i

sacchariferous exhale's, I shalt insufflate into her bronchi
An Ode of enchantment, a beacon of escarpment, Filipino oblige;
We shalt junket all the way to France, the way politician's do
Concord, oh amour', at the end of the day Cogitation's, sky blue.

ii

The artist's shalt adumbrate ourn outter appearance's, as ghost's
They shalt brush us onto an primeval canvas, Enlargement ****;
Phosphorescent simper she giveth, as I grace her foreign perfume
Thither the acropolis, to mine land of Greece, Corinth, in all tune.

iii

The people their do greeteth her, they layeth out the red carpet
White wall's of these spítia, nacre full of plenty, open market's;
The children here art collaborated in epoch, decorative style's,
As mine queen shalt seeith, they weareth golden leaves, wild......



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/ pag-ibig magpakailanman.....

The face that launched a thousand ships.
What must those eyes have held within them?
How full the lips, how smooth the jaw, how sculpted the cheeks,
To start wars?
A face can launch a thousand ships- indeed-
Send toy soldiers marching stiff across borders
Burn cities
Make widows and orphans,
But a soul...
A soul can push saplings up through the ashes of those very cities.
Only a soul can create,
Only a soul can nourish,
Only eyes with such exquisite tenderness behind them can spin the stars and press the moon into the palm of the night
Like a promise.
The soul informs the face,
Breathes life into it.
The loveliest features
Cannot pull the tides like a soul can.
The most vibrant gaze
Cannot capture time and halt its march the way a soul can.
Perhaps your face could launch ships
Could start fires.
But your soul...
Your soul could raise forests.

man
bench
sun

Facts are not
a life.

Details.

old man
park bench
hot sun

Better,
but not enough.

An old man
on a green park bench
baking in the hot sun.

Closer,
but not the truth.

An old man,
still boyish,
sitting on a
green park bench
baking in the hot sun
remembering
that strange young girl
wearing
a paisley scarf,
red and blue silk,
standing like Venus
poised above
blue Aegean water
on the deck
of a white steamer,
her black hair flowing,
four decades past.

Closer still, yet missing...

An old man,
still boyish,
sitting on a
green park bench
baking in the hot sun
remembering
that strange young girl
wearing
a paisley scarf,
red and blue silk,
standing like Venus
poised above
blue Aegean water
on the deck
of a white steamer,
her black hair flowing,
four decades past.
He smiles,
considering
her hot breath,
her long sighs,
her silken thighs:
she lives again.

The poem at the confluence
of memory and imagination
engenders the stories
which render meaning.

Stories about stories;
all we can know of life,
yet enough.
-mce

A is for Austerity
To pay back the Bank
For the Collateral
On your defaulted Debt

That exploded Exponentially
Like the financial Fiasco
Of the Grecian Governments
Indebted to ******'s Homeland

Return to Investors
The rent on your Job
Capital is their Kingdom
The laborers are Landless
Misers enslaved to Misery

The N

In ancient Greece they would build alters to worship the gods
Lay down offerings of bled goats and burning wool
And hope their fortune runs true

And while this is no Greece
I'd build an alter for you
Worship like a dog at your shrine and hope you're listening

And if you leave I wait like Argos
No strength to move on but all the love in the world
Not moving until you return and my starving bones can waste away at last

Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.

Santa had another noted name,
He was a simple man
Called Nicholas living for no fame.
He was a Christian.

His parents died, when he was still young,
In a village of Greece.
Thinking of Jesus, his thoughts he strung
To help poor kids in peace.

Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.

Under Diocletian he became
A Bishop in mission.
He was imprisoned, and put to shame.
He changed the tradition.

In time, St. Nicholas' life and deeds
Have become a story.
He was a helper of those in needs,
A man in the glory.

Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.

Nicholas became Dutch Sinter Klass,
But children changed his name.
The Bishop's red cloak changed with time's glass
In cloths for Santa's fame.

On that day, kids wait for him to come
In spirit of giving,
The Christmas tree looks no longer glum
And it looks like living.

Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.

Down the chimney comes Papa Noel
Quite slipping and sliding.
From his sky with reindeers and sleigh bells
Just gnashing and gliding.

Spreading stardust glittering at night
He brings presents for kids,
They pray and sing in the Divine Light.
Then, to sky his sleigh skids.

Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.

A bird in an aurulent billed mud-face,Living as a four foot two inch dragon in a San Franciscan cave,
Lifts off from a hot breathed murmur of Gideon.
Even in night the whole grandeur of movement
Soaking in red beeping heart-pangs
Fasten to the thrusts of his arms.
This post of vainglory was the opening of the year.
In July's open pores,
On a spatial plateau of Dodonian oak.
The Penguin
Unveils his weakened voice.
Flattening into a wide arrow
Draped from Carina he
Sails Westward. Barefooted through the Anavros
Molting under deep helplessness and melancholia.
With his inlaid eyes faced askance
The penguin broods
Among the day's songs
Cast into the poetry of the lyre,
Stretched upwards from Paradise Bay to Colchis,
Where his ebony wings
Soak into the palms of Peleus
Suffering only where the arrows have flung.
Downside up, with children in a pocket of blood,
Among supergigantic siren songs and muse poems
Sewing teeth into a spot of Earth
Races towards a column of toppling strakes.

Fins slicing through waters slick
at dusk in echoing caves.
The indigo moon hanging alone,
reflections on the dipping waves.

Lazy waters lifting light,
eyes glinting at constellations
in a night that rolls, too quick, to dawn
with a foggy lack of concentration.

Alone and warm in an early morning.
Melancholy rose at sight
of this empty boat, left alone and moored
and gone, the last lick of light.