The truck was light blue , camper shell with knobby tires
His leathered arm would hang down the side , cigarette ,baseball cap ,
patrolling his prized possessions at dusk , remembering quite well the timing of each pass as I laid low with my late afternoon snack , clutching a watermelon with both arms !...

it travels without trucks
builds quickly
and undoes itself
with ease

its walls are just
    my frames of thought
its bed
    the conscience of a day
    well lived
    with few regrets

its gourmet restaurant
mostly beckons somewhere
from across the street
where people meet
keep company
and eat
and share
and talk

a certain morning stiffness
in your joints

you find your face
in the bathroom mirror
and wish you hadn't

the puzzled wisdom
    of middle age
wavers from your eyes
deepening wrinkles
   of many laughs
   many frowns

   how many more?

   nevermore ?!

the room becomes aflutter
with poesque ravens
the presence of absences
fills the void
your life is on the brink
of deconstructing itself
to the periphery of the universe
a discourse of silence
forever becoming ... becoming ...
what...?

   nevermind!

so

you close your eyes
   hard
for a minute or two

when you look again
you meet the stare
of a not-so-bad-looking
man in his best years
  
   graying sideburns
   receding hairline
   20 pounds too many
      BUT
   a firm decision
   to work them off
  
   still a bit sleepy
   yet determined
   to shave
      get dressed
      have breakfast
  
   and teach
   that wonderful seminar
   on 19th century poetry
   to eager graduate students

The cold comes in,
ricochets like a
tennis ball
off every
corner, crevice
pore, stormy
gusts of wind
I breathe in,
skin is no
barrier I am
the elements
carrier, organs
coastal &
lungs tidal sea,
I am nature
& nature is me.

In schooldays my aim was terribly perfect
add to that an attitude unfair
a soft teacher was an easy found target
not one bald head was allowed to be spared.

The moment the poor man turned to blackboard
his baldness shined as a gaming site
the sleeping devil woke up and deep roared
dispatched were chalks on windborne flight.

Only a few did land on wrong place
but found mostly their rightful targets
and bore no qualm the thrower's face
when cheered by the fellow classmates.

As the victim turned with ire's full steam
nursing stings that came with good force
we in the gang were such an honest team
never revealed it came from what source.

It went on smooth till luck failed one day
has to end all games one once starts
a traitor midst us the secret gave away
memory of the thrashing badly hurts.

What is the price
Thou wouldst payeth for love;
Ask thyself that
And if thou wouldst payeth the price in blood.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

First I go here
And then I go there

Let me explain

First I go to
The shower

Then the kitchen
To eat breakfast

Then I go to the car
Then to the job site

Then to the gym

First I go here
And then I go there

And isn't it strange
First I go here
And then I go there

The water goes here
And then it goes there
Over the rock
And through the rock

The animals drink from
The water

The water goes here
And then it goes there

It nourishes all things
Without striving

She was as light as a feather
Carried on the sweetest wind.
A tonne weight locked
Around my fiercely protective heart.
As sure as an apple falling from a tree,
She brought uncertainties in abundance.
Physics had no question
For the answer she gave.

Hope India will save itself
But it may take time
For people to realise
That this is too bad
Even ****** did not last
History will repeat itself
And a new India will be borne
But it will take its own time
The question is ..
What is this time?
How long?
How fast?
How many more to die?
What will be the new form?
Keep writing..
Be active..
Be the change...
and
Keep smiling...
Even when blood flows all around you...
Keep smiling...
For
this will not last for ever..

Are my words worth reading?

How long does it take you to decide?

3 lines in?

Maybe 4?

If you made it this far, what do you think?

Do you think my words will be

Only just what you want to see?

Words of love or pain

or whats lost or maybe found?

Could this be written in blood

trickling down my fingertips?

Could my words be only yawns

and sighs or relief or retreat?

Could they be calls....

warning the the weary wanderer

reading.

Could my words mean nothing

Just plain, empty ink

sprawled across the smooth white plain?

Could I have wasted your time?

Wasted each movement of your eye

as it pans across the cold, hard screen.

You tell me.

You're the one who read this far.