I.

there’s a boy with shaggy brown hair and bright eyes who runs after speeding trains and rubs my back when I’m scared and always helps me find the moon.

I can still feel his hand tracing circles down my spine.

he is not entirely unprecedented, he is not entirely polished and confident. sometimes both of us are too nervous to look each other in the eye,

but this is forgiven.

this is a boy with black-framed glasses who has suddenly grown strong and steady, whose arm around me is an anchor, who hasn’t missed a day in telling me that I’m beautiful. this is a boy who is causing a small earthquake in the heart of a girl who thought the fault lines shooting across its surface had settled

long ago.

it’s no secret that I’m still figuring out who I am,

how all of my fingers and elbows and teeth fit together, and that makes me nervous. I don’t want the boy to become

the latest casualty in my misguided journey of self-discovery.

on the knife-point between nineteen and twenty, teenager and adult, this is where we stand: the boy makes my heart flutter, and that’s all I know.

tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m way ahead of you, and I’ll probably pay a price for it,

but just think about the way he ran after that train. the way he got distracted by the moon, the way he whispered to me in his car,

and tell me I’m wrong. go on, tell me.

Childhood memories of time spent together, days of hopscotch, giggles and laughter. Monopoly, Sorry, Barbie dolls, and sand castles, swimming, cornfield ice skating, ski trips down the hill, and all the pets we shared and loved.
You were my friend, my foe, my confidante in times of woe.
I watched your spirit grow, to watch again as it fluttered away.  My dear sister where have you gone?
You are lost in a world of despair.  I reach out to you but you are not there.
Come back to me, remember times we spent together.
I pray for a ray of hope, that by some chance, you find your way and you are able to cope.

It is hard to say father;
the thought of you stumbles through me when I see
a Gerber baby food jar or a wooden pop crate.
Once you came to mind when I saw a Polish flag
on TV; that is humorous because
the only Pole I know is a pale man at the gym
whose left eye is shaped like a rotten pear.
Do you still burn your fingers when you
fall asleep smoking in a recliner?  I hope
you still do not trim your fingernails while
sitting on the toilet stool; that seems so un-American.
Today is your eighty-fourth birthday;
I hope wherever you are you do not think of me.

Miss, you who knows who you are
who kindles me talks to me about all.
the girl I have known longer,
the one who speaks my language,
the one I search for when I am all
tangled up,
needing you
to untie the knots,
the one I can say anything to,
the girl who says all the right things,
figures out the nuances with digital
precision and analyses,
rights my path
corrects my worries,
I hope I do
half as much for
you.

Inly, she defines what a soulmate is. Divinely; timely she rewinds the time, so thy soul is fixed in bliss. On earth, stuck; confined in Limbo, trapped behind window's amiss.
O' to her abode; I wish.

In this beating blood holder, the beats bounce a skip, I want her grip to hold and stride; I hold inside patience, as tears hold back the time.

Erelong, ourn spirits wilt pervade, two silhouettes of a light that never Set's; a romance eternal, one that shalt not fade, romantics of poet's pages, where ourn love stretches every page, every stage of living comes with smiling faces.
Holy being's, with an undying
Age.

Sage wilt rise in secret places,
Smoke aroma; roses go unwasted.
Glory, glory, none more waiting
Stations, I'll await with patience;
As with patience
Only good
Thing's
Come.

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication( agapi mou)

closer than this dream
of summer,
closer than your fingers
linking mine,
we melt like
candles,
burn like the night’s
distant stars.

... and if my tears cried a million oceans
Each would whisper your name
My heart is broken
I will never be the same




❤I love and miss you Mum ❤

She cries tears of mother's ruin
"Look at me!
It's been so hard
All of my life
And I've had to fight
For my own patch of light
Still, no-one ever looks at me"

He turns his eyes to the floor
Saying nothing
Feeling stupid
And his words burst like bubbles in his mouth
He is desperate to say something
Anything to make her happy
But he cannot turn disappointment
Back into youthful optimism
Or bitterness back to hope
As she sinks into smeary sobs
Wet and bleary loss
He takes her home

He undresses her and puts her to bed
Then he holds her as she cries
And he holds her as she sleeps
He hushes her when she stirs
And calms her when she starts and cries out
When the dreams become too real
And he shall never be more than this
Never more fulfilled
Caring for her is his only purpose
Making her happy is his holy grail
Willingly trapped within her pain
He is nothing else at all

                               By Phil Roberts