"welkins" poems
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How mine isolation dost mock me; for
Only the lonesome make sharu fotay.
Bedchamber so hushed, bedchamber of many tears; how I feel thy ivory paint,
How I feel thy pain here.
Hallway so narrow, hallway that breathes, O' hallway, O' hallway, listen when I sing.
Grab mine hand, O' hallway of mine abode,
Mine feet do walk quietly, on thy carpet; thy soul.
Spirit O' spirit, how heavied thou art, soon shalt thou depart; for the world is to much.
Mine skin yearns for kisses, mine fingers for touch, O' many hath wishes, guess I ask for to much.
Mine hair screams loudly, to be caressed, ruffled. How gray art the welkins; when a poet's love is muffled.
Mine hand tis weak, from not having ones grip, mine lips chapped; no wetness
Nor mist.
Mine dance is off, with none holding of hips, mine glance is off; eyes pained
By watching worldliness.
Mine old worn out ninety-sixties Beatles boots art worn, tired they mourn; they've
Walked many miles; on trails I've turned.
They've walked through streets, where dope addicts fiend, I've been that pusher, that user in scenes.
I've dreamt, I've dreamed, hath had many emotions; with mother and dad, I've smoked and mind opened.
Mine hope in God strong, unearthly, outspoken; I'm here on thy globe,
To bring hope to the hopeless.
Mine garb is bygone, outstandish, I'm Irish, Scottish, two types of native American Indian blood; Chickasaw-Choctaw,
From mother's generational flood.
A Greek man's inside me, one of biblical times, with french royalty, even Charlemagne, is connected to
Family of mine.
As well french power, and kings and queens, emperor's, empresses in mine relations; who ruled Rome with
Maximus, and around
Constantine.
With pilgrim cruor from England, that came here on ships; on the Mayflower they traveled, to this place of new bliss.
Even tis I am Swiss, these art mine bloodlines, O' how mine souls old,
A gold refined.
This is me O' Lord, thy lonesome son,
O' this is me God, thy writer
Of love.
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How much longer O' loneliness; til
Thou shalt go away.
Tonight, O' tonight, shalt be silence once again;
Thus the dream of being held, is just
A thought with none end.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
The sun sets sweetly as the sky steadily rolls in with clouds, while the weary wolf wanders where he can welcome his midnight maiden.
And as the twilight turns to night, this sorry sounding soul searches for a piece of serenity. The night brings out the wild in his heart and he howls haunting hymns towards the Welkins.
His crying pierces through the silence and he is welcomed by a satellite of light, shining softly through the dark. This wolf does not search for love and affection, because he is never without it. Each shout is simply serenades to the one being who will always welcome him warmly.
His songs are sometimes sweet, his songs are often sad. For the wolf howls to the night sky to beckon the moon to love him. She is his constant, his one true friend, and he will sing her serenity as she is the only soul that sings to his.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC
Thus she pulled tautly
Against his well worn jerkin
Free of woes and clothes
And skin without sin
Removing the veil of enchantment until she rose
Like a full ripe moon high
Upon his radiant earthly body
The welkins were pleased
Sighed with relief
So silken was she within
His richness and majesty
They adorned her with
Their supernatural jewels
To symbolize her graceful submissive gentle nature
They removed from her the chains erasing her paint
This transforming her scars
Into bejewelled stars
To bedeck the ashen midnight of her past with dawns beauty and light
Presenting them both
With a present of eternal
Passion and fulfilment
Mary C Puls
Thus she pulled tautly
Against his well worn jerkin
Free of woes and clothes
And skin without sin
Removing the veil of enchantment until she rose
Like a full ripe moon high
Upon his radiant earthly body
The welkins were pleased
Sighed with relief
So silken was she within
His richness and majesty
They adorned her with
Their supernatural jewels
To symbolize her graceful submissive gentle nature
They removed from her the chains erasing her paind
This transforming her scars
Into bejewelled stars
To bedeck the ashen midnight of her past with dawns beauty and light
Presenting them both
With a present of eternal
Passion and fulfilment
Mary C Puls
Vashti Ayla Miria
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
As the welkins turneth grey, and the night becometh day, man fall's back to Noah's time; where sin in men
Displayed.
Where chain's became one's grave, whence giant's roamed the earth, making babies with lustful ladies;
Making the world their settled
Church.
As the fallen one's layed their seed, to stop ourn saviors means, as humanity calleth them God's;
In reality sickly beasts.
Men reproduced their deities, out of clay, hand-dug gold; bowing to breathless idol's, just as Christian's
Sold their soul's.
Making creatures from the pit,
Their daily water and their spit,
Knowing not the god, who
Made them in his image.
Clean clothed new world order
Grinches.
Bleating out for their king, O' the truth thou seekest, though the truth's unseen.
Because tis yeshua thou hath rejected, ear's made shut,
Worldly infected.
Technology and pleasures
Hath replaced the almighty
God, Jehovah, Elohim, yahweh;
Jesus his son.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©prophetic poetry.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
By avenues vague and secret,
visited by devils and regret,
whither the Wraith of Manes
stands firm and tall and reigns,
thither in the dark acres stead;
and like a vapor inside my head,
lingers there to haunt and spread.
Abysmal troughs and a great deluge,
and rifts, and dens, and silva's huge,
with silhouette's none can recover
for the weeps that pour all over;
ridges plunging into Nevermore,
into waters devoid of any shore;
swells that spasmodically aspire,
upsurging in welkins full of fire.
For in my soul regrets are legion,
but it's an irenic and placid region-
because the wraith which did haunt,
is now seen as wispy, thin, and gaunt.
I wend my way straight through him,
and I refuse to ever again view him.
The Wraith of Manes is now banished,
from terrible dreams, now vanished.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC