"travailing" poems
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!
But the heavens cry manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.
Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.
A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.
Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.
Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...
Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!
Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
While I don't suffer, or suffer from
Normal, eurocentrism, northern malaise,
Nor, academia, a blood disease,
I do mind manners in which doings
And not doings are done or aren't,
As it brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't, for those most attached
To living or dying are most closely death.
This while acid rain from your closed eye
And an acre of rainforest falls each second.
Thus Earth's tears bleed for all you see is gray.
As machinations of travailing winds,
Miraging, veil, mirror narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego as self, do "..we(e),.." evince to be?
A republican chides, "put another poet
On the barbie", his idea of conservation.
Prump has had his exec. branch criminally:
Edit the official video and script of his
Helsinki news conference where tutin was asked,
"Did you help prump become president and did you
Have your gov't do the same", with tutin's answers,
"Yes I did, yes, I did..." + premeditatedly separate
Latino families at the border to torture them,
Dictate that "if they want to see their kids again
They have to sign away their rights and leave".
He just said, "don't believe what you hear, see",
Almost a quote from Orwell's '1984', in which
Is written, "this dictate of the gov't was most
Important of all, don't believe what your ears
Hear or your eyes see". Since altright universe
Invaders were installed in the Blackhouse we've
Known things will only get worse, what other
Reason could his "military parade in 11-18" be for
Except military rule, will the American daymare end?
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
Closing your eyes for a while
moment of silence for this time
reminiscing every travailing memories
that crushed and led me now to pieces
I'm hurt,
I'm deeply hurt by you
but the blame isn't all for you
cause I'm the only one who loved you.
Sorry if I've loved you this hard
to the point that I'm the one falling apart
In your words that is deceiving
To me who heard every word and now i'm grieving
Awfully painful,
but time will heal for sure
to those stolen hearts without knowing,
and returned wrecked and broken.
Feelings that unexpectedly come
Hearts that may beat like a drum
Is this what they call love?
I thought its happy but I'm completely wrong cause its numb and dumb
Actions that can be a destruction
Truth in its hurtful explanation
where i felt every single pain
In this one-sided love that make us all insane
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 4:01 AM UTC
Nothing,
The light in my eyes
fading.
Worthless,
My life is pointless
fading.
Tired,
Travailing alone
fading
Lonely,
Be my friend- someone
fading
Fading into the darkness,
Fading into the night,
Fading until my figure-
is just an empty light.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
What rumble grumbles thundering
beneath another boiling sky,
Which warns me, scorns me,
distant thorns flee: flashing light from clouds, and I…
Am harkening – darkening towers,
ivory-cast and sunlit spires lie!
Still distant, though these
trees are bending, rending, raising arms up high.
Green fingers flailing, leaves travailing,
one warm-gust, and the blues go grey;
Then silence…
And the wind dies:
Calm
I can feel you coming.
I can taste your spray.
There’s nothing better
than a thunderstorm;
I love them, and especially
the way your tempest touches,
And the way your thunder talks to me.
©14Sep10 @DracoTalpus
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
Soft-littered is the new-year’s lambing fold,
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o’ night now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes’ travailing call through the dark cold.
The young rooks cheep ’mid the thick caw o’ the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen’s nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.
Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land
Yet here the cuckoo and cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring’s perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one’s hand.
1.7k
When all else faileth
Let me and thine own amour queen Jane;
Powerfully prevaileth.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/Filipino rose
©Lonesome poets poetry
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
Save me from this ailing sudate disdain
To pursue an oath to ordain,
Crimson dark stains yet uncertain.
Beneath a soul’s secret door to obtain
Pure pardon from this wretched torment and pain,
The sickening impudence…an implication!
Yet I try that Grace, Harmony and Love may win,
What am i…but a travailing mortal machine
Taking flight from this mundane plight to become even.
I plead that this conscious with mildness can reckon
In awe I cry out…
“Please don’t forsake me divine Logos”
In dilapidated pieces without price am torn
Helpless and lost behind the aisle,
Not more than an infantile person
Searching for a comfy path back home,
Sad but at times to admit the autism awoken.
In solitary at the center of crossroads
Were do I turn to run?
My heart so weak and slain without feign.
I have judged without concern
To satisfy an ego unknown,
On my stifles I now implore of the Passion
That she may patch-up for a peaceable Parturition.
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:40 AM UTC
The face, scarred beyond recognition
A nacked exposure against the real
Every fantasy crushed under the weight of being
Being is nothing but nackedness
A void in the midst of his heart
Amidst the dream of eternal happiness
A broken life, travailing under *******
A framework of meaning presented by lust
Nacked came I out of my mother's womb
Among ten thousand aborted infants
One woman in travail dies to bring life
Life tarnished by sores and boils!
Soothing his body with a porcupine's quill
He vomits and laments outside the scope of life
The grave seemed an inviting space
Why did the ****** ever give birth?
Why was he not among the aborted?
Why was he not a sacrifice to Baal or Molach?
May the day he was born never be remembered
Life toys with him like a cat does its prey
And lo the great consumer arises from the depths
Great as the darkness that arose in cosmic proportions
It was he which consumed the first star
It was his terrible laughter that echos in the grave
The raw laughter of pure jouissance beyond flesh and body
Beyond the confines of matter hard and real
Beyond the nature of every genus ever known to humanity
Sacrifice and die, ********** and die, this is sacred religion
Dry bones around the alter, viruses dying with hunger
No more corpses, no more decaying flesh
Create once more O divine creator, so we may eat and drink
We will once again ****** and consume
Outside the scope of the dead he lay with his sores
Discharge of stale blood and mucus surrounds his being
He was mocked for all eternity for his suffering
He refused to die, he refused to yield and he refused religion
And they took his flesh and offered it to the great beast
The one who's appetite does not rest
The one who's desire is endless like the skies
His heartbeat is the sound of negative infinity
But his flesh was devoid of nourishment
And his bones hollow without marrow
His blood was like empty air in a broken container
He was nothing but a wound- a divine wound
He himself was death, disease and pain
The trauma of the real opens up and all fantasies disappear
They disappear like the mist in the light of the morning sun
The wound is now the cure and death is now life
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
The postulate of this grief is ours. Every night in my wiry chain-mail suit, in my bed, where you have been crying for your lost hours. For a moment they came, in calamity and drudgery, to every travailing effect that pushed you down. Half of one day, you had it. You plucked your eyebrows, applied vigorously baby oil, lotion, to your pallid skin, and in two bats of your eyes, it had disappeared again. So sad you are. So sad you have been. They were only minor hours, wrapped in crimson bows, gentle happenings that you had barely grazed the tips of your fingernails into, and their symbolical sense, their nuance, wasn't perfected as you had wished just yet. And you tried so hard and it wasn't right yet. In the bed, with your fore-paws tucked neatly under the pillow, the bottom of your legs tucking their way up into your gut, tight as tight could be; I watched you sob in your maudlin ball, your sudorific tears, just peeling out of your eyes. I changed the pillow. I swapped it out. If only we could find your hours and give them back to you.But you cowered into a half-lump ball, your spirit curdling under your night-wept tears. And I too wanted your hours, for they were mine also. Our amatory hours, the fervid hours, our hours of luxe developing bliss. I felt the same urgency to recall them as you, but it was I who held to them, and clang to them that was losing my fingertip grasp on their minutes, and that is what frightened the both of us.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
Ask not the name of the man who speaks here.
He has traveled the long dusty way, and
Through pastures sought the better life and the
Way that is not broad, but narrow, unsought,
And travailing yes I say that I have
Come to this, now, that you may, unto me,
Ask the undying question that is of
The everyman and his suitors many.
For I say unto you, I have witnessed the breaches of man’s will,
And have bought talent with shrill motion.
I have sauntered upon the long dusty way, and I say to you
It is not what it figures, appears not
As it seems to me, yet I long the toes of my feet through its dust,
Admire the gentle gleams that aspire
To godhead like me, to Sunlight with crystal formations and dust,
And longing have I perspired here
Long hours in the midnight drone, and have bought with cheap glass the fire
That is promised only to the man who has nothing.
This I say to the longing, the begging, the thieves,
The stealing conniving and prattling on like
Bees in the springtime, honeybees so forgetful,
So lusting after the next flower, to make good
On the oaths of children and fathers, to find that
No oath could be so magnificent, no oath could
Make good what thing the sailing Odysseus sought,
Might have sought were he of godlier kind, might have
Heeded were he not of the atrocious living
You and me, but so we are and so we must contend,
Contend with the flesh and the life and the death, the
Longing, the dribbling, the hours ill spent, to find
Not to find, and to live not to live, best
It seems to you and me, prattling and squandering
Life for the grave, with little time left: Such are we made.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
your face speaks more
than a million heartfelt adages;
travailing, you
compel stone-cold statesmen to grieve.
was it debu-
-ssy who softened my heart to say that?
a cypress dies
when it touches your tear-snuffing sleeve.
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
the whisper of words
the groaning of tears
wailing of sighs
travailing of pains
can all be wrapped up in a six-letter word called
P R A Y E R.
it's not just a language uttered
language heard
and felt.
it's that sorrow within
longing unmet
pain screamed.
when all else fails
when no one listens
everything seems to fade
that's when you do this so often.
for you know,
someone hears and someone loves to hear.
So pray.
Pray often.
not just in your moments of weakness
but also in those moments of success.
P R A Y. #beholdheprays
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 7:48 AM UTC
As machinations of
travailing winds,
miraging, veil and mirror
narcissistic nihlistic
false-ego, as self,
"...we(e),..." evince to be.
Finding that find,
giving it away,
aliveness being this day,
and further searching,
to be this day
what it is to be this day.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC