"toucheth" poems
On Turning her up in her Nest with the Plough
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
O what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I *** be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,
And never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’:
And naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste
An’ weary winter comin’ fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, oh! I backward cast my e’e
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
3.8k
i.
Through ourn year's
Through ourn year's;
Beyond death mine love.
ii.
When thing's
Get bad;
And day's get tough.
iii.
It's already been
(Thirty) twenty-four hours;
Happy one month anniversary, Filipino flower.
iv.
I looketh ahead
To eternity's bed;
With ourn plume's to toucheth, garbing ourn head's.
v.
How fortunate I am
O' how privileged I am;
To haveth mine queen, the one of mine dream's, a gem in hand.
(HAPPY 1st anniversary Queen Earl Jane nagley)
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/ 30 day anniversary
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I *** be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell -
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Tarry I shalt, for ye mine dame. Whither thy nature goest; To shalt I followeth by intuition. Onuppan the van Gogh atmosphere, shalt we be interlaced, I canst sense thy trail; A grail of a holy special place. We art not physically as one at the moment, but by mine death and beyond I shalt meeteth thee. Lord, I beseech ye to maketh a way for me and mine lass, to become as one, under the sun; in these time's of slow and fast. All do I giveth to be with her heavenly father; Mine blood, mine sight, mine hearing, mine life. Mine aorta befoldeth her red pulse; I am her lord, tis she is me. As tis I shalt waiteth to toucheth, kisseth,holdeth her whilst she sleepeth. Tarry I shalt; for ye mine Jane, mine soulmate, we art one. One in the same.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
I perish daily for one to toucheth mine outer brawn
For to feel ones soul in collision with mine own
A melody of triumphant song...
I suffocate periodically to hybrid thirst
For I want to be rebirthed
In ones arms and eyes.....
Sweet child of mine,
Overwhelm me in overload sleep
Keepeth mine tongue between thy teeth
And grip me in thine soul
Release me in thy hold
And palm me
As god to and infant!!!!!!
Cometh close,
Not distant
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
Frozen blood o' thee lie,
I stareth thy te'rs crawleth,
Numb fingers o' thine,
De'd rose, soken wine,
Waitin' fo' the soul o' mine,
Tranquility ami'st us flasheth,
Melancholy too faces death,
Reminiscences t'en frozeth,
Whispers face silence,
Thy pouch, ink bleedeth,
Thy feather shrinketh,
Knees, the ground, no more toucheth,
Thy body, und'r my roof, freezeth,
My soul, fr'm thy body, drifteth.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
Mine sensory,
Is not as all the others......
I canst feeleth
Seeith
Heareth
Toucheth
Understandeth
Smelleth,
All the thing's that art invisible to the materialistic mammals!
As tis
If they didst haveth all mine senses
They wouldst runneth from fear.......
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Mine sensory, not as other's.......
I canst feeleth
Seeith
Heareth
Toucheth
Understandeth
Smelleth,
All the thing's that art invisible, to the wordly beast's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
what if I’m waiting
for something that will never come,
what if I was not who I am,
what if I never questioned
what if I don’t want to look on prospects drear
what if I want to be the mouse, not man-
who only lets the present toucheth thee,
to not be a human
that guesses an’ fears.
What if I accept that
even the best laid schemes
gang aft agley,
that often my whimsical dreams
are to keep my actions at bay
tucked under my hat,
kept from leading me astray
because after all Burns said,
in proving foresight might be vain.
And maybe a humans life is what I was destined to get,
but I will not be stopped yet,
though plans may falter and not be met
I will keep here set
In my human form of pain and regret.
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 4:16 PM UTC