I have thirteen bruises on my right leg
but none of them hurt as the one
you left on the left side of my heart.

there's a photograph on my bedside table
you thought the sun will shine
whenever I'd look at it,
now you have gone,
the sky in the picture has turned to something dark
no room for sun,
and there's dust on the photograph and you
you are just a shadow
on the sidewalk I fall on letting all the rain pour down on my soul,
and the sun is just a memory
and you are just an excuse to turn my smiles into tears
and I am just the dust
falling on your lungs.

and we were just a glimpse of happiness,
an illusion
a dream,
a lie I listen to
before my eyes close,
before the darkness comes in.

I used to hate cemeteries.
I hate the way it reminds me of my memories.
It reminds me how I lost someone and never had the chance to say goodbye.
Telling me I could no longer see him again no matter how much I cry.
It makes me regret of things that should have been and what ifs.
But when I visit you today for the first time, I was relieved that at least there was a place like this.
Where it can prove to me that you were once real.
That you really happened to me.
Your name engraved on the stone makes me remember that once in my life, someone like you existed and loved me.
I realized the true purpose of cemeteries- *to remember.

When over the rail bridge
on the sky autumn blue
clouds floated in cotton pieces

I longed for home.

The port light tower
and the masts of anchored ships
made me keen to reach home
like a sailor long on the sea
disembarking with dreamy eyes
thinking if at all is one home
a tender lip awaiting his sunburned cheek
or if he would retrace to the waves
and someone waiting was only in his head.

I was at Remount Road an old station
with home not really that far
and disproportionately small to my yearning.

I was making a brisk walk
and when at the door
fell into a reverie of
rail bridge
anchored ships on the port
white on the autumn blue
and the small station
Remount Road.

We speak the true tongue
a language formed
in the deepest trenches
of the earth's oceans
those places where life was formed
where the elemental heat
of the planet
expresses itself
in steam, confusion
and eruption

We sing in the true tongue
music that is blind
yet sees all
its rhyme set to rhythm
a motion of flesh-hung bones

We stand against every fate
yet our song will endure
it will be the last song

And we paint
with a palette stolen
from the sky
on the day of the most perfect dawn

We are God's thieves
stealing a line here and there
dipping a sad bucket
into a river of stars
holding it proudly aloft
the heart shaped into a song
perhaps a poem
nothing more

Yet more than nothing.
And more than enough.

We are blessed
And we are beautiful,
It's the scars and lines
Between our eyes
That make us so unusual.

We give our best,
Accept what's left,
With star crossed minds
And Angels' shine,
We fall awake
Like dreaming ghosts.

Emotions tangle inside me
Like a twisting patch of briars,
I draw blood on the thorns
And search for you in the thicket,
But I cannot hear your voice.
I feel your body calling
Yet I cannot find the source.
From somewhere at my back
I can feel the eyes undress me,
I stand naked in the shadows
While their hungry minds assess me.
They have always come for me,
Though few are brave enough to stay.
I stand alone among the rains,
And the demi-gods, they prey,
Yet I am somehow unafraid
As every darkness leads to dawn,
Yes, every night must turn to day.
And so I only dream of you,
I trust you'll find me here again.

Look to the moon of August
From any place or time;
Write a little poesy,
Name it in a rhyme.
You can call it Sturgeon,
Red, Green Corn or Grain;
No matter what your outlook,
It still looks the same.
You can call it Dog Days,
Fruit, Dispute or Lightening,
And calling it a Woman's Moon
Gives rise to all that's ripening.

i.

Gramercy, it hast been one year now, one year of smiles, laugh's, cry's; growing together, growing
Wing's in ourn flight.

ii.

Fain I am, to seest thee at night, slumbering as a newborn, queen
Of orbiting light's, woman of mine
Insight; sagittiferous to mine
Burden's of life.

iii.

Let me clear away that vultuous countenance mine girl.

iv.

We art namelings, with ourn letter's hewed into the highest realm, noscible to the Angel's; we
We're recorded on God's
Film.

v.

Perantique we art, as we battle the being's that fell, they've broken their iron locked doorway's; to make their way out of hell.

vi.

Stand close to mine side, I canst heareth those wedding Bell's, I canst feeleth the earth to swell, as the labor pain's art now.

vii.

This place shalt sway and moan, like a drunkard without a home, the living in Christ shalt rise; with the dead already rose, silver an treasures shalt come to naught,
Home good's and store bought,
For men won't grasp their own
Thought's; as the misfortune
Cometh upon them. Lover's wilt
Love themselves, they'll seeketh life
In the devil's Lip's; for the lies he speaks art quick, powerful,
Deceiving, cunning.

viii.

Look on high mine Jane, ourn lord is coming, the globe is spinning to the drum of celestial prophecy;

None stopping wilt be, yet we art free, a king and queen with a heavenly home, with mansion's
To roam, streets followed with
Gold, with like-minded souls;
Awaiting ourn entrance.

This one year wilt lead
To an eternal precipice,
In which we shan't miss,
As all wilt take focus;

For we hath life, mine Jane
Ourn hope is this;

One son of God
Who goes by the name
Jesus; ourn hope and ourn
Reason even more to be one,
To showeth another and all
The Savior's dying love, and in him
Salvation alone, fret not mine lass, soon we shalt go home, soon all ourn waiting wilt be gone, and ourn hand's shalt hold.

Two spirit's to be;
One love,
One soul.

look up
Look up

The time is now close......



©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane sardua Nagley dedication ( agapi mou)
© Lonesome poets poetry