I know that life is tough, and getting tougher as well.
This is why we need to rely on Strength from God.
For it shall be the thing that keeps you from giving up.
For we are made into Great Warriors fighting for God.
Not in flesh but in Spirit with his words of truth and justice.
For this world justice is not the same as Christ justice .
For we fight with Love, Gods unconditional Love here.
While this worldly warriors fight with human understanding.
With human strength but our Strength is by far greater.
Because our strength is not of this world but from God.

Will we meet in shady groves;
Upon a hill? Perhaps in morning.
In hidden vines of deepest green… Does day break?
We spool in canopies as the world beyond awakes;
Cocoons of fragrant freshness. So here I sit and of you I wish.

Will we meet in times of woe;
Under streets beveiled? Perhaps in mourning.
The well-worn cobbles ache terribly, my dear, let us go inside
A yellow cigarette crushed against the glass; I burn for tenderness and see
It in your eye. So there you sway and beneath you I lay.

Will your face be one I know;
Past veils of spidersilk? Perhaps, my darling.
This well-worn world aches terribly, let us make our own
From shady grove to comforts home; an empire on the hill.
Lifetime passes in an eyeblink. So with you I hide
Til our tender world’s first sunrise.

i.

Mine doting of thou,
Is not wilting amour;
Mine love is more
Then floating, outside
Thy door.

ii.

Even in mine woe,
And caging dolor;
I shouteth thy name,
"Sweet jane' mine girl.

iii.

Whilst even in mine
Suffering, and the
Battle I'm in; with
Satan and his lackey's,
I wilt step upon them.
With thy help, and God's
Discipline, Jane O' Jane,
I'll soareth to the highest
Apex, mine plume's to expand,
Wing's to stretch; Yahweh's mighty
Word, to push them back to the gates of death.

iv.

So mine Jane,
I telleth thou this;
I'm not losing amour,
Nor am I tenderness.
I'm in the stage, of trans-
Figuration, O' soon queen,
We shalt meet in blissfulness,
Beautiful apparition's. Ghost's of
Old, ancient soul's, we'll tasteth
Cascade's of mezmerdade; bralishas
Of barinthia, thitherward the province of
Ourn holy one, next to El Shaddai, meaning
Elohim, also Jehovah, mine Jane and honey-
Bee. Aside the Almighty's throne, And elevated
Seat, his son Jesus Christ on the right- garbed
In robes that floweth with the vim of life. As there
Shalt be none need for the sun or moon, the creator's
Ourn light. A place that's right, wherein there art none wrong's,
Ourn sin's art forgotten within the angelic song's, these song's wilt be sung, on a basis of eternity; none ending, just befriending of the saint's at God's feet. Wisdom shalt be deep, from the beginning of ages, none more false prophet's nor greedy men to ruin the nation's, Concord within ourn Lord shalt follow the month's, as Jane, mine swain, it wilt be in this time's happening;
It's still thee I shalt want. So hold on tightly, don't let loose of mine hand, we'll trounce these dark bearers, and pour holy oil upon their head's, None more wilt they torture us, as they'll flee instead, before of ourn Lord, Jesus Christ, the risen, the man, the son of God, ourn protection, whom hath arisen from the dead.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

I want to write it all; all of it. Every last word, sentence, phrase, poem, story, tale, feeling, joke, song, garbled hunk of nonsense streaming from my mouth hole like from a tap until the whole world drowns in just what I want to say; to let them know that expression is here, in my mind, in theirs, whispering in the trees outside, singing from every atom that can bump and grind and make things feel or see or sigh.

I want to sit within friends late in the night heads bobbing nod nod nodding as we agree or disagree or pedigree our intellect as we refine the phrases that make us sound like we know. Cos when you sound like you know, that's when you get heard, and if anyone's gonna get heard, ain't no one better nor worse than us. Cos nobody really knows; no Oxbridge don could ever write the wind, measure my kiss on my darlin’s skin, capture what the rosy points of her cheeks do to my brain, my body, my soul, my Attachment to this world.

So Hear me, O merry gentlemen! For I am alive and feeling and that is all the PhD I need.- If only you could see what’s dancing around in my skull... but you don’t have to! Use your own ivory mug! Really stop and think and you’ll see more than in a million poems roar within an eyeblink. Know it and feel it and see it all; the whole stupid shining racing roaring- untameable- restlessness of it all! Put down your pen and paper and rush out in the air and rejoice truly in the warm company of lovers and friends, in the sweet hum of guitar strings and in the savage itch of the insect's bite. In loneliness and mourning. In boredom and steady working with clever hands. And love, never stop loving, or hating, or appreciating, or caring, or crying, as long as you are feeling. For sometimes it seems we should always be in pain from one thing or another, yet mostly from the bubbling exasperation of positive go-get-em ***** for life.

For we read this clunky tongue of ours and say it’s what should be but there is more! For life through all its prisms can impress upon your vision a beauty neverending, yet to sense it quivering within a page is a spectacular sight indeed. So let’s leave the rigid, the impersonal, the stymied words behind and let's form a new expression, devoid of convention, one that cries joyous face-first directly into our souls!

So, Cry, onwards! And let's weave this tender tongue of ours, golden! Let's stack this world full of less-than-sane streams of speech tangled images driving shards of true experience into each other’s minds, until we drop dead deep in our bones from exuberant exhaustion. Let’s follow Kerouac to the grave; cheering, and keeling and full of tender feeling and find a meaning in words that can transcend into being. Let’s **** and watch and listen and do and learn and laugh and notice laughter and mark it for the concentrated joy that it is. Let’s sit quietly and attend to those things around us and ruminate without ever forgetting our surrounding- which include, of course, the ever flipping ever spinning and unwinding tapestry of our mind and others'.

Let’s find joy, or the maker, or whatever, same-meaning trap clap-trap of a name he (or she) has in your sticks, in what we can touch and feel and see, and inside those we know and those we don’t. Let’s make language a human thing that radiates warmth for all, and bridges us to those around us so that none may feel alone or scared unless they long to for glorious masochism, or curiousness, or any things they so do please. Let us travel, and dance, and loose hope, and find it, and live it.

And write tenderness into this world.

i.

Alow downward Reyna, humanity hunger's and ****'s,
Red liquid they do spill, despoiling, toiling, taking
Lucifer's fill;

ii.

We canst only watcheth queen, as their working's and dream's,
Get untied by the string's, of the fine unseen line, of the principalities and power's.

iii.

Henceforth the hour's, shalt be as fading flower's, they shalt seeith their government's and darkened power's; falleth as the star's, men who knoweth none boundaries, God shalt rattle the mountain's and deep, as a harlot to her patron. Though the patron's sleep.

iv.

We shalt endureth this paining moment amour', the cosmic chronograph is opening door's; erelong love, erelong amour', we shalt sit at a feasting table, wherein the beau monde that hast Satan's barcoded label, shalt not perch. The flame shalt quench it's thirst, as recreation below us takes it's course. For ourn creator spoke this Jane, in the beginning. The world's lost it's way, it needeth cleansing from the sinning. As we shalt be restored by reconnecting on higher planes. To be reborn, in the spirit again.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated

Some may sayest
I'm what they
Calleth, a conspiracy
Theorist.

Verily I sayest
I'm what I calleth
A conspiracy
Realist;



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prophetic poetry

i.

Soon, verily soon
Shalt the seven trumpet's sound;
Awakest from slumber mine land
And world,
Thy peace that thou seeketh
In Christ only
Shalt be found.

ii.

Soon, verily soon
Shalt the Antichrist make his mark;
The moon to turneth blood
The sea's boiling with dust.
A new order to adjust,
O' man, in whom doth thou trust?

iii.

Soon, verily soon
Shalt rich men hide
In room's; Bunker's to
Bomb's, children taken
From mom's, rapture;
Cometh up hither for
Few.

iv.

Soon, verily soon
Shalt the earth moan
In heat; a false peace
Deal for Israel and the
False man whom many
Wilt calleth king, the
Anti-christ to maketh a
Sting, with the united
Nation's as it's front.

v.

Soon, verily soon
Shalt prohecies of
Old, be turned into gold,
From it's verity and truth.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prophetic poetry

i.

The governmental beast's
Plotteth right before thine sight;
As many art blinded
By the lies put in the night.

ii.

Making many believeth
Through their media puppet's;
Whilst big elite pulleth thy string's
Secret society member's push it.

iii.

Illuminati, Bilderberg's,
Skull and bones, some unknown;
Now spotlighted, being known
Martial law, to break thy home's.

iv.

All for greed, their new world order,
United Nations vehicles parked
In California; train's with guillotine's
Thirty-thousand that is,
Whilst the young protest
Ignorant bullsh....
Freedom's being taken
Before thy eye's,
It started by the taking
Of the natives land;
European suicide.
Blood shalt be spilt
In the land of the high
Because of the filth
Of rich men's ties;

v.

Rockefeller called it
Whilst Rothschild named it;
Henry Kissinger indugled it
Bush. Sr didst inflame it.
Training going on
Worldwide for this,
A complete takeover
An r.f.i.d chip.
A tracking device
For the forehead and hand;
Revelation thirteen dear poet, poetess, and man.
Revelation stated; (And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast, that the image of the beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed.) Didst thou readeth that? Didst not get enough fill? Also goeth this. Revelation,
16And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: 17And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. 18Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.
Readeth this again, no man may buyeth nor sell without the mark of this devil tempted man;
Already into act into Mr. Obama's healthcare law,
Bilderberg's saidst by the year two-thousand and seventeen they want their chip Into all,
Signs art showing, were coming to a close,
Awaketh to Christ's truth and his love Utmost.
Christ spoke: I am the way, truth and the life, no man
Cometh to the father but by ( me) Jesus that is the Lord and the king,whilst other's art found in tomb's- Christ hath holes in his hand's and his feet, millions of near death experiences- with only jesus didst they meet. Awaketh mine poet's, get out of slumber, An Antichrist is upon us, the demon's knoweth their day's art numbered. Taketh a look around: demonic influence. Satan's got a short time to killeth, And surely he wilt do it. A prominent Jewish Rabbi is telling his people in Israel he believed their Messiah is here, so art the Muslim leader's, what's wrong? Not clear? Them telling other's they believeth their Messiah soon shalt appear, just means the antichrist wilt show, and a Tribulation's near. Awaketh from slumber I telleth once again, these book's of Christ weren't a play or a myth for pretend. The heaven's art moaning, the earth tis in travail, prophecies hath come true as more art daily neath the veil. Many by the million's art having dream's of his return, please no comment needed if it's for making fun of or scorn, tis I want none to mourn but to open their sight's to truth. Be aware, payeth attention to that thing we calleth the news. Find Christ, if thou hath not, if so cometh back to him, I sayeth this as a warning. Poetess, poet's, beautiful friends...... For God is a loving God, waiting for thee and me to return, a new age of the slave, is waiting for it's turn.......




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

The poet
To God
Is an apostle
Of wisdom;

The poet
To God
Is the bringer
Of God's kingdom;

The poet
Created by their Creator
Writeth heavenly knowledge down
On spiritual paper;



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry