for Greg Guenther

A giant pendulum in the cosmos swings
    and guides each planet on its tether
Earth’s axis tilts toward fairer weather
     And soft rains presage new beginnings.

Crocuses push the snow aside, a bluebird sings
      of light and darkness held in equal measure.
Pastel fingers on each bough gather
      as birds and beasts pursue their matings

Softened fields invite the tillers’ blades
      submerging seeds for the rain and sun
to raise into fields of corn and wheat.

The pendulum arcs back and summer fades,
    Earth's axis returns to a cooler inflection.
and farmers bow thanks for the harvest complete!

December, 2006

The weighted press of measured steps on stair
accompanied by an echoed call to the familiar.
The first syllable of her name severed  midway,
yet it tolled long after the utterance rang out.
The comfort of routine;
tethers of association
snapped under the strain of realisation.
A mocking gift from forgetfulness...

...she left him..

Mechanical body shifts
fighting urges to hesitate and listen to her vanished sleeping breath.
Vacant the cold bedroom,
the chamber harbouring her scent on fabrics, pillow and scantly furnished dresser top.
Each sniff raw as salt on opened wounds.
She left
and left him
only remorseful residues
from the harvest
of three years and five months.

Rugby-bruised September
has bowed out
beckoning in
October with it’s conkers,
changing leaves
& pumpkin harvests
the stars are calling
far off winter light,
the badger
in his den
believes
& Keats, that bright star
I read
& dwell on summer past
composing odes & songs
to summer days
remembering
the swallow’s soar
above the Sea

---

black crows fly
flock to the moon
and pick its fields clean
i sit and watch the harvest
as if in a dream

its face is barely visible
its light torn from its eyes
i sit here a'weeping
as it sails the skies

o brave moon!
do not despair!
don't give them a thought!
they may pluck your lighted fields
but their work is all for naught!

later in the evening
i see you have not waned!
as for all the scavengers

not a one remains.


soulsurvivor
(C) 9/28/2015

i.

Thither soon
The harvest Moon;
September, mine month of birth
Me and mine Reyna shalt swoon.

ii.

Asunder the leaves
Through the fall lit tree's;
Me and mine dame
Shalt gyrate the amour that we bleed.

iii.

The moon to be red
Ourn eye's to giveth vision's;
Of me and mine sweet Jane
Making love in celestial kitchen's.

iv.

On the grass
In the sea of thought;
Ourn affection unearhtly
Not to be store bought.

v.

Ourn headdress
Made from peacock quill;
A medicine woman and man
shaman of autochthonous skill.



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

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

Harvest was but days ascending upon thoughts,
It wasn't long till all were called forth, each of age
Helped out. Birth age was a right in this time.

We counted on the calendar as each night fell a
Dawn drew ever closer near. it beckoned those, most
Excepted sombre times, tears did gracefully fall.

Accountable to the masses as times before, has this
Been set in lore, in legend of the before,  not breathed.
But ages grow fearful of the approaching present.

It hung low as if bleeding upon the landscape, It
beckoned the time of offering of moments when
Each pride was offering a cull of silent young.

They took the offering as every time, we wept
Anguished tears, but all was falsehood of past
Blood moon thanking's we weren't taken ourselves.

Three thousand and sixty five moments will the night
Grace the sky. And many blood moons shall call not
Taking mine, till that moment we will temp our time.