Save me from my dreams.
Save me from my demons.
Save me from the pain.

Keep me safe.
Keep me calm.
Keep me where I can sing.

Throw my my things.
Throw me my life.
Throw my mind away.

Keep my things in place.
Keep my life intact.
Keep my mind alive.

Always try to keep me alive.
Always try to keep me here.
Always try to keep me sane.

From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.

She sits from where
the rainbow arches into the river.

As I eye her fishing net
she reads the question in my mind.

I'm waiting for three thirty
when tides begin to fall
but the shrimps can't go back.

When the bank begins to bare
she glides into the waves
till the water cools her *******.

I walk away knowing
she would bob up to the hour
the moon is upon her face
and she has made another morrow
from the river.

To the boy who almost bought me flowers... But the store was closed.
Or he forgot,
or he couldn't choose,
because he couldn't remember my favourite flowers,
or he didn't care.

To the boy who almost loved me well.
The boy who almost made me a wife.
The boy who almost loved my flaws, but just couldn't quite grip them.
The boy who I almost lost myself in.
The boy who almost took everything I had, everything I believed.

The boy who almost killed me.

The boy who almost won the lottery,
until he lost his beautiful winning ticket.

To the boy who hurt the girl who cared so much that she almost forgot
to love herself more.
The boy who didn't think she could wake up and realize
that she deserved more than being
"almost" happy.

Sincerely,
The girl who is almost healed,
almost clean,
almost okay,
completely done.

A few months I haven't called him

At the beck and call at any hour
And the shortest notice
A dial to him has saved many an emergency

Last night a broken female voice
On the other side of the wire
Mumbled he died on May 13

Left her with three daughters
At forty at short notice

The plumber is dead

Now who would clear
My choked wash basin

The plumber is dead
And I've no other number to call

I couldn't see her face
Gauge the faceless sorrow
At the other side of the wire

The plumber is dead

I must find another
And then rejoice
Forgetting the widow's choked voice

What once was caused by the heart
The smile but now is pulled by brain
Flames of passion that danced in eyes
Now a lovely heart they maim

Although we are flesh apart
I feel your pain all the same
And though we are souls apart
Your soul's on fire, I feel the flame

But fear not, friend, the flame will die
I've seen the water earn its fame
And if the water turns to ice
We'll perish together and roam the skies.

i.

Inside the aumbry of thy rib's,
Mine verses there queen
Shalt alway's live. When
Thou doth close thine
Engineer orb's,
Knoweth this
Mine Jane;
Mine pearl.

ii.

Long agone, god choose thee,
To be mine darling from the sea;
The one who whisper's to me when I sleep,
In thy soul mine poetry speaks.

iii.

If tonight mine inhalation shalt cease
I'm not just flesh, but a spirit antique;
Mine word's hath come from the up above,
To show thee forgiveness, and Christ's own love

And don't forget queen where thou camest from
From the Almighty's hand's wherein life dost come,
Where the Angel's fly, and the mountain's hum
Past the human sun, in the third heaven.

iv.

So go to sleep Reyna, and dream of me,
One day we'll meet, O' please believe;
And when thou dost wake in the morrow
Thou shalt seest the clear amour that follows.

And smile we wilt do plenty of,
For we aren't of earth, but sky's above;
And when thou shalt see the light
I'll guide thee where there is no night.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedicated

Take wings of fancy, and ascend,
  And in a moment set thy face
  Where all the starry heavens of space
Are sharpen'd to a needle's end;

Take wings of foresight; lighten thro'
  The secular abyss to come,
  And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb
Before the mouldering of a yew;

And if the matin songs, that woke
  The darkness of our planet, last,
  Thine own shall wither in the vast,
Ere half the lifetime of an oak.

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers
  With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain;
  And what are they when these remain
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers?

You are not the judgement people make of you
Nor are you your supposed flaws
You are not entitled to believe you can't,
Just because they said you couldn't.
You are not the servant,
Of the demons that envelop
Your entire being at 3:45am in
The morning.

Instead

You are the little things in life
That make you happy.
You are a beautiful Sunday morning.
You are the way your eyes sparkle
With happiness when you read a good poem.
You are the chirping of birds at 9am.
You are everything great.

But most importantly,
You are YOU

-JN

Loneliness is now upon his throat

I know it for sure
What ails him hasn't a cure
He's shrinking like a sinking boat.

On the perch a plumed pain
He's lost without a care
Tells the vacant stare
Dooming into a never regain.

Death is an easy height to scale
When life remains to grieve
Without any incentive
As love retires to a dark well.

He's fading in the lost glory
And I know it for sure
What's killing him has no cure

My budgie called Story.