The way I read your mind
Is the same as sign language in your poetry?

Poetry is the chiseled marble of language;
It’s a paint-spattered canvas - but the poet uses words instead of paint,
and the canvas is you:

You borrow a phrase, and hanged it like a gibbet,
That meant nothing for us: it was so ribbit ,ribbit
You sat there on the log and watch as the frogs
Jump from Lilly pad to lily pad: in the dusky fog
The frozen frogs’ moves, your words croaked

we decipher your deepest fears,
so why do you filled the pond with the splashing tears?

A poet uses their
Soul for word's;
And their spirit
As their pen.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

in dancing shoes
and sparkling laces,
the puppet leans

in a shed string net
- comets' tails blown
like a last match
in the night of snow.

the puppeteer never was.
she tugged the chords
and watched him drift.

she leans, but to rise
a melancholic moon
in strings of orange gold.

In the backwaters, as waves lapped on a canoe violently rocking
we kissed;  two eager lovers quickly turning in to winged creatures,
eyes shut, she crushed her malleable ******* against my chest,
we took this journey through the labyrinth of love leading to
the gallery of ****** artifacts, arranged in progression, in our minds.
Her lips swelled up and took mine so deftly in to their control,
and in some moment when our languid eyes opened unawares,
the kiss , a golden fish swished in to the water, gleefully swarm around,
the gathered backwater fish , viewed astonishingly this rare species.

The little boy stood up
and dusted the chalk from his knees and wrists
and he admired the drawing on the pavement.
Chalk dust had smeared and danced in the wind
while he looked at his tree and the blue sky behind it.
When another boy, a bigger one rode by
and let his bicycle tire cut through the center.
The boy laughed at the little one
and the little one cried.

The boy drew with careful concentration
and Crayola crayon gripped tightly in his small hand
while he colored in a coloring book to make the unnatural possible.
Another girl laughed and tore his page out
saying that pigs weren’t blue and grass isn’t orange.
Everyone snickered and pointed
and the little boy snatched it back and tossed it into his backpack,
ashamed.

The teenage boy painted carefully across his canvas
and let the blue paint drip like pieces of the sky
as he created the ocean waves and swells
and his classmates laughed at him because he wanted to paint
and not play games and the boy had stopped caring,
had stopped hearing the laughter.

The man hung his canvas on the wall
of a fine and elegant gallery
and people came and stared in awe at his creations
and no one laughed or pointed
and he didn’t feel ashamed.
He only heard praise
and now he was laughing.

It’s a Spring Tide drowning me
It’s a Full Moon, the sun and gravity
Pulling on the water of the ocean
I’ve been cast out in
Through denying my truth.
I cannot know if the flooding
Covering all of me
Will be as predictable as such a tide
Twice each Lunar month
No season negates the pull.
The rise and fall of the oceans levels
Feel more visible in me
Than any sea on earth.        

© Sia Jane