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There,s  not  many  upsets
in  the  FA  cup  these  days.

Because  the  playing  area,s  
are  in  prime  condition.

In  the  old  days  they  played
on  mud  bath,s  which  were
a  great  leveler  in  skill.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
Some only seest her flesh
And her bones;

I seest God's handprint
That brushstroked
Her soul.

Some only heed her outer
Reflection;

I seest a masterpiece
In paradisal direction.

Some only observe her comings
And going's;

Not perceiving
Her tears, beyond year's;
Hath been like white water's flowing.

Some only descry
Her Filipina eyne;

Whilst under her roof
She's lonesome, aloof;
Pain is her daily bread,
As is her heart's
Screaming proof.

Some only espy, the girl
They seek to know; not
Knowing nothing of who
She really is, an Angel from
God's throne.

Though this Queen doesn't seest
What I seest, she is blinded by
Worldly lies; demon's art her
Enemies, because she's God's
coruscating light.

If only she could take a step
Out of her body and her mind;
She'd be free, to perceive
The treasure she is
As the creator made
Her after his
Kind.

If only she could
Seest, the elegance
Inside her soul;
She would
Knowest
She was
Created to be
God's light, lamp;

God's perfect mold.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Sardua nagley ( agapi mou) dedicated
Seest- archaic for the word ( see).
paradisal- of a place or state) ideal or idyllic; heavenly.
Heed- take notice of, pay attention to.
Hath- have.
descry- catch sight of.
Eyne- archaic for eyes.
Filipina+ Filipino woman or a girl.
Whilst- while.
Espy- get sight of.
coruscating- sparkling.
Art- is ( are) archaic form.
Knowest- know.
Mold- a distinctive and typical style, form, or character.

I wrote this for my queen because she always cuts herself down, and as humans ,humans tend to always just see ones flesh blood and bones ( appearance of the outer being)  as my queen always just sees herself as completelya monster and ugly! And others tend to see others of just flesh and bones not seeing the person is hurting inside and feels broken alone down and out, and feels of no worth! Point to poem is I wish my queen Jane could step out of her body, as if an out of body experience and be next to god to show her how he made her perfect. Our gospel in the Bible said god made man in his image . Man and woman both! God is light and love as Bible speaks! Meaning Jane you are made in that image, yet you consider yourself ugly because of a few pimples? Lol, lets be honest your flesh appearance is beyond gorgeous and stunning and queen like and beautiful but more than that!!!! Your soul and your spirit is a light! Your real being the REAL you your soul. Is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen! It's completely light and there are others who need to know flesh and blood is just flesh and blood and isn't the real you! The real you is your soul! The beauty of the soul! And there are many lights out there like my queen Jane who feels the same as Jane! And Jane I want to tell you, your a light and you come from the creator of all light and lights!!! You come from god Jane! God made you beautiful inside and out! Time to wake UP and see that my love. Satan loves to make others feel as nobody's. To feel worthless! You were bought with a price Jane when Christ died for you when you accepted him as Lord and saviour Christ had prior already bought you for the price of his blood on that cross!!! That's more than beautiful! Your a daughter of god! And or light! NEVER EVER forget that! Understand me? Mas Mahal Kita my Reyna! Pray you see your beauty sooner than later love!
I love you more queen
Innibig Kita jane!!!!
summer afternoon  
drifting into vision
gulmohar bloom


summer evening
does the breeze
dance or the tree?


summer bath
the shiver in
collected water


summer twilight
ma shops for
bigger buckets


summer dawn
music spills into
empty buckets


summer dusk
water tanker cuts
a snore into two


summer rain
*outstretched palm
barred window
we make a rickety circle
and the beat takes us all,
bend forward, clap our
hands, sway this way, that,

a bow of arms,
twirl of legs, form
wings, furl, unfurl,
the body confined

in a twist of finality,
the world on a
swirl-round axis
and we curl to

where the planet
began its primal
dance, of scent,
step, musk, air...
The garba is a traditional Indian folk dance festival that celebrates nine forms of Goddess Durga. For nine evenings, especially in North-West India, people dance from evening to dawn to traditional music.
had it run just straight
with no turn on either side
we all would surely fret
life is such a boring ride

life is so dully made
that's all we would say
the road is clearly laid
same looks every day

no bumps and no holes
sharp bends of surprise
the way blandly rolls
we don't fall and rise

thank god ain't so made
life has twist and turn
in search of what's ahead
we persist with the run.
I hold my ears keen
Keep eyes opened wide
But can't solve the riddle
Of who's on whose side.

Today Tom heaps praise
Showers laurels too many
Tomorrow hell is raised
Tim is Tom's enemy.

How fast makes Tom amend
Finds Tim full of flaws
Pete is now his friend
Tim Tom unfollows.

He digs out wrongs of Tim
Finds him crooked and sly
So inducts in his team
Pete the nicest guy.

I can't hold back smile
Though at end of wit
How friendship is volatile
Sour turns a relation sweet.

I wonder why it's so
With life such a brief ride
We never really grow
Feel the need to be on same side.
She sits from where
the rainbow arches into the river.

As I eye her fishing net
she reads the question in my mind.

I'm waiting for three thirty
when tides begin to fall
but the shrimps can't go back.


When the bank begins to bare
she glides into the waves
till the water cools her *******.

I walk away knowing
she would bob up to the hour
the moon is upon her face
and she has made another morrow
from the river.
everyday you pick up the hammer
you hit on the head of the nail
words surround you madly clamor
you can't make head or tail.

rarely the nail penetrates the wall
oftener it breaks by the blow
all that's hidden inside the skull
more refuse than pour out to flow.

you drive the nail's head with your might
wishing it goes all the way
miss in the wrath to hit it right
fail in what you badly need to say.

the hammer gets blunt slows your hand
you are saddened no progress is made
on the next day the same place you stand
looking at the twisted nail's head.
I go back to that place

Through the green door
Enter the red brick house

Mikhu is still the little fairy
My eyes look for
And still my shyness
Forces me to look away
In her mother's presence

In the faraway attic
She furtively cooks me a meal
We make love
That brush our skin faintly

When I come out
She stands at the green door

Then upon the here
She is no more
55 my first address from memory, wonder if sowed the first seed of romance.
From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem
)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen
)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.
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