Sometimes
my heart
feels the kiss
of ecstasy.

Sometimes
my toes
brush the abyss
of madness.

Sometimes
I can't tell
the difference.

Mostly, I don't
think
there is one.
  - mce

El Nino El Nino El Nino
(Sung to "Let It Snow...")

Oh the weather outside's delightful,
Not a flake of snow, it's respiteful;
And what's to credit for this show,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

The southerlies aren't abating,
The greens they're still awaiting;
I'm happy not to have a chateau,
El Nino El Nino El Nino

When I'm out gawking at the night,
I don't see the clouds of snow;
There's the flicker of firefly lights,
Dancing over green meadows.

The days are slowly growing,
Warm winds caress as they're blowing;
It's fifteen above zero,
Thanks El Nino El Nino El Nino

i.

What occupies thy soul and being? Worldly knowledge, book's, gold, material thing's; Diamond's, jewelry, ring's, automobile's, weapon's that ****, Poison's that we put into ourn spiritual bodies.

ii.

Where is thy heart? Into plastic, stuck in a casket, pulling apart?
Art thou striving to a life of just surviving, or actually living life;
What cometh first? God, family, friend's, or earthly trend's?

iii.

Whom doth thou serve? The thought's of the devil? The grave and the shovel? Art thou on another level? Or dying to get rich; Living as a slave? Choked in a cave? Giving all, as all the lord gaveth thee.

iv.

What doth thou fearest? Mankind? With bomb's that shineth, and gun's to smoketh? Or thy creator whom hold's the key to life and death, art thou like all the rest laying thy treasure on men's step's? Or in Jehovah's kingdom? The great architect's ringing the doorbell at thy being; ding ****...... Ding ****... Ring. Ring!!!!

Wilt thou let him in?
Or serve the world and men?




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

familiar with all weather
broken rims of existence
soliloquies of despair
rainfall in silence

ripples of loud mirth
echoes of joyous feet
stillness of nightly earth
tunes of bitter sweet

romance of blind hearts
oaths of porcelain
stains of leftovers
fragments of bruised skin

lying in broken stones
living on river's face
nothing the ghat owns
but its loneliness.