"unaccompanied" poems
i.
I thought of the former second's
Hours, day's night's;
How unaccompanied and lonesome I felt.
ii.
I remembered, even whilst being with former
Others, how I kneweth mine heart and soul for them wasn't meant; as mine prayer's to god was sent, the pain I dealt.
iii.
As tis the time was uneasy for me, knowing I couldst be in the crowd, with none to truly loveth me as I them, mine soul screaming loud; lord where is thine angel thou hath prepared?
iv.
As tis I thought last evening, through all mine sorrow's, pain's, and dreaming's. God, mine father heard me, as I wept, and slept;
How he waited for me to go through mine trial's and tribulations.
v.
As after going through prison, through cell's, through false dealer's, in real hell. I, remembered last eve', god doth not do thing's in or on mine time; the creator doth thing's in his span.
vi.
Not according to the way's nor law's of men, but to him, as whilst I layeth down happily looking at mine queen through this faraway screen, I hadst the thought, God gaveth me the answer to what I've prayed for a long whilst; he gaveth me jane, for mine health.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
Pale-faced and stiff,
he stood...
Unmoving - frozen in time.
His chest no longer heaved,
his limbs dangled dead.
His painted lips were parted
with no spoken words.
We have before seen him breathe.
We have before noticed his wordless actions.
We have before heard his song.
And this is his end -
A space
unaccompanied by his usual
careful and subtle gestures.
He bore no voice now as he did then.
But his story was told loud
through the lyrics and music
of a hauntingly, mournful song...
Showcasing the lone relatable teardrop
that never dries.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,
and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,
like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light
and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,
and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession
and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,
a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,
as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids
lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart
heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour
of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,
and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Generous coasting of the west coast
leaves me tangled in roots from roads
intersecting with waves surfed by
long blond-haired beach bums and
babes who pant at a muscular man
that pushups on the boardwalk
next to towels drying on the
handlebars of my bicycle.
I ride and ride and ride
through weather thought to be
unrideable by most cyclists
even if million-dollar-prize
tempted them at the finish line
and a set-for-life sponsorship
was promised to any and all
who could fight through the storms
of what I stoically battle.
No gear or goggles,
just legs of toned steel from
nights spent heating them over
a log-lit fireplace on spit
while keeping intense conversation
with lover across my gaze
until she escapes unexpectedly
into dreams, unaccompanied by me.
My legs are on fire,
no rain can extinguish them
and no slick roads
will stop my going.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
Lamentation; infelicity through neurotransmitters
Passing fleetly; swift but disturbed
Grids of brainwaves for the degraded
Overhead LED view is negroided
Chapter 1 Migraines;
A klaxon that grains into migraine
From there on out, strolling convulsion lane
Deriving from deception; antibodies start to lead loosely
Throe after throe I choose not to fuss
Laceration in hemikrania is conversing with the rest of my body,
Frequent as days turn nightly
I host the severe megrimly
Chapter 2 Vomiting;
A horendous bile builds up in my throat
Moaning like a ghoul; I banish the gloats
Disgorging from nothing, Heaving and heaving the dry
Although I force myself not, all the nosh turns into emit rye
Vital fluid very crimson soon came
From the cranium, I dislose, head pain
Frequent as the waves harsh blows
I host a ***** hose
Chapter 3 Tumor;
A neoplasm underneath I've found out
Unvisible but there; my flesh will start swelling undoubt
Below I feel like a mutant
All putant and disformed
Like globular liquids dripping from sewage waste
As long as I can still haste
Crescendo and surge won't ado
Frequent as traffic builds a rush hour
I host a cyst that is sour
Chapter 4 Deaf;
An absense of all frequencies
I daze everso daily;
Feeling like an earless statue; sound unaccompanied
Missing the wind's howls that ululate,
Clamors and bellows that spoliate
I can't sight the same verbiage
Without sonancy to inflicit, I see one big mirage
Frequent as birth enfolds
I host a soundless toll
Chapter 5 Brain Cancer;
A malignant fate told today
Disease spreading like a machine,
Programmed to enquire all it knows
A gruesome and hateful dose;
Withering casually away
Grown apart of, I'm the prey
As we hunt the beasts'
An invisible naked eye is poaching
Frequent as a house infested
I host a cancerous clothing
Chapter 6 Death;
A termination soon to unfold
I am as finished and ruined as story told
Biological function ending
Senescence through spending
User maat I haven't seen all wanted
Alas I am greatful for what has been daunted
Frequent as a death anew
I host a dissolution
My evolution; through.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
When can I be alone?
When am I really by myself?
Even the term 'by myself' implies that you are 'by' something,
With yourself.
Like the self is something external to you.
Someone you can sit next to.
I want to be truly alone, without myself.
I want the wind to brush past unfollowed by thought or recognition.
I want no one to know where I am, even me.
I need to be without myself,
Far away from myself.
I'm just so relentlessly 'there'.
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 3:59 AM UTC
The memory of her sits on a balcony ledge, cigarette in hand.
My green light at the end of a dock.
And this time I am reaching out
like many before,
in pages and poems past.
Macbeth’s face is a book.
Her body is an atlas
tracing a beautiful continent.
Follow the long tributaries that lead to shallow deltas.
This shore begins softly and forms into slender feet,
quiet but powerful when outstretched an angler waiting for prey.
Odysseus, only, can hear this Siren play.
Follow her legs, those tawny plains,
unbroken, guiding along welcomingly,
inviting curiosity and conscripting imagination.
An oasis.
And her torso is a valley from which
her laughter is ****** upward and resisted until uncontainable.
Dimples break and burst like earthquakes.
A ridgeline is all that awaits until we see her face.
She is the Americas from bottom to top.
Follow her decorated canyon mouth
but know it is merely a diversion.
Her eyes are icebergs, which shyly reveal themselves
to sink ships and drown lovers, for always.
Her hair is aurora borealis,
the northern lights,
dancing colorfully
to an unaccompanied waltz
heard by everyone but her.
As the memory of her sits the smoke billows around
like clouds traveling down a coastline
only to dissipate
and disappear.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
I've got a bottle of Fireball.
I've got a bottle of Whipped.
I've got a 12 pack.
I've got three ***** calls on speed dial.
I've got a dealer three floors up.
All my vices.
Everything I could need.
But right now it's dark.
It's so incredibly dark.
It's empty and it's lonely.
So if I used that Fireball,
that Whipped,
that 12 pack,
a ***** call,
or a blunt from the dealer three floors up,
It could all end.
It could get even more dark.
Even more lonely.
If that is even possible.
Once I go there's no coming back.
All I need is a friend.
I thought I had plenty.
It turns out that I was so wrong.
I'm a convenience.
There when they need me,
but any other time I don't exist.
Not really.
I wish I could say they don't know,
how bad it is.
How bad I am.
But they do.
They're choosing to ignore it.
So are they really friends?
What a simple question with such a haunting answer.
It's taking all my strength.
Everything I have in me.
Not to reach for a bottle.
Not to make an easy phone call.
Not to light up that blunt.
It's taking everything I have to stay here.
When all I want to do,
is reach for that bottle.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
sometimes I stop at you
and look
with eyes of grateful wonder
your spirit still all shiny
yet you are still here with me
yes some things aggravate
but why should they, if unsurprising?
they shouldn't really get to me
it's your different way of singing
well-seasoned are my campaigns
i've loved and lost a few
i come with all my baggage
to be here with you
i think that I am blessed
and live by this adage
happy with a playful angel
not being unaccompanied baggage
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
All these feelings in my head
Swirling circling thread by thread
Every memory every sway
Fragmented fermenting as I lay
Drunken thoughts leave me buzzed
Don't know why I'm making such a fuss
Round and round like a merry go round
Not sure if I'm lost or found
Off in the night my mind wanders
Not sure if I'll ever find her
The nights at its end
I'm still laying in my bed
After such a high I've made a discovery
I found a new sleep a plane unaccompanied
The sun at its edge
Rays rise as if pledged
My worries are at an end
Another sleepless night in my bed
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
She came out of nowhere
this crazy demonic ****
She hung on like an orang-utan on a Catherine wheel
her brain was wired like a **** on a washing machine
I took the death plummet
unaccompanied but loved
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
I sat under my dining table
Of eight chairs and forty eight columns,
It felt like a house with
Windows, dust and unwanted curly locks.
Sitting cross-legged on the white floor
Reflecting my clothes, body and words
I pulled my nails, sang little rhymes
And hit the chair legs with my little thumb.
Guests came, gossiped, recited tales
Gulped tea and left with more stories,
Some returned, others did not.
I sat under my dining table, awaiting
Plates, conversations and fuming-
Black tea. It did come occasionally
With my mother, father and few strangers.
There were books, umbrellas, newspapers
And sometimes samples of medicines,
They sat like Victorian women in long gowns
Who did not speak even after a tempest.
I sat there morning, noon and evening
Unaccompanied singing little rhymes.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
Dear Beloved Annabeth 14-07-1889
*I remember the day thee entered my splendid, unaccompanied realm
Thou awaited me outside the prestigious castle~porch
Casually leaned by the fence that was whorled around
by pure green stalks and fluttering light pink petals... Mmm the scent of daisies.
I was stunned by your presence in my oh so tedious existence
Dear me, thére thou stood in a maroon silk gown with a divine floral print*
How could I not get to know thee?
*My life~guardians where not much liking the thought of me becoming involved with residents at the vicinity of high repute, I lived in
But thou knew me ~ thou knew me too well ~ I felt so marooned
We had to, we had to become companions ~ without a friendship I would not feel alive
Thou were the only one to make me feel enthusiastic*
Ever since I met thee, I kept asking myself; "how was I ever so fortunate to meet such a queen?"
You are my Reign
Yours sincerely
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Last Best Shot
July 31, 2020
8:07am
*the morning sunlight. high enough to lighten first café & the future.
warming, mellifluous, biding good tidings, a head, ahead for the day.
sun-in-sky-low, so trees stand taller, shadow-makers, just for now.
grass blotched, pockmarked, alternative hints of hope & mystery.
the bay wave waters stilled, unrolled, unroiled, no-thrashing, omen?
is this wellness? is this a green tea soul and soil infusion, calming?*
*my mind wanders to that remains unaccompanied, unaccomplished.
unwashed breakfast dishes, miles of mail urgently unattended.
poems half-composed, some decomposing, resurrection on the list?
these unwashed word-shards, cry out, if not today, then when?
passerby’s, yachts, kayaks pause, turn, all bow-me-pointing asking?
is today their finale, burial by deletion, or their* last, best shot?
my reflection, neutral-neutered mien in 19oz. Blue Mountain
black coffee, in a Canadian Macintosh porcelain mug, provides
no clue, accident or incident, but inquires: why the adrenaline?
Aug 2, 2022
Aug 2, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
Woo me a kettle of love
and sweethearts
Gifted muse
Sing me the lyrics
not by divinity
but the flute of your breath
Play me to the chest
where your drum encased
let my palms sway
Please don't stop your playing
even if it is just a play
For if unaccompanied by your music
my poetry becomes meaningless
nothing more
than lines of letters too poetic
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
is like an airport terminal;
where everyone is waiting and no one is going anywhere.
Where the only thing people can tell you is
that your problems will be solved in
ten minutes.
(The amount of time that is short enough to
keep you waiting
and long enough to
make you insane)
The number that actually means: I have no ******* clue.
Airports are made to be passed through
while the people are still bubbling with anticipation.
But if you stay long enough
you beginning seeing through your peripheral vision.
And we all end up being
the last bag on the baggage claim
going
round
and
round
on the conveyer belt.
Searching for our owners.
At some point we are each
the pushy New Yorker
the silent blue-eyed six year old, wandering alone.
the child singing a song without caring who is listening.
We are all trapped in the unaccompanied minors waiting room
without a guide
in the trust of people, before today we had never laid eyes on
and to them we are simply bodies
needing to be moved, shipped, transported
on some conveyor belt to our next destination
we might as well be the luggage we pack our lives into.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
The ocean tried to bear the sun,
And with brevity
It caught aflame-
It lit the world on fire.
But water is not made to burn.
So rose the Titan,
So came the day,
So crashed the waves away.
And it sung, and it sung, and it
Fell from the sky
But to see a star crawl from the sea
Will leave a mystery:
Who, far away, is there to greet the sun,
Before it returns to me?
Perhaps no one waits, like me,
And it lays to rest-unaccompanied.
Surely, though, another sees!
Another soul rejoices,
To see a giant fall from high
Like heaven to its knees
And if no love for him remains
Always will there be-
An ocean, in some reverie,
To swallow up the Sun.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
Cinema queue
two by two
Noah’s ark
fumbles in dark
I’m alone
small cone
whispering seats
touching feet
living a whim
2 hours escapism
don’t need a ‘him’
Comfortable in my skin
happiness and peace within
not a shut-down ******
just always on the go
excellent company
film, icecream, me
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
A
Lone
T
R
E
E
stands
nearto man-made edifice.
I'm not sure the species.
Surely not an Elder
Although quite unaccompanied, far from a minor;
Traveling the 4th dimension in quiet, desolate solitude.
Perhaps once,
it had relatives closeby
Now
It's di ff icu lt to judge d i s t a n c e
or SIzE BY it.
It seems peaceful, for a possible invader
Although, it's difficult to battle solo...
Maybe it's the last survivor.
A ghost
of epic clashes past.
It speaks only with the wind
Lullabies in an ancient tongue.
With no one to converse with
speaking is like a stranger in a foreign land
Like this tree; in a foreign time.
A grey hair in an otherwise perfectly dark mane.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
Sometimes, I swear I can feel my chest concaving at the thought of you.
I find interest in the fact that sometimes I want to be near you, but sometimes, I wish you were an ocean away.
Sometimes I look at my mother, and pray I'm not like her, but other times, I wish I could be more like her because that would make my life so much easier.
Sometimes, I cry alone at night.
I sit unaccompanied and begin to gorge myself on memories and guilt that I am certain will forever haunt me.
And during the day.
I think about how many more days I must suffer before I can be me freely.
Sometimes, I wish I was as much of a physical man as my brother is.
Because sometimes, like when we have a relatives birthday, or a celebration, he is glorified for his ability to be ox-like.
And while I sit here only weighing 130 pounds and having the strength of a rubber chicken I feel as though every bit of breath I breathe is not with the carbon my lungs put out.
Sometimes I think about you.
And how you're with him.
And it makes me sick.
Because sometimes. . .
I wish sometimes didn't exist
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Invitation Only:
A dinner you will forget to remember.
Down the road
little kids laugh and cheer
unaccompanied by their parents
they should have endless fear
Bones in my yard
decoration of course
I'll sit on my porch
watching the joy of endless candy
Come to me little children
I'll eat you up your so **** cute
I bet you taste good too
Brains and Liver, with sauteed onions
lips and fingers, with green olives
toes and tongue dipped in vinegar
come join Serean and Dr. Lector
for your last Halloween dinner.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 10:06 PM UTC
My love is like a feather in the wind.. Seeming so harmless and soft. If just for a second you could grab it and hold onto it to feel how smooth... But you will always let go. You will always drop me from your hands. Why? Because who needs a feather after all...
A feather once belonged to something alive.. It once was part of hundreds of other like pieces and was a whole. One by one they fell off and this feather flew away on her own. Waiting for someone to pick her up and notice her again. Although she is not whole, she is still beautiful in her own way. As an individual. As one piece alone. But what could you use her for? What is her purpose....
When you let go she will then again drift away and find another place. She will seem peaceful, but lost. Unaccompanied by companions and will drift so far that would make you wonder where she came from. Out of her element and now misplaced.. Not lost.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
The silence is a blank.
Nothingness.
Only he can fill the space
That strange, curious being.
My heart heaves, beckoning to him.
that man.
that girl.
that wonder.
I am so lonely- lone, lonesome, unaccompanied.
But there is a key for every lock.
A silence for every cry.
Hope.
It's a patient thing.
Hope.
That human, who i crave, is full of life.
Laughs, smiles, in spite of my quirky mind.
In cold, rainy days
she dances/he dances in poetry,
with an unnamed beauty.
his warmth fills
a thousand bitter caverns,
a thousand ice wastes.
and My eyes closes at night,
comforted by love itself.
Because his love has a tomorrow.
Her love guarantees another day.
No-one is made of stone,
least of all me,
with my queer little ways,
and my fantastical mind.
but he accepts that,
welcomes that, a
s a completion to a set.
A rebel,
a stallion within a field of ponies.
Red, fiery red,
not afraid to be free.
does what he wants,
when she wants,
despite the obstacles.
A perfect imperfection.
But I'm dreaming.
She is impossible.
He is impossible...
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC