After  many years in the basement,
behind a green tattersall shirt,
next to a plum colored robe,
is my gray tweed sports jacket;
sadly hanging like an old man’s *******,

inside the left breast pocket rests
the funeral  program of a man
I have learned not to hate,
or to become a semblance,
and god ******, I have not;
I still have time remaining.

Tiny bit of rock
Hung
Unsupported,
Caressed by
Morning star

Small light given free

O how i love the early pre-dawn

And you
Reading
Nothing else

How your reading has
Helped this two year
Bad dream
Pass.

You do not know
How you
Kept this old soul
Alive.

Thank you
And from this
Miraculous sliver
Of moon

Accept the silver spoon of love

i opened a box today
and inside were my letters from you -
i haven't read them in over a year now
and i wondered if they were still true -
i inhaled and breathed in the words
the letters you inked on paper -
i took a deep breath, thinking of you
because i might not get one later -
and at that moment
i found myself surprised
those memories we created
were like smoke to my eyes

I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.

I saw dolls on runways:
the world pavements
often fond by many
some lost their insanity in chasing them,
some hurting being dolls' tissue.

I knew dolls,
and the beauty their possessed are an illusion for the eyes,
a feast for the eyes,
for those who are tricked adore them
for those who knew,
they sculpture sentiments of adoration.

For those who aren't are forgotten,
unseen of the rare beauty,
and grace
shield by the rib cage,
a goddess,
waiting to be discovered by the lucky ones.

Her eye's, Asian heaven's
Her hair, universal obsidian;
She camouflage's in the mountain's
An Asiatic goddess chameleon.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©earl Jane nagley dedication