts and long faces,
We know,
We know today is the last day this bird will fly,
We have slain an angel,
We have slain American Patriotism,
We have slain ourselves,
The Space Shuttle may just have been a chemical reaction lifting mass into the sky,
But it let us explore,
It let us discover space,
The bitter, beautiful darkness that surrounds and blankets the planet,
And now we have told her she must die,
Regressive politics turning into a malignancy against mankind,
Killing the Human spirit,
Spreading,
Cancerous tumors mark landforms on the map,
Goodbye,
My Dear Space Shuttle,
My technological love,
You always inspired me,
It's my turn now.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:19 AM UTC
In dazzled astonishment
She looked up from her reverie
As she heard the flap of wings overhead
And saw the flash of laser beams in her dim lit room
Before her, stood a winged seraph
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness and grace
As never beholden on any human face
With its hands raised in benediction,
It saluted Mary and said
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
……………………………………
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to comprehend what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee
And a son shall be born of thee
Whom you shall call Jesus”
In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware
Or did her ****** womb thrill with new life
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves
For the girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
With all the fairest angels nearest God,
The ineffable true of heart around the throne,
There shall I find you waiting when the flown
Dream leaves my heart insentient as the clod;
And when the grief-retracing ways I trod
Become a shining path to thee alone,
My weary feet, that seemed to drag as stone,
Shall once again, with wings of fleetness shod,
Fare on, beloved, to find you! Just beyond
The seraph throng await me, standing near
The gentler angels, eager and apart;
Be there, near God's own fairest, with the fond
Sweet smile that was your own, and let me hear
Your voice again and clasp you to my heart.
2.5k
7
The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go—
The Crocus— til she rises
The Vassal of the snow—
The lips at Hallelujah
Long years of practise bore
Til bye and bye these Bargemen
Walked singing on the shore.
Pearls are the Diver’s farthings
Extorted from the Sea—
Pinions— the Seraph’s wagon
Pedestrian once— as we—
Night is the morning’s Canvas
Larceny— legacy—
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.
My figures fail to tell me
How far the Village lies—
Whose peasants are the Angels—
Whose Cantons dot the skies—
My Classics veil their faces—
My faith that Dark adores—
Which from its solemn abbeys
Such ressurection pours.
2.5k
With querulous turpitude, I stood
Disdainful denied reassurance;
Selfless. My crying heart
The echo of the wind rebuking
All that is remaining of
what I used to be.
Grotesque deformities my reflection
The pain of pure love etched
In dreams of aeons passed.
Hideous beauty a frightening peace
A sweetness I founded corrupt;
Hell my heaven
My paradise.
Honesty a musical once
writhing in my breast
A seraph convoking legions,
Now wings out-stretched
I break my own treacherous heart
A fiend of Heaven a demon of Hell
The first fallen
Unto likeness absolved
The pennated breadth of twilight
Breeding familiarities contempt-
I have wearied myself, O God,
And I am consumed,
Resolute of inequity.
He that is down need not fear plucking,
Experience is the teacher of fools
And a gentle lie turneth away inquiry:
If the mountain will not go to Mahomet,
Mahomet must go to the mountain;
The nakedly wan mantic
Velleity to tear Christ's body
Malapert, before the ruddy shoal;
Society covers a multitude of sins
Within the penitent sanctity of
Heaven's holocaust, in which
No man can serve two masters-
Oh that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest
Eternal and absolute,
An angelic image of my shadowed self!.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
My sweet angel I fear with the stones I shall remain,
I am doomed to repeat this unhappy existence,
Where my memory lives on when the vines and the leaves are gone,
And I become inhuman, merely an energy
My love the warmth of your skin and the melody of your song,
Will haunt my being while I haunt the living,
These brick walls, this concrete jungle, this manufactured light
From where I come I shall return
And I may never ascend in this lifetime
I may never leave the next one
My summer seraph who guards the one who wears the crown,
Who smiles at the trumpet Gabriel plays as she makes her way back home,
And gates open, pearly and golden, and to those trapped in this cycle unknown,
I shall be caught in a never ending story when my ability to speak has gone
My sweet angel, soft voices, feather hair, and love,
I only want to hear what is better left unsaid,
How can I know that when I die, my body, my blood
I will not become a ghost, still with desire to touch you?
And my memories live on imprinted in stones, and cobble walkways, and iron-wrought fences
When I wish nothing more than to be forgotten, and to forget
I may never ascend in this lifetime
I may never leave the next one
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
By the law of Finders Keepers, you're rich.
But she didn't see it that way
Did she?
Theft she called it.
But who cares for a few plants?
What are they worth?
Barely anything - A mumbled apology -
Your first born?
Or your life.
So bye bye baby.
Did you hear her cry
From the tower?
She screamed as her hair was ripped
From the weight of that
Enchantress.
But you never knew.
You met a man once,
Who spoke of a girl.
He stood blinded by thorns,
Blinded by her foolishness.
But loved her still.
Sought her still.
You thought such a girl
Must be priceless.
Jewelled seraph you thought.
Little did you realise
Her worth was little more
Than a few rapunzel plants.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 11:46 AM UTC
114
Good night, because we must,
How intricate the dust!
I would go, to know!
Oh incognito!
Saucy, Saucy Seraph
To elude me so!
Father! they won’t tell me,
Won’t you tell them to?
2k
18
The Gentian weaves her fringes—
The Maple’s loom is red—
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness—
An hour to prepare,
And one below this morning
Is where the angels are—
It was a short procession,
The Bobolink was there—
An aged Bee addressed us—
And then we knelt in prayer—
We trust that she was willing—
We ask that we may be.
Summer—Sister—Seraph!
Let us go with thee!
In the name of the Bee—
And of the Butterfly—
And of the Breeze—Amen!
2k
Alorè, she-winged orb,
Aidenn's story,
As of ev'ry of all stars absorb
Moorish wars and glory.
Dulcet wings she tether,---
Mighty kinsmen grayed
By unlocking clean of her
Beauty's Bridesmaid.
In each pearling Note
As syrup entwining
Silently thro' her sacred throat---
Who here pins a-singing?
Voyeurs there take pleasure
Leering forward
*At the Seraph's ******** treasure,*
All mastered by one measure
Of Alorè's harsh sharp-sword.
Alorè's wings do they a-part
Off of the Empyrean
Out the dead the sun of Lords depart
The Dawn of Aurorean.
Ancient welfare
Upon Achaean's Night,
Where all the sea-seraphs a-delight,
No mortal can't escape the light
*Of the She-Winged ******** affair.*
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
i.
Cometh hither darling, passeth through the enlightened pergola, seeith how ourn moniker's, art carved into the archway thither ourn bower; A chivalrous Noble tower.
ii.
No worrying mine dear, a buckler shalt be close to mine grab, for the attacker's shalt tryeth to invade, steal, and get all in a duetimes hand; though the circlet I shalt place upon thine top, shalt giveth thee shielding, from the Creation's that mock.
iii.
Artista, mine chosen of coëval; chalcedony balconies shalt giveth us visibility, up close we shalt toast, in thine calligraphist theory, in intimacy we'll float.
iv.
The eaves of ourn citadel, shalt be engineered by thine geniusness, none better to build ourn protection, as thou art a stalwart of the age, a queen aloft all name's, an angel upon a seraph's stage, as I wilt espy thee from the window inside thine midst.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
i.
Malkhati, ourn arrangement hath been prearranged, set aside all of past anger's, Sting's from compeer's; knoweth ourn lion from the tribe of Judah, the Messiah draweth near.
ii.
Hush mine love, quiet mine dear, notice the weather's change and the birthing pain's of fear; though we shant faint, we shalt run through Meadow's clear. Wherein nothing shalt compare, to the thing's that we shalt see.
iii.
O' just imagine mine Jane, fountain of life that spring's, from God's throne seraph's gleam, as we'll Stare at Christ's bronze feet. Many table's for a holy feast, None beast's to make their way, for the beast's wilt be left behind us, making their trail's in Satan's day.
iv.
For we mine love, O' we; art messenger's, disciples, for Jesus the lowly Nazarene, now he's on high, his time is nigh, where all shalt shalt see his white robe, in blood dipped, paradise gripped, unearthly flow.
v.
We must be ready mine Asian hunny, for the sky's won't be sunny; that much longer now. The time is here, his call for us, we must speak and YELL OF JESUS, the one whom shalt awake the dead from the dust. Prophecy must be fulfilled mine girl, don't be in angst, of this soon passing world. He is the pearl, that once was rejected, the cornerstone to every broken home, the one in the beginning the builder's once disrespected. But every eye shalt see, every tribe shalt mourn, O' his sweet return, His sweet return. We must prophesy, before this earth doth burn, we bring TRUTH NOT FEAR, mayest love come by storm. Anyone who hath an ear, please heed ourn word's. For the Warning's art on the clouds, driven by storm's. YESHUA HAMASHIACH, He's coming soon, wilt thou listen O' man? Or let Lucifer deceive thou to? Mine Jane, Mine Jane, I seeith him coming;
Holy, holy is his name.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry , prophetic poetry.
©Earl jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou)
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Do not ask why you are here,
Treading the waters of a
Planet leaving tears on the
Straight razor held
Firmly to her throat by her
Children.
You are here to dance your life
Out from birth to dust
On the floor between Satan and
Seraph, between kind and
Selfish. Between
Poet and predator.
Know that a light heart, love
For yourself and others; a
Whispered gratitude for the
Smallest of things, is the tallest
Tree in Paradise.
Anger is an axe.
And fear. Fear is a chainsaw.
See the flower; ignore the
Thorns.
Look past the hurtful comment;
More often than not, it was a tickle,
Not a slap.
Be the finger that begins the easing
Of the grip around the razor's
Handle. Form an open hand upon
The face of our blue mother.
Kiss her. Kiss her every sweet
Tear of relief.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC