The drip of water down the water spout
The parade of white fluffs drifting about
The ball of the pen skating across
The flow of ink calling the shots
The clack of heels on the tiled hall
The scurrying of a roach up the wall
The wail of a child sickened by chocolate
The scowl of the mother for such racket
The round of applause after a performance
The snores of the old couple sitting dormant
The ruffling of pages in a quiet library
The thundering chew of a red cranberry
The mourning of a family huddled at a wake
The birthday song sung as he blows on the cake
The flap of nestling wings on its first attempt
The hawk’s call during a sweeping steep descent
The pulsating green beep of heart monitors
The screech that follows when the beat falters
The smooch of lips upon an orange sunset
The ring of wedding bells they'll never forget
The Earth a rich and colorful place
The Earth a blue speck floating in space

You are the light in my darkest hour
You made me see the beauty
Within the shadows
Everytime I see your face,
I gain strength

You are the sunshine in my rainy days
Whenever you stand here and show your light
This complicated world  just seems so easy

That everything which seems slight would turn significant
For you open my eyes to see the beauty
In each awful detail

You are the promise,
The hope of an unpromising tomorrow

That whenever you speak you would touch
The mind, the soul
The world

You are the history within the insensibility
You bring the memory of a lost dream
Creating a new child of  courage

Yes, you are a blessing
A gift of splendor
An angel
The hope
The light
The promise

But even the sun needs to set
To give way to the reassuring night...

And I am but a wandering soul
Every gift I have at hand
Is not for keeps

I am the mist
Which anytime would go with the wind
To fade

And somehow delight in
My transience

And dream
To see you smile

In my repose...

There is a poet
And poetess
That writeth;
In the slums
And the ghetto's;
In the suburb's
In the meadow's.
There is a poet
And poetess
That prophecieth
In the mountain's
In the city, neath
Their graves, in
Tomb's, free one's,
Slave's, some known,
Many doomed, in
Heaven's gates, some
Art poor, some telleth
Of fate, some art lonesome,
Some speaketh of amour',
Some linger in the shadows,
Tortured by demon's, anguished;
Fighting hellish and earthly battles.
There is a poet and poetess that writeth in blood and in ink:
Some feareth death, death to some doth succumb when these artist's speak. Some hath wealth, some with naught, some groweth their own food, whilst other's stick to store bought. Some art peasant's, some art farmer's, some poet's preach and teacheth; whilst other's want to alarm us. There is a poet and poetess in this life and the next; some looketh down on loved one's, whilst the living is blinded by material net's. Some art lost, forgotten, some speaketh Spanish, Hindi, English, Arabic, french, lost languages, or Latin. Some just want to love, whilst some seeketh to findeth love, some want to flyeth away, as if a falcon or a dove. Some thinkest their better than most, others thinkest they art not better then noone, feeling dead as if a ghost. Some jotteth poetry to make them remember living, some art charitable, whilst poet's in prison sit and rot from killing or stealing. Some passeth time staring at the ceiling, whilst some overwork, some casteth their ten percent to worldly lusts, whilst other's pay to God in church. There is a poet and poetess that writeth, being dead or alive; O' poet's were all distinctly different though the same, in God's poetic eye's..............




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry