I do not write poems
About the world we see
Because the world we see
Does not interest me

Landscapes inside my mind I find worthy of words
Internal curiosities appeal to me
I am bored by birds,  and clouds and flowers
Lakes, and trees and bees

Sure there is sadness enough in the mind of a bird
To fill an ocean with the tears
From trillions of heart-wrenching words
But you may prefer that I write about birds
With innocent human minds
Cute as pie, flying by, in the sky
Not terrified ravenous hunters
Constant killers of anything smaller
All through the day,
Like a child’s sinister play

Or should I write of cuddly cats
Who ambush innocent birds hopping by
Silly birds who should have stayed in the sky
‘Tis nothing to do with a need for food
‘Tis wanton bird abuse for cats' amusement

Our Earth family is Dysfunctional
The truth of Mother Nature
Is not what we want poets to write about

Sean Hunt  Windermere

She walks in beauty, like the night
     Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
     Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
     Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
     Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
     Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
     How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
     But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
     A heart whose love is innocent!

the etching of
reflection in a china bowl
full of water,
our love
uncovering tiny silver
stars on the horizon.

He climbs the steps slowly,
For he’s an old man.
There’s a bench at the top of the hill.
He sits, and he rests, and he listens,
But for the birds, the air is quite still.
He searches for life on the hillside,
The pheasant and foxes are gone,
But it’s springtime, and flowers are blooming,
And the deer, and the squirrels, carry on.

He closes his eyes,
Reminiscing,
When they lay on the grass by the tree.
A butterfly floats past her tombstone,
It’s not the living he came here to see.
There’s a bittersweet patch on the hillside
And he makes a bouquet for her grave.
He places it softly beside her,
Then descends, with barely a wave.

There’s a lifetime of love
In his actions,
Now, eternity calls out his name
Their earth-life together was Heaven,
Without her it isn’t the same.
So mourn not for the departed,
Save your prayers for those living alone.
Request that God grant them safe journey,
On their trip, up the hill, to His home.
Phil Lindsey, August 7, 2016

You tenderly carve, day and night
my heart with your chisel, sharp, incisive
as if it's a block of alabaster, at your disposal
chosen to create your one true masterpiece.
I believe in you,and submit, why? I can't really tell
Isn't it true love, that transcends limits of thought?

I let you do it as I can see  it pleases you the most,
after the moment your eyes had fallen on mine first
and stood still; I saw a divine  excitement on your face.

Is it pleasure or pain?I can't answer that question
I love you, and want you to do what pleases you the most.
My muse said, "Don't let her do this, she doesn't know
it's true worth, she'll ruin it in her, enthusiasm without limits"
I said in a whisper "I've hopelessly fallen in love, for ever"

I'd be your monument of whatever, success or failure,
I feel  the forces of nature that decide what it turns out, at last
and I listen to the sound of hammer on the chisel and patiently wait.

Mine Jane, mine Jane, alway's tormented by the gin that thou hast made; didst thou not remember from whence thou came. Forbearance mine love, wilt be tomorrow's praise,
If thou canst wait;
Hallow thou art,
Hold onto faith.
Take off thy
Kerchief,
Make God space,
To fill thy soul,
Wherein the pieces aren't hole;
What's worth more queen,
The world? Or
God's spiritual throne?
There is a preordained
Abode; Awaiting thee in heaven.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley( agapi mou) dedicated

i.

Lá breithe shona duit, from whence I came.
Birthed from thy womb, a bairn of thy soothe,
Máthair, Máthair; balm to mine wound's.

ii.

How didst thou deal with me, so needy
And in want; yet mother thou didst
Sheweth me that love is worth more
Than material stuff.

iii.

As I grew, it's thee I knew, that shewed me
Compassion existed; in a world still cruel.
Thou art mine guidestone, in heaven's
Room's, thou art the ray that glow's
Like the midnight moon.

iv.

As when the fear doth shew and come,
To thee, Máthair; I'll alway's run. It's
Thy smile that overpowers the sun,
For thou art the one; who bring's
Sunny day's.

v.

Spiritually were connected, in every way,
Emotionally we've resurrected, aloft death's
Own shade; Lá breithe shona duit, for
Another day, mayest ourn Angel's
Guide thy way, and to God we'll
Praise.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Juna nagley birthday dedication