Whilst the hate-bringer's, shalt smack mine countenance
I shalt loveth in extraterrestrial manners, never to quit;
And whilst other's shalt scourge me, I'll giveth them mine love
Lending out a hand even whilst being whipped, as I giveth a hug.

And whilst they nail me, and pound the iron in mine bones
I shalt looketh up to mine god,ready to get on back to mine home;
And whilst mine spirit leaveth me, I yelleth out to mine God
Father forgiveth them, they knoweth not what they've done.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

no of course
you would not notice me
the guy who walks your dog
those nights you go out
for dinner and combat

why yes i'd love to
fill in as your partner
for mixed doubles
flashing a smile at you
as you score and walk off the court

the one who gets you giggling
through your tears
those nights when
the handsome *******
earn their names

me, who'll you'll trust
with your car
with your plants
with your house
with your life
but not your heart

you tell me i'm first
in your syntax of friends
yet I'm so starved for you
that leftovers
will feed me for days

The moon stares down at us silently,
yet we cannot tell if it is in judgement or adoration.
Her hollow eyes and full lips make up an illuminate silhouette.
Your glowing porcelain mirrors her China cabinet.
Maybe she is jealous;
your off-white shine is holding my attention
more than hers ever has.
Maybe it is narcissistic of me to assume
that Mrs. Moon craves my affection.
Maybe it was wise of me to realize that your mahogany shutters contrasted against the dark green earth in your backyard
are encasing me with a sense of safety that I have not recently felt
and I should clutch on to that warmth and comfort
as tightly as your right hand clutches onto the fistful of my hair
or the strength your left arm carries
as it winds protectively around my waist.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
one with a pick, two with shovels
all with stories
passing them around
stories, pick, shovels
taking turns
not a single earthworm in this ****** soil
plenty of rocks.

Don is the oldest, at eighty-plus
a good man with a pick
breaking, pulling clods of clay.
After thirty years in a
San Quentin prison cell,
he’s walked across the USA
three times. Big guy, gray ponytail,
not one wrinkle on that copper body,
power of a bronco
behind gentle eyes.

Terry is bald, seventy-plus,
in the Air Force he was trusted
with nuclear launch codes,
then thought better of it and hit the road,
dirt-bike racer, merry prankster,
grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer,
always good with tools
wields a shovel like a pencil
writing the hole
as a poem.

David is almost seventy,
bearded like a prophet,
wizard of China
raised like a farm boy,
adventures in Alaska,
heroic high school English teacher,
telepathic with animals and teenagers,
can speak to horses
in haiku.

Digging is therapy.
A hard job, the work of death.
A time for muscle and sweat,
our language of grief.
We joke, I’ll dig your grave
if you’ll dig mine.

We agree, each canine
has an individual personality
but also each carries
dog spirit. As one leaves
you welcome another
different, individual
but the dog spirit renews
rejoins your life
making you whole.

On this land already
I’ve buried four dogs, two cats.
Dakota will make five,
good company.
Terry says “When Dakota arrives
in doggy heaven or wherever
dogs go, she’ll report
there are good owners here.”
A good review
on doggy Yelp:
Fear not, next puppy.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
among spirits.