"surveyor" poems
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?
Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?
Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.
I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,
but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.
Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.
Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning
nothing ever. I shall not want,
I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,
Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.
true? fair? goodwill? wait
if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?
from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,
then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.
From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,
George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,
thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.
Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so
many, many more.
Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.
I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,
winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
the vastness of an empty soul
demystifies the Grand Canyon
and shrinks the universe
to microscopic molecules
barely able to manipulate energy
matter that doesn’t matter
madder than a hare in March
balance skewed
undue pressure
seasonal disfunction disorder
ordering medication
naturalization
seeking citizenship
in an isolation township
serving only self-pity
to the self-destructive –
squatting, gargoyle
surveyor on the job
soaking in the loathing
basking in the glow
caused by the discontent of others
opioid android locked in the void
unemployed
laughing at misery
in mercy centers
meticulously mimicking the miscreants
impersonating pain
seeking to blend –
ostracized miser in designer jeans
obscene in drag queen regalia
“whiskers from under his pancake make-up”
wake-up Godiva, locate the paraphernalia
mammalian musculature
hide the heart of a snake
as she slithers across the floor
searching for the perfect surfactant
….her scaly skin itches, uncomfortably
tearing my lip skin
in the din
of her poorly lit closet –
together in terror, the admission seems worth the cost
lost in the sweet melody
of sobbing children
and clattering dishes
shattered visions
misgivings
estrangement entangled with commitment
obligations
oblivion and orange peals
appealing to a higher power
unanswered questions hover inconsequential
adding to the ozone depletion
and altered climate
owning blame
for all the world and her problems
I sit with shoulders slumped –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
stem of orchid jewels
hearts white. fronds dangling caressed
clouds obscure. Judas gifts wrap
kitchen. bromeliad pool &
bird chorus, cocteau twins, unwound
clock. himalayan surveyor measures
watercolour, telescopic insight
ginger of blue flowerless season
changing, renewed construction
seeds bloom, a winter pose. house of
possibilities in clear air, away from here
barbeque covered, herbs sprout flavour
zen stone feature a cat’s new bed
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
Eastern surveyor's
Dancing across mine face,
Her pucker's move
In Tagalog groove;
Heaven at mine bedside
She awaiteth.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©あある じぇえん
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
At mine bedside,
Eastern surveyor's
Dancing across mine face,
Her pucker's move
In Tagalog groove;
Heaven at mine bedside
She awaiteth.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
return trips offered
for body.
some, we separate
long
after birth.
fourth baby
the first
errant.
surveyor of train car interiors.
job creation
as healer’s
refuge.
godmother
in a borrowed
copter hat.
the boy we call
egg mouth
who frees
his sister.
our meaninglessly
oral
talks.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
I long for you…however distant our meeting may be…
Can you feel my presence even now…embracing your existence?
I sing over you…undecipherable lyrics that speak clearly to your heart alone…
I rock you gently…within the valley of my ******* I embrace you…pull you into Me…the warmth of my breath falling onto your skin…
I devour you…exploring the hidden secrets of you…my mouth mapping your slopes, valleys…each crevice …my tongues delight…you are delectable to me…
A blind surveyor…my hands roam over you…fingertips lost in your wonder…
My heart is frozen by your beauty…taken back by your splendor…enraptured by your presence…I know you as if myself…searching the layers of your soul…your identity…as if my own...
I long for you…however distant our meeting may be…
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Why ask me why
I write
if I try only to die
I write
why ask me
why?
There's an agony in
every line
'to be or not...'
was not the plot I
had in mind,
but Shakespeare's dead now
and I find he wasn't
Hamlet after all.
So
you ask and unmask me
take me to task and then
she comes to my rescue
and you
ask me why.
I can answer the question you pose
I suppose
or I could keep silent about
the way that it went, being
intent on the answers.
And to qualify the why of it
ask me first the how it was
and there it is,
I try
I write
I live or die
I breathe
believe
(in things)
and
she
brings me hope,
what do you bring
but questions.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
An evening I had with Leonard.
Myself with five ladies of the hooking craft.
Full house congregating to hear him speak.
The fluid words of living
An elixir to ones soul.
This little old man,
A modern Pied Piper of life,
An influence of modern song
That will carry past his physical presence.
His ability to stroke that place in ones mind
That can lead an audience in silence.
Wanting to catch every nuance.
The sound of vibrating strings
Matching the sound,
Of Angels wings,
Lift you past his words.
Observing the crowd
Some leaning forward as if in pews,
Not wanting to miss one word of inspiration.
Silver haired women,
Eyes closed, moistened lips smiling,
Modulating to the tunes.
Remembering youthful encounters
Sensualized by this Poets intent.
Grey haired men lip sync
As they used to whisper in anticipation
In their ladies ear.
Youth of today
Rising in joy, cheering
Will carry the cycle forward.
At twelve I heard Suzanne and was captured.
I devoured his works
Finding poetry was not school house boring.
Seeking what had inspired him.
The surveyor for oh so many in the path of poets.
Dan Gray
April, 2013
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
They came by the hundreds
not thousands or millions
for millions had been vanquished
they came seeking some glimpse of hope
here at the shoreline
driven from their homes
by the fires that raged
seen even by those banished to Moon's Sector 9
airtight tears for those left to face certain genocide;
the cleansing
the great winged beast carried the Surveyor
to cross the Sea of Shadows
how many are left
he was to determine
how long before Earth is ours?
He delighted in their suffering
as he now hovered above them
just off the ocean's edge
'You can perish here or be taken to Sector 9
it is your choice
you are familiar with slavery
are you not?
So you shall adapt'
and with that he snorted and his beast whinnied maliciously
like some monstrous, hulking mule
while rearing it's hideous head
some tree limbs were moved where the beach front gave way to a patch of woods
revealing a crude catapult contraption constructed of wood planks,
rope and a leather pouch
it stood upon a wheeled platform with a handful of men surrounding it
one man held an ax
it had been adjusted and was now aligned with the beast
the Surveyor, upon seeing the weapon snorted louder in defiance
just as the ax came down to cut the rope
the boulder struck the beast just below it's long neck
it reared back violently, throwing the Surveyor into the Sea
then flailing and kicking as it screamed in agony
falling to it's death
One man stepped forward and pointed to the Surveyor
as he gasped for air, bobbing in and out of the waves
'This is our home and we will be staying' spoke Jodehon
a glimpse of hope
thus began the Battle of the Nines
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
John Brown, you scare me!
You look like a man possessed by a demon.
You look like a man who could **** his son.
You look like a man who believes in a principle,
John Brown.
He drew blood, your son did.
You took him to the woodshed and whipped him;
but then you had him whip you, harder and harder....
now what kind o' crazy-assed thing is that to be doin',
John Brown?
You were a farmer, tanner, wool-trader,
land-dealer, surveyor, shepherd.
Failed at them all, went bankrupt.
But loved your family, held it together,
John Brown.
You lived with black people at North Elba,
seated free black men in your pew at church....
They expelled you, didn't they
--those white hypocrites--,
John Brown?
Your sons murdered pro-slavery men in Kansas,
loud-mouthed, innocent men,
dragged them from their beds, in the name of God,
chopped off their arms, sliced their throats....
You were there,
John Brown.
Somehow you knew
--what were the odds that 200,000 men would die?--,
somehow you knew the earth would be drenched in blood,
somehow you knew rivers would run red with blood....
How did you know? How did you know,
John Brown?
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
A green carpet spread beneath my feet,
and a sepulchral dome of blue above…
I stood pondering over our equation with nature
and everything that fills her treasure trove.
The benevolent mother of greedy billions…
The silent surveyor of each and every sin.
Pain and agony fill her every single breath,
as she is mercilessly exploited by her kin.
Her omniscience is as impeccable as ever,
she knows the consequences we are destined to face.
She pities our nonchalance and ignorance,
as we foolishly tamper with her dignity and grace.
With a sobbing heart, she ceaselessly grieves,
as her veins are poisoned by what our factories spit.
As daily, humanity mocks and molests her,
and behaves with her as it deems fit.
Our ruthless attacks have left their scars,
in the crown of ozone that adorns her head.
And though she seals her lips with vast tolerance,
we mindlessly spray her face with mercury and lead.
She knows she is foolish to harbour such fiends,
but she cannot bear to see them languish.
And so she suffers so that we may prosper,
and never ever voices her wails of anguish.
But when we meddle in matters not meant for us
and treat His greatest creation with little care…
It’s impossible to escape the noose of justice,
and future will strip these sins of past bare.
She knows it now, as she knew it then –
and being a mother has warned us as well.
Each tsunami, earthquake or a lava eruption,
is a mere snapshot of what lies in store in hell.
Yet we contemptuously dismiss these warnings,
to continue our imperious march to global havoc.
Extinction will soon be staring at our faces,
as death and destruction are bound to run amok.
This ailing planet is on critical life support,
and our insipid response has left it aghast.
It is begging us to take the green turn soon,
Lest the obdurate wheels of time run past.
Nature’s coffers are slowly but surely drying,
from our reckless use over all these years.
And a mother groans in stifled despair, searching
amongst her children for sympathetic ears.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Many a times I have been to Harwood Point.
When the travel bug bites my feet
My eyes pine for the marine froth
In the May’s summer heat
I pack in my kitbag the barest cloth.
At Harwood Point
The river runs in turbulent progress
Maddened in the pursuit of the sea’s embrace!
From Harwood Point
The river would carry me to the sea.
When the sun spills blood on the river
The vessel would leave Harwood’s wooden jetty!
As that small port diminishes from my sea bound way
It sets me to brood.
Who was this Harwood?
Why this Point bears his name?
As the vessel picks up steam
I fall into a deep dream.
J.T. Harwood 1831.
Some British Surveyor
Lost in the pages of archived Register
Laid to rest in the dust of fame
But lives his name
To this day
On my sea bound way
A name without a face
Where the river runs for the sea’s embrace!
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
who knows the dream of the solo captain
night surveyor
ocean drifter
following his heart to the center of the Sun
riding consciousness past stars
where darkness is true
sailing his soul onto shores
where only he has tread
come with me my love
and you will know beauty
only glimpsed at the edge of thought
only wished at the pinnacle of ecstasy
only cried for at the moment of death
it waits for us
here in the crosswalk of our imagination
where dreams collide
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
It has been recorded on surveyor's maps
that Mount Everest, standing 29,028 feet tall,
is the highest point on the face of the earth.
Still, when you were here,
I could see its snow covered peaks below me.
It has been recorded on oceanographer's dials
that the deepest depths of the Pacific
lie 35,820 feet below sea level
and that it takes a one pound metal ball
63 minutes to fall to the bottom.
Still, on the day you left,
I stretched high but yet
could not touch that metal ball
at the end of its plunge.
It has been recorded on astronomer's charts
that the remotest heavenly body
visible to the naked eye
is the Great Galaxy in Andromeda
known as Messier 31;
2,120,000 light years away.
Still, since you have been gone,
as I reach out to grasp your hand
during moments of forgetfulness,
the east coast might as well span
twice the light years to Andromeda.
Indeed, though the distance between us
may at times seem unbearable,
the nearest one in my universe is you.
This has been recorded in my heart.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
Sunday, grey as
the after-ash
of joy's taste.
The nervous systems
of January trees
look in shock,
light rooted to a
lightless kingdom.
Their surveyor sits
at the rear of a bus,
vibrated by a monstrous
engine, dumb with dual
force.
Bracing for all kinds of
impact, psychic projections
hung all over this city.
No eyes for what is, these
burnt slits...routinely barred
from the last entrance to
space.
A reified prayer sine qua non.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
I built us a home
Inside a globe
And it was small
And confined
But it was ours.
Until one day you broke it
And put sunset eyes on the sea
And headed towards the horizon.
I cut my hands trying to pick up the pieces
But ended up sweeping them away
As they crumbled to dust.
So I set out the other direction
And dedicated myself to topography
Not cartography
Because there are people who own maps
And people who use them,
And I vowed to be surveyor,
And never a historian,
And I vowed to never share a map
With another lover again.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
I have, from time to time, heard this simple phrase:
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
It’s always puzzled me. It seems illogical.
No, the road to hell isn’t paved at all.
It’s an old road, constructed when the first stars lit up the sky. It’s been here longer than us.
And we’ve used it. Many of us, over and over.
The road, once pristine, has seen the footprints of a billion souls.
And so, it’s cracked, withered, decayed. The dust, which was once cobbles, blown into the wind,
never seen again.
In fact, it’s not a road anymore.
Roads are strict, they instruct where to go.
But the road to hell is so distraught that it guides no more.
Loose stones are all about, and any semblance of a path is gone.
The empire has forgotten the road.
There is no surveyor coming. No highwaymen traveling horseback.
We’re on our own.
We’ll have to find our own way to hell.
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 11:28 AM UTC