"uncultivated" poems
The wildflower… bred by no one, uncultivated;
raised hard, raised rough.
No glass pane to shield you, nor tender hand revealed you,
standing all the sweeter ‘gainst the grass.
There may be some the fairer,
though none so brave to dare her,
wild, wild flower in the wind.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
She is not just a woman, or just some mere creation to me.
Seeith, she hast a halo, fulsome and rapturous in highest degree.
Seeith, doth thou friend; her eye's as a muffled jungle panther;
They dance the uncultivated bush, the wind here is her laughter.
Cool, it bloweth upon thine sweltered cheek's, she's unseen;
Like a dream, she is the shelter every forager desires to keep.
I'm hidden amongst the shrub, dying to taketh a peek;
I want to catch a glimpse of her, in all her amour', her taste, fine;
Her spirit is mine, one of a kind, a dining shine, whilst the moon,
In ourn room, she clutches mine anatomy, O', how I'm so happy.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication ( filipino rose)
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
angelica fits, weaves through
my fingertips,
out my mouth sprouts
morning glories
and wormwood blooms across
my eyelashes. i’ve lost
something i never had;
nevertheless
i feel the lack in
the spaces in my chest.
perhaps some space is left
yet uncultivated,
yet unpopulated by meadowsweet or
marigold --
perhaps i could unfold
the silk-soft petals of
a crocus,
let the columbine alone
and let the moss rose grow.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
I sometimes I get this feeing as though I was being forced into a meat grinder.
Urged to remove my fat only to spit out chunks of blood and bone instead.
The cracking, clicking snaps of marrow that exudes from it like wastage.
The fat engorging through the tiny weeping holes.
All I can see is the repetitive nature of damage leaking from this abstraction and I feel it in my flesh.
Crawling like tiny bugs, entrapping themselves and eroding their bodies into the hair on my skin.
Uncultivated; I have fallen into the funnel hooked up to the grinder and I feel its body churn me.
It thrusts its cold metal exterior against my lean limbs; ticking.
I try to form a response when all the while this loud heavy machine is echoing against the walls, making my voice utterly meaningless.
Like ground beef I am belched out only to be covered in a plastic film that pushes all the oxygen from it.
I am stuck in this silhouette, shaped as a slab of meat.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
It is almost painful trying to fathom the reason some men take a woman's intelligence and blatantly play it down.
Shouting out from behind me " hey ma lemmi holla at cha" I must inform you will never get this female to turn around .
I do not find your uncultivated demeanor flattering in the least, in fact it makes you somewhat insignificant, not worth a second look.
I want nothing to do with your infantile swagger in capable of sharing coherent insightful thoughts, afraid to stray from the same old play book.
A physical attraction is of some importance, but I am more enthralled when a man hears, not only listens to the words that are spoken to him.
Serenade me with your ability to articulate raw emotion thru flowing words, entice me with an intriguing mind, show me that you are a rare gem.
As for those males pretending to be men, but in reality can't even wrap their minds around the idea, don't waste your time with me, your ego will just get bruised.
If it is my attention that he seeks, a man must be confident that he can stimulate my mind, draw me in by the rhythm of the words he has used.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
It faces west, and round the back and sides
High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs,
And sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks
Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish
(If we may fancy wish of trees and plants)
To overtop the apple trees hard-by.
Red roses, lilacs, variegated box
Are there in plenty, and such hardy flowers
As flourish best untrained. Adjoining these
Are herbs and esculents; and farther still
A field; then cottages with trees, and last
The distant hills and sky.
Behind, the scene is wilder. Heath and furze
Are everything that seems to grow and thrive
Upon the uneven ground. A stunted thorn
Stands here and there, indeed; and from a pit
An oak uprises, Springing from a seed
Dropped by some bird a hundred years ago.
In days bygone—
Long gone—my father’s mother, who is now
Blest with the blest, would take me out to walk.
At such a time I once inquired of her
How looked the spot when first she settled here.
The answer I remember. ‘Fifty years
Have passed since then, my child, and change has marked
The face of all things. Yonder garden-plots
And orchards were uncultivated slopes
O’ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn:
That road a narrow path shut in by ferns,
Which, almost trees, obscured the passers-by.
Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs
And beeches were not planted. Snakes and efts
Swarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats
Would fly about our bedrooms. Heathcroppers
Lived on the hills, and were our only friends;
So wild it was when we first settled here.’
2.4k
'
"In the world of mortals there's no greater perfection than music."
~ Impeccable Space Poetess
'
Divine music beats
bombard my being
as non-rippened ripples
The surface of my ear drums aches
without perfectly harmonious
sounds
complementing
Roses blossom in a quiet garden,
some lavish quietudes here, where
I've got enough peace and not
the right space for a siren's songs
enthralling enchantment
Searching at the random pace
for the most peculiar music ~
thunders in my thoughts!
Those undiscovered waves
appear as lustrous song lenghts,
as limbs of a sound corpus slumbering
in the solace of silence and rhythm
Deep bits bite my emptiness
and this wanton yearning
forces me to reflect upon
this uncultivated
wilderness
and
what's there to miss at all means
'
***lovable etudes
classical chello drifts
bansuri flutes***
'
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
I was born of your dreams..
...an eruption of your molten desires...
Once, dormant, beneath an ocean of ice,
Warmed only by the lips of the sun,..
and the eyes of the moonlight...
Your fire pierced the currents
of my dissolution,
Parted the seas of my slumbar
Your infringement into my sagacity
Ravaged salacious unleashings...
An unexpected inferno...
Of a once guarded matrimony,
Vows exchanged between a bleeding heart
And the fury of a dream, just out of reach,
into the tomb it was placed within;
by hands of whispers...
This frigid grave, where I lay in surrender...
Until.....
That moment your eyes gazed me to sway
beneath hands that strummed the rhythm of a song...
I was destined to dance, within you,
You were destined to play, within me...
Uncultivated, untamed, primitive....
The shackles of my reserve
Released by the ****** in your eyes...
Unlocking all the secrets I had ever harboured...
They were yours, now...,
As was I....
A volatile surge of your hunger
Dancing in the flames upon these seas of your dreams...
Enraptured in the warmth
of your breath....
...that set me free...
Fueled by the passion of your thirst
Unraveled by the strength of your embrace...
That unbridled the reigns
As I ascended into the realms of heaven...
Upon the wings of ecstasy
Breathed into the heart of my soul
In tender whispers of your love....
...that ravaged me again...
...and again...
...and again...
...into the stillness of sighs...
...where I was born, of your dreams....
...resurrected, in the sweat of your needs...
~sigh~
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Sometimes
You make me want to scream
(You make me late for everything)
Out loud
(Too proud)
Like a beast howling with rage and uncultivated fear
(Just the same **** arguments year after year)
You make me ashamed to want attention
(You argue with anything I mention)
That isnt fought for or coerced
(Plans made with you are cursed)
And I just want to make you see
(All the things that you do to me)
That things could be different
(You never take things as they're meant)
Better or worse
(You cut me down first)
And I could still be here in a couple of years
(You dont understand the depth of my tears)
Or maybe not
(You forget what you forgot?)
And I love you
(There's nothing more true)
But loving you hurts
(And sometimes you're just a ****
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 11:31 AM UTC
Untouched, by human hands
it grows strongly.
Uncultivated, by human means
it exists freely.
Untainted, by human instruments
it lives purely.
To its very core,
it embodies originality.
To its deepest roots,
it remains unrestrained.
To its brightest petals,
it emanates splendor.
Untouched, by social influence,
she grows strongly.
Uncultivated, by social expectations,
she exists freely.
Untainted, by social conformity,
she lives purely.
To her very core,
she seizes independence.
To her deepest roots,
she wanders uncontrolled.
To her brightest petals,
she radiates beauty.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
Skills developed from scholars who studied KABALA.
This testimony is lonely.
As I let loose of this nonlinear noose.
I have pressing matters to attend to.
This all done accordingly.
LEAP years are boring to me.
The future talks to me because the present is ignoring me.
Poetry lost under a blue moon but I never left you.
I always came back with something special.
The poetry they all created was uncultivated
thus foolish and basic
generated only to satisfy selfish cravings.
I call it Human contemplation.
In contrast to this magik.
My convoluted interaction.
The clarity of singularity.
¿¿¿¿ My WORDs will always contain a bit of insanity¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Poetry is an uncultivated field
With two gates,
And ten thousand farmers
Turning soil,
Planting seeds,
Using tons of fertilizer.
The weeding is endless,
The rows run in all directions,
Harvest is boutiful when tended.
It's environmentally friendly,
Ergo-perfect.
And there's a need
To keep the varmits out.
Let them prowl the perimeter,
Salivating.
Remember to shut the gate.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
***~for my poet friends who will understand exactly
the nature of our ailment/adventure~***
it begins when once poem titled,
which, a first clue, nothing more, a mumbled prophesy,
an arrow to duration & direction home but unknown,
a one-way stop sign neatly lettered in the
smallest sized letters with the disclaimer above
you sojourn to an uncultivated land, not sown.
you travel to places “finding out what you
don’t want to know, what you don’t want to find out,”
no guide, no well trodden path, no cultural prescribed woke diktats,
you are,
taken unwilling more than you lead, where endings
surprising, unforeseen, return tickets never offered for sale
pick words, more likely,
they pick you,
the only constant your rapid metabolism,
a winter snow blow, swirling churning, even midst
the most languid, sultry southern summer day
mind the mind.
mind the ground frozen until a tiny tickle trickle verse
becomes a full-on ground melt, wet and soggy,
******* you into a
rice-rock-hard pellet-poem thriving,
you observe your own drowning in a
6 inch deep wet paddy
the bottom line,
the net net, summary judgment
you commenced with urgent hesitancy for the
risks are great now, pen dagger chest pointed,
you, ****** in crosshairs, your own graven idol image
having found out what you
don’t want to know,
having found out what you
don’t want to find out
find myself weeping,
fists holding my head,
communing with floorboards oak hardened,
groaning acknowledging,
this, this, THIS***
*this discovering, uncovering,
this is
why I write,
this is
why I dare not write anymore!*
12/13/2019
~~~~~
postscript Friday the 13th, 3/26
~~~~~~~
or why I cannot stop…
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
It’s four a.m. and once again I find I cannot sleep
Peace of mind eludes me as I chase
I cannot comprehend the many reasons that I weep
And in my mind the thoughts of love and life have been erased
The endless night where I reside, holds no remorse for me
No compunction for the one confined
While I languish for the dawn, I am found the absentee
And to the dark and empty insane thought, I am assigned
It seems I am the Watchman, forgotten, lost to light
Incubus, subsisting in confusion
Uncultivated hope, to antagonize delight
Bewilderment in sorrow, and confounded in seclusion
Imprisoned to a life unknown, existence far surreal
I find no hope, no promise of the dawn
I wonder, could the morning sunlight emanate, reveal
Solution for my restless soul, in clouds of pink chiffon
If only for a moment, there within the morning sun
I may see her face, and love again
I would feel that I have hope of heartbreak seen undone
To live in joy, unrestrained by sorrow’s cruel campaign
For once life stretched out far ahead, I was free to love a girl
Though time has seen her slip away from me
And now I watch the night alone, colorless, the world
The darkness overwhelms the radiance, that used to be
And though my restless spirit finds me not in soft repose
I stand as sentinel, imagine what may come
Though through the misty memories my heart does not disclose
The reasons love was forced, and thus compelled now, to succumb
And so I must endure the black of night, uninterrupted
I yearn only for dawns warm light above
Although I fear there is no hope for love, sadly corrupted
The lost and lonely years that I became the victim of
Its four a.m. and once again...
I cannot sleep.
Dean Evans
5-27/28-14
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
The mind of a psychic.
These writers are all bias
, so who the **** gone buy this?
The average man clones some uncultivated **** you expect me to pour my heart out to this????
Solo. As I verse Clans of weak strands.
Flat earth thinkers. When my thoughts sink in,
they get deeper.
signal gets weaker.
You can't google up these features.
Defining the colors hues of a preacher means nothing if he's still a preacher.
Because no one cares to read em
for those that CAN'T SEE IT they're lost man LEAVE em..
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
I'm looking for an excuse
to hide under the sun
and protect myself
from cold birch trees of May.
I am looking to replace
a piece of bread
with the entire surface
of uncultivated fertile soil.
Seeking a drop of water on a leaf
burned by the same sun,
while not catching the reflection
of my image above the well.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
It's true,
that uncultivated field
smacks of disorder
it's not looked after,
it smacks of waste
it's not exploited,
it smacks of neglect
there's no control
but I like it
it smacks of freedom.
25.9.'13
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC