I'm the blood
Inside her vein's;
In love, O' love,
Madly insane.
Pouring down
Like sensual rain;
I'm the blood
Inside her vein's.
I feedeth her heart
Into her soul,
I enter in silver
She cometh out
Gold; I'm the blood
Inside her vein's,
Inside her mouth
I swirl again, tis
I'm the love inside
Her head, I enter
On in, angelic
sentient; tis
I'm the spirit
Inside her chalice,
She drinketh me, over-
Taketh me by her
Asian palace: im the
Blood inside her vein's,
I'm vital, I'm living,
Once again; I'm the king
Inside her dream's, inside her chamber, tis do I sleep.
I'm the blood inside her vein's, and O' how sweet doth her plasma taste. Tis I'm the blood inside her vein's........



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

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind.  The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here.  Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your ******* smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Say, a star has the eyes
To gaze at you, holding out its telescope,
     And decide to leave its post to be with you,
Or on second thought, just to get a better angle
     Of your laugh-smile-wink impeccable,
Would it still be foolish
To say, with all profundities,
     That you, indeed, are beautiful?

What does it matter, tonight
     The cicadas sing of hyperboles.
There's a certain cold, sometimes,
     In the wind, as in a heart.
The warmth is in the blankets there
On my bedroom, something
That your sweater will never know.
     Friendship is basic love.
The moon has its own old course,
As shadows, timely, vary,
     Faithful to its better half.

Now, tell me,
Laugh at me, reason with me,
     With those agitated eyes,
Which are foreign to the idea
     Of these mysteries.

Isn't it possible, terribly so,
For one, for anyone,
     For someone, for me,
To fall in love with you,
     My friend?*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Beauty bounces around from head to heart
expanding her deep truth
so that more and more she is all there is
in hearts made for love

The great inner landscapes
mirror the eyes of the soul
where skies and land meet
on a horizon beckoning home.