Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.

I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.

I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.

I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.

I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his  

Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine    
And walk miles and miles of fire.

I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.

The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving

A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.

Crashing waves
The steady wind
Chirping birds
The wind chimes on our old porch
Sounds of thunder rolling into our small town
The most beautiful noises I can think of.
These are the sounds I hear when I close my eyes.

One sound is missing however.
*I can no longer hear your voice

i.

Elated, I'm afar from the aqua sphere beneath mine toe's,
I've been taken up by flight, an angel in the night;
A woman, a queen, a mystical paranormal beam,
God heard mine weeping, and with her he sent,
She dried mine Tear's clean.

ii.

I sniveled for eon's, with none hopeful lover's future
Mine joint's were weak, from the lack of nutritional feature's;
At mine lowest point, after imploring mine lord for help,
He sent me mine other half, Earl Jane Nagley, an Asiatic path,
Mine beloved, mine darling, mine seraphic helper.

iii.

I found wholeness, the other purpose to mine sustenance,
She's not for sale, she's not a slave, she's a cherub; not some anecdotal tale. She's not one to taketh man's bribery, she's not a peasant sold and payed for rent: tis she's heavensent- the answer to mine prayer's, she's delicate, she's an empress doth thou seeith, I was birthed for her, as she for me, both made for another, to cherish each other, on cloud nine we shalt be seen.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication-Filipino rose

On this island in the sky..
Above all of the stars..
I sing a song to the moons that glow..
A song about what might be below..

The sky islands are home..
Always have been..
They say that there is nothing below..
But I believe there is truly something there I hope.

That is until one night a beam of light shined..
It pointed from down under..
Toward our sky islands above..
They looked to us with wonder..

Some of us were amazed.
While some of us were scared..
Is this something good or something bad..
Perhaps there is a reason we never knew of the people below our sky land..

I mount this magnificent machine made of star glass and light..
The 2 wheels are made of shadow skin and glow alloy..
The machine is call a Lightcycle.  
Powered by an emotion engine that the rider gives power to with thought and soul.
The magic begins when the rider mounts it an the star glass shell fills in with the rider's imagination.
I mount my Lightcycle and endless blues and lightning fill in the star shell.
The emotion engine turns and I am catapulted to the stars..
Its then the lightning bird spreads its wings as I then reach speeds beyond light and darkness..
I wind up on the outer rims of the 17th galaxy Heaven's reach..

A chill wind
prepares the land for sleep
snow-weighted clouds
brush golden-stubbled wheat fields
and bare clotted earth
laid out in heirloom patchwork
stitched from lean and bountiful years.

Poplar trees
arranged in perfectly
contoured lines
resist enforced conformity
their flaming arms
reach for each other
tangle and entwine.

Here,
good souls touch down
like wind-blown seeds
from distant lands
of sunlit love
fading purple twilight
and midnight blackness

gently settling
in fertile, protected hollows
where possibilities rest
and winter-over
awaiting the time to wake
and begin anew.

i.

Her orient smile
Canst maketh a sick child
Walk if once was lame;

ii.

Tis she's wild
With an innocent smile
O' how heaven's untamed.

iii.

Her name's sweet Jane
A cherub of oriental flame;
She drive's me mad, crazy, insane in a good way.

iv.

Thence back to her smile
I jump back inside her aisle;
O' heaven is sweet,
O' how heaven is sweet in sweet Jane!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose)