Americana, fair Madonna, tell me what's become of you; star's so bright, your war's are polite, as your ripped flag's red, white, and blue. Oh bountiful cities, mountain-told villages; starlit pillages foreshadow your deathly paths. Some books hold secrets, while cake candles burn tricks to cigarettes of nuclear blasts! Afterthought you are oh country tis of thee; so blessed in your filth, your kilts are images of projected misery. Find an Alcove you castleview kings; your tongues will soon be silenced to the non-mindsense you care to bring! Resemble with eachother patriarchs of hatred; national to all stations, you are the one in control. Forget what mother told you? Did you already sell your soul? Instant inhumanness; gratitude for filthiness, they feel for girly magazines. Rescind your rhetoric you false entity of enemies kings. Perch behind the clouds where the guard's can't get you; where pharaoh's confront you, only God knows all time! Subjection to viewest bozos behind bar-reason rhymes. Where are you angel of light? I see your face; or have I taken your place?


©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©prison poetry

It was in the way she looked at me.
A tenderness I hadn’t seen,
That made me wish that we
were the only ones to see these stars
and dream these dreams.
I watched her walk down the aisle
with a bouquet of rain, dandelions, and beautiful things.
We were kids, yet we held our dreams in our hands
hoping to grasp tightly to them as long as we could,
yet loosely enough for them to take flight
carrying us by their kite-strings.
Dreams made of cotton and twine.
Trying to put together a masterpiece
one piece at a time.
It was in the way she looked at me
that made me see,
I would do anything to build a life
and tie together dreams
to make something beautiful
for her to see.

Love these worn wrinkle's age
earned in life's forest fire sun
or leave it alone as that dead racoon
its highway flat back, glass eye staring
It's a Thursday stubble face resign
from a razor's kiss no longer matters
A foggy focused boiling whistle morning
thinking of a cup-a-joey for rattle's sake
all jitters and back o'-da-bus crush
Tell, this is not all or much chronicle
but a listen to sun baked cones
snap, crackle or popping verse
Nature's song as increasing ring count
untangling a dance of season's purse
paid Piper tweets in highest branches
straws up this inner sap and sighs

≈ cec