For the least time
I held your stare
Traveling the distant nowhere
In the outer recesses of space
Brief moments of gaiety
Are but overused
Memories to be replayed
Silenced the night whose
Stillness can be heard
Loud and clear.

For the last time
I embrace the shadows
Hovering about you
Memorizing each trace
Of darkness
Each line and each
Hallow vision
Savoring the few minutes
Of private contact
With your negative image

For the last time,
I thought
I came so very close
To you
Advancing in inches
And inches so near
Conquering the barriers
Of fear
And demolishing the
Brick walls of time
Command now this life
That was lived
In the briefest of happiness

For the first time
Before the dust
Shall blot out
All memories of today
Let the past give way
And the future stay
If only to rectify mistakes
And restore your good name

But life goes on cruelly
And like a theater’s curtains
Must fall
On us all

So for the last time
I said my goodbyes
Remembering your stare
Out of nowhere
Remembering your shadows
And your pain
Never have I felt
Your presence more strongly
As I kissed your shadows to rest
For the very last time……

I have been so blessed to know each and every-one of you.
For each of you are truly an blessing, and inspires me greatly.
I am just an ordinary man with extraordinary people in my life.
God is using each of you to Bless me, to inspire me as well.
For each of you are truly Awesome group of Awesome people.
For I can not state this enough on how blessed I am by you all.
For Christ working inside of you giving you enough strength.
To write inspiring poems or to walk an inspiring walk here.
I am just so blessed to have each of you in my life here on the earth.

i.

Mo chuisle, if this specter shalt cease;
                      Keepeth mine writing's in a chest for safekeep's.

ii.

Mo chuisle, if mine eidolon doth release;
                      Remember mine amour', please do not weep.

iii.

Mo chuisle, I feeleth soon this heavy flesh shalt succumb;
                     No tears, no fear's, I am thy chosen one.

iv.

Mo chuisle, I don't knoweth how many more breath's art left;
  
v.
                
Though if this is mine last, always remember lass,
I wilt forever loveth thee mine pet, though we hath not met, soon we shalt. Keepeth thine window open so mine spirit canst cometh and goeth freely, to enter in, and cometh out. Thou art not alone, if even thou shalt feeleth it, mine soul is mobile, I'll travel universal-global; I'll doeth all to protect thee mine Asian Noble. A hierarchy of cherub's and seraph's awaiteth me now, I think they needeth me soon, to be a poet in God's room, just looketh high, I'll be aloft the ground. Mas mahal kita Reyna, never forget these word's, they might be mine last, mine sweet Jane, mine soulmate, mine all, mine all of me;
Mine best friend..  
Mine other half
Mine life;
Mine wife..........



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

There are thousands of us here
In this small part of the internet.
We are thousands,
Voices of all natures.
I wonder how many in all
The corners of the world?
Here alone are thousands
Which plant seeds of philisophical change
And the evolution of our society.

How many words will it take
To declare the state of humanity
As the world goes deaf and blind?

Every once in a while I see a poem
With a national headline,
Some black kid shot by a white cop.
Then the poem disappears,
The poet and his or her fellow
Writers retreat inward
Jumping into nothingness
Of feelings and self loathe.
We carry a banner with a million
Words and nothing to say in unision.
Oh God, is this the path of the poets?

But suddenly I realise
And I see I am just as shallow
As the next,
The pulse of the world will not
Beat with poets,
Though poets can be the racing pulse
Of change.

Let the poets unite on common ground!
Cry out against something in unision.
We are thousands of voices
That cannot yell.
How many of us here on the internet?

How hard is it to rise against
The machine and bring
About change truly to the soul,
To see ourselves rise up
With our words?
What we speak we will write,
What change we write
Will give birth to humanity.

thirty-five years
since Mark gunned you down
thirty-five years, passed
like a long sleepless night
that ends with taunting morning light
no brilliant sunrise grandly pronouncing
a glorious new dawn of man
although that would have been your plan
with your entreaties to give peace a chance
and imagine, imagine, imagine

now I kneel in this rain gray park
like a reject from some holy ark
a pilgrim in doleful disappointed pose
after seeing what your earthly brothers chose
was not to imagine a world of peace and love
but to wear reality like a cast iron glove
making mockery of your martyred chants
proceeding like a billion scurrying ants
deaf to your childlike pleas

across the soaked soil where your ashes lay
yesterday and today…and tomorrow
I feel the soggy sorrow
that you would have felt
if you could still see
all the rage of humanity

where the river water runs
falling heaven knows  down
all the tears shed
melting ice goes
from mountains majestic
echoing ice flowed
veins of springs
bring
to the inevitable low table

too much there cries on
beds of rushing  death
feels like
a voice never heard
songs too
beautiful

tormented souls
  bear the artist's
spirit
  choice
is not among
  them

Stood in line
   asking
who was he?
This great poet?
And they said
   boldly,
It was you

~

i have never particularly cared for him or for his style of play.  there is a fine line between knowledge of one’s talents and arrogance and i have always thought Kobe walked on the downhill side of that line, when doing so was unnecessary.  of course it did not help that a Lakers / Blazers rivalry cost the Blazers at least one NBA Finals berth… most of us are, after all, most likely to gravitate toward our hometown team.  

but on seeing this post from Kobe in the Player’s Tribune, i found that i simply must acknowledge the classiness of his retirement penning...

instead of a letter, the guy writes a poem.  how can i not embrace this?

~

BY KOBE BRYANT
LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Dear Basketball,

From the moment
I started rolling my dad’s tube socks
And shooting imaginary
Game-winning shots
In the Great Western Forum
I knew one thing was real:

I fell in love with you.
A love so deep I gave you my all —
From my mind & body
To my spirit & soul.

As a six-year-old boy
Deeply in love with you
I never saw the end of the tunnel.
I only saw myself
Running out of one.

And so I ran.
I ran up and down every court
After every loose ball for you.
You asked for my hustle
I gave you my heart
Because it came with so much more.

I played through the sweat and hurt
Not because challenge called me
But because YOU called me.
I did everything for YOU
Because that’s what you do
When someone makes you feel as
Alive as you’ve made me feel.

You gave a six-year-old boy his Laker dream
And I’ll always love you for it.
But I can’t love you obsessively for much longer.
This season is all I have left to give.
My heart can take the pounding
My mind can handle the grind
But my body knows it’s time to say goodbye.

And that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know now
So we both can savor every moment we have left together.
The good and the bad.
We have given each other
All that we have.

And we both know, no matter what I do next
I’ll always be that kid
With the rolled up socks
Garbage can in the corner
:05 seconds on the clock
Ball in my hands.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1

Love you always,
Kobe

add a poem
I make it visible
to anyone

it's really
a possible
call out to

everyone

i.

She's the finest
Filipino rose;
As tis as tis,
I loveth to watch her petals shine.

ii.

She's the kindest,
Gentlest soul;
As tis she is
Divine;

iii.

She's the sweetest
Nectar of honey;
O' I'm blessed
With a inamorata of plenty.

iv.

She's mine heaven
Mine earth, and the moon;
She's the life, verily mine wife,
Who awokest me from mine tomb.





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

I sometimes search the Internet
Looking for my father’s Rickenbacker guitar
Though I rarely heard him play it
That sliding sound, with my bedroom door ajar

More often I can see it still
In our parlor in its dedicated space
It must be strum while sitting down
Its elevated strings silent in its case

I couldn’t comprehend it then
Though looking back now it seems a little cruel
That on the day my father died
Like any other day, I went on to school

That day began as usual
My father and I-an ordinary ride
Until he swerved right off the road
While I lurched to his side and watched while he died

His heart had stopped, and even now
I try to remember a look or a trace
Wondering why his lips turned blue
And a wave of pale, deep pain was on his face

His death was never talked about
I was clueless about what to do or say
No one ever spoke to me then
When I was driven to school on that same day

I can’t remember anything
About the details of our lives before then
I catch up watching family films
He left when I was only 9, almost 10

I know we have gifts that differ
I believe according to my Father’s Grace
That the gift my father left me
I sometimes see it written on my own face

And in strains of music heard
That sliding, soulful sound in Hawaiian songs
Or when Neil’s Harvest album plays
I stop-and like a prayer I sing along

I looked for his guitar again
It’s now worth so many thousand dollars more
All I have is faded memories
Haunting strains of music coming through my door

She might have needed 50 bucks
When I asked it was the story she would tell
About my dad’s Rickenbacker
At 10, when I begged my mother not to sell

Wouldn't it be an extraordinary event to hold an "HP" convention at some point in time, having  the opportunity to come "face to face" with those poets, writers, and contributors, whom we so admire. Only to discover that those profile photos and information from whom we receive notifications and messages, are all "FAKE." That no one is who they purport to be! That, alone, would be one "hell of a story!"

richard riddle: 11-30-2015