Because on the darkest nights
I see faint rays of the purest light,
And among the fatal deceptions
lost in exalted sorrows,
       I know that there is still poetry.
When the words are welled
Inside a throat like a fire
Waking from its slumber,
Rain the embers to paper,
      The words like a familiar pain,
      Speak as the darkness speaks,
      Take in the honest friend,
      Let them take you to tranquillity.
Because when I am at my blackest,
The poem understands me,
It speaks to me,
Cries with me,
I give my darkest to its white surface,
       A cave serrated by light,
      The words will speak in the night,
      They will light the way
      To new dawns,
And you are never alone
If you have read these words,
Because through them,
We become as one.

FOR MY FRIEND CHARLIE

Why am I here… in this place… this room; sitting on this bed
What is this berth… how did I get here; shouldn’t I be home instead
That’s my hat upon my case, and it seems full… of what I wonder
Not my clothes I’ll bet… just filled with more confusion, I should ponder

The door is open… I could leave if I so choose; but do I dare
What am I sitting here for… to see someone; should I really care
I feel so old and tired… how did I become so old; and with this pain
Not just my body… but inside my head… my thoughts; am I insane

How can thoughts hurt… how can they instill this agony I feel
Is this where I should be; am I asleep… dreaming… is this real
I need to think… am I lost in some maze… have I tried to leave
Why can I not get up; just sadly clasp, my eyeglass case and grieve

Why this feeling of regret… do I lament something I have done
Why this sadness in my heart… is there nothing… is there no one
Am I alone… desolate; emptied of all my feelings… emotionless
Should I be sensing fear… rage… no, I yearn for life’s caress

Does someone love me… care about me… do I have a friend
Family… I must have someone… who would to me, his hand extend
Yet I sit alone… why… move… get up; go see beyond that open door
But no… not a sound do I hear… it’s never been, like this before

Why do I clench this eyeglass case; is there something there I treasure
Ah yes... the cross… from my wife’s rosary; it’s glued inside, for good measure
I have a wife… no… she died remember; that’s why the cross I glued in place
That’s why I hold it all the while; so each time I look at Jesus, I can see her face

I hold it like those kids their cell phones; in their hand, always at the ready
Kids…I have children… yes, I do; where are they, shouldn’t they be here already
No... they stopped coming… remember; they came at first… they come no more
I became… decrepit… tiresome… needy; to them, I became another… chore

…shush…someone’s coming………..

…. “HI DAD, HOW ARE YOU”

???Hello… should I know you…???
BOEMS BY JA 533    
I must thank my wife for asking me, if I could write this piece.

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing?
Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago?
Where have all the young girls gone?
Gone for husbands everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?
Where have all the husbands gone, long time ago?
Where have all the husbands gone?
Gone for soldiers everyone
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards, everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?
Where have all the graveyards gone, long time ago?
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Gone to flowers, everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?

As a blanket
Her hair swaddle's me;
As the universe serape's
The pinlight's of God.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley