As poet's we tend to get caught up in ourn own writing
As I canst lieth, I do as well;
Though we must not forget, whilst getting caught up
In reading ourn favorite poet's poetry on here
And writing ourn own,
We must NEVER forget
The unknown poet's here
The ones in the back of the room
The backbone to the poetic world and society
The quiet one's
Who seeketh none fame
Though they art famous
In a quiet way
As tis we must helpeth them
To spread their quiet wing's;
And flyeth on,
And helping another unknown
As the one's known
Helped us....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

I'm not in love.
I once was,
The knock-down feeling,
Gasping.
Was it on a summer log,
Or was that jealousy
Of the lapping  water at your feet.
The snow angel made
When you lay down.
The burning leaves still tingle.
I picked the orchid corsage.
Love goes,
But never seems to leave.
I've compared.
You're more fragrant,
Warmer, cooler.
Still in the world
To remind
There's only so much time.
The date will follow
The chiseled hyphen,
No other name
To read.

you watched the magician
bewitched

and magic fell from the mouths
two strangers

communicating
the best magicians of all  

abracadabra

they fell in love

The beginning and ending
May already have been written,
But the chapters in-between
Are mine to write.
I will make mistakes
That cannot be erased
And my pen will falter
But never fall.
I will not always like
To read them back,
But the chapters
Are mine to write.

When struggle comes
as disquiet,
discomfort or pain

sit with it
see what it has for you

perhaps a seed
will be born into your wisdom,

with patience you may nurture
a fertile bed, soon to see within you

new shapes arising
hitherto not possible




MChallis @ 2015

Emerging from a distant dust-up,
A lone rider approaches on horse.
The clip-clop gallop grows,
The panting animal is alarming,
Sweat paints and streaks down
The dark hide.
The rider wears a bandana
Over mouth and nose,
Beneath a once white hat.
His clothes are covered with the trail.

Next, he's in the leather tub
With suds from chest to hair,
Shaving cream covering his face,
Mirror in one hand,
Probably a gun on the floor of the tub.
Eyes and nose poking through the foam.

Later, we see the clean, pressed black shirt
From the back, outlining shoulders we know
Have been busy righting wrongs.
He puts a cockey tilt to his hat and pivots
With a Parodi between his clean, straight teeth.
The champion. The underdog vanguard.
Clint.