I see dreams in the clouds.
Not just illusions,
but perspectives,
indications.
I touch sand castles in the sky
and let my eyes
look for me inside the walls.
I sink my feet into the sand
where the water draws
that which it erases.
I hold myself in common
prayer moments.
Sending my words to
Jesus, who promised
always to listen.
I hear His reply
in the thousand points
of light that shiver
through my prayers.
I trust in what He promises,
though I fail to
capture His wisdom.
I watch the pictures in
my fingers moving with
the passion of living.
I see dreams in the clouds.
Not just illusions,
but perspectives,
indications.
I touch sand castles in the sky
and let my eyes
look for me inside the walls.

My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
          and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

My sister and I would play outside
        almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
       traced the pattern of our lives.

Our country had a new flag and boys
         in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
        at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.

Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
      hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
       as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
         all the beautiful people gone?

My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

We are all sinners
We all have shame
Some just hide it better
But it's all the same
Its easy to be
In a nice sheltered life
And judge other people
For misunderstood strife
The fact of the matter is
You dont know what you'd do
If an awful, life changing
Decision confronted you
Is not passing judgement
A wrong in its self?
What gives anyone the right
To judge someone else?
No one wrong
Is worse than another
So perhaps we should all shut up
And not preach at each other
Come tell me about it
When your kid's starving and you have to steal
Or you're twelve, knocked up
And now life's real
Tell me about it when you've grown up
Dirt poor and lost hope
So in order to keep sanity
You get hooked on some dope
Tell me about it when you get *****
And you have to make a choice
But the people keep trying
To shut you up and take your voice
That's right folks,
No one is more wrong or sinful than the other
We were all created equal
Sisters and brothers
We are ALL sinners
We ALL have shame
Some just hide it better
But it's all the same

blue
my favourite colour is the shade of:
    -happy skies
    -wonderous seas
    -hyperthemic lips
    -and the depthless
     deepening void of
     disgusting sadness

yellow
colour of my childhood bedroom,
you bright insipid lying shade of
promise
i can remember the image of you,
the way you looked in different lights
but i can't remember the
happy feeling of living under you

red
the colour of
-my stomping boots and
-the blood outside the veins
isn't it odd how it bubbles along the lines
strong colour
i feel you match my blue

orange
bitty juice
and sticky tables
and an empty plastic cup
peeling and peeling and hoping
what is inside won't be bitter
orangensaft
(you make me think of swimming pools)
(you make me think of being sick)

purple
nightingale poison
stained mouth
is it a plague or is it grape juice?
is it pain or is it pleasure?
purple, you sound as if you should be luxurious
but there's something cunning
and deceptive in your swirls

green
the colour of an island
-beneath a grey sky
-a patchwork of green scraps
-rugged and wrinkled

I practice Being Peace
out here by The Artist Colony on Hood Canal
collecting treasures and Bright Dead Things
the moon snail nesting in the Flatland  of my palm
a Gift from the Sea carried ashore
on The Torrents of Spring
it may take A Thousand Mornings
to attain a Mind of Clear Light
to transcend earthly Crime and Punishment
to consume knowledge hidden in the Weathered Pages
of this Book of Luminous Things
but I carry on - Skinny Legs and All
Burning Daylight street preaching
The Teachings of Don Juan
"looking, looking breathlessly"
for internal coherence in this
*Brave New World

i.

As she's in the land of Nod,
rustling azaleas in her
ancestral awe. She don's
the ensemble for the next
morrow.

ii.

Her body like a cradle
Rocks back and forth
As a swaddling babe;
She's musing of ourn
Meeting, and it's
Patient way's.

iii.

Tis I as well who see-
saw's in mine bed,
Pretending she is
Next to me, swaying
the thread's, peeping
out mine window,
Awaiting her wake;
Counting down the
Hour's, to seeith
Mine Angel's
Face.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou dedication)