I have known enough of life
To speak a word on the value of love,
And the quickness of a final breath,
And the separation caused by death.

I have bent to tie a shoelace,
Been overwhelmed with realization,
That when I stand again to look,
The loved one who came to mind
Has long been buried,
Will not hear me speak,
Nor say my name.

This morning, as we readied
Ourselves for work,
I stopped to pick a thing up,
Realized the joy
Of hearing my wife's sounds:
Cooking eggs,
Running water in the sink,
Putting things away,
And felt a rush of love.

I stood and walked to her,
Kissed her on the nose.

"What was that for?"

"I was overwhelmed by love just now."

i.
Je vous remercie, for pulling me out of the pit.
dhanyavaad, for bringing a glimpse of idyll, with all the laugh's, comforting; thrill's. Gracias, for lending me thy palm's, in rough wind's and calm, to thee I knoweth I do belong. Dankie, for giving me shelter from the rain, wiping away my red spilt stain's, giving me liberty to be me again.

ii.
Faleminderit, thee I shan't forget, for its thee who hath payed mine rent, by thy sacrifice and affections. Āmeseginalehu, Jane of Asia, pearl of truth, i reside in thee, as thou me; mine poetic muse. Shukraan, mine unending dawn, mine burning sun, whom cometh from God; blazing lamp of the gates of heaven. Shnorhakalut’yun, ourn flesh of old, together doth know, in creation's show; tis we art one. Təşəkkür edirəm, star of the cosmos, Reyna: best friend.

iii.
Eskerrik asko, mine wholeness and whole, the actress of angelic shows, always smiling for hostly camera's. Dziakuj, illustrious calligraphist, bringer of kisses to mine Lip's, empress from head to toe, touch of bliss. Dhan'yabāda, amongst the cherubic Armada's, protecting me, gardenia breeze. Diolch, mine lass, in future I'm waiting, for we shalt forget ourn past; to embrace and engulf into another's gaze.

iv.
Salamat mine braud sharat, by patience and many nap's, I slumbereth mine sight's to awaketh to thee. Xièxiè honey bee, treasure trove of godly sweet's, in the air aloft we'll greet; Chandelier's of marble we shalt sparkle. Mahalo, daughter of halo, ethreal's own, tuning veil, lift up thine brows, accept mine mail, for it shalt be sealed and packaged by the crimson of mine heart.

v.
Mèsi, for edifying me, teaching me nuance, and many way's to perceive; in thee I believe, O' in thee there's glee, of a woman not of this burning ***. Gomabseubnida the one I've awaited, the one I hath never forgot. Efcharistó, mine darling of island's view, mine Filipino perfection, chocolate eyed stew, of all that's grand in a world of departed riches. Toda, mine far-flung gaiety, the part of me I seeketh to meet, the part of me I yearn thy beat; Savlanout, Savlanout Jane sardua, Savlanout, Filipino rose.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedication

My wish
Would
Considers
U only here with me
Loving me every
Possible way

This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.

Amain I want to maneuver
Onward into her incandescent
Cloak, as the igneous smoke
That arises. Mine eye's art
Tired and crying; as I just
Want one fragment of her
Skin to feeleth. O' as a man
For I'm weak, as an extra-
mundane being mine thought's
Come out faster then mine
Word's canst speak. I wilt
Continueth not in the flesh,
For the flesh burdeneth the
Soul; though in patience
And spirit, ourn long-
Suffering shalt be made
As the finest of gold. O'
Loveliest Jane, thought
Of mine thinking's, red
In mine brain, How the
Day's and night's art
Long, though I wilt
Still continueth in
Prayer, hymns
Song. Giving
Glory for what
I do hath. In happy or
Sad, good and bad; I'll always look ahead.
To the morrow wherein mine frown wilt be laughter and the roses I shalt giveth thee wilt be of rose loving scent. O' soon mine tear's shalt be dried, and mine phantom wilt no longer be in rent.
As I giveth gratitude to ourn Potter who maketh all thing's new,
Who bringeth water, with droplet dew, who maketh bird's hath nest's, and babies hath homes, in places of peacefulness. O' if the morrow doth for some reason not arrive; I'll send thee an engravement on mount Malindang, With the ring that never
Made it to thee; and mine kisses to spell thy name.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( pookie dedication)

just a leaf left
on the pillow next to me
now, a whisper of smoke
vapor tracing your path

out the door
going back to the
limb I stole you from,
the place you must return

I rake my bed for more,
try to make
a place
for you to fall

again, next time.