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SMS Jan 2019
The lights. the noise, the colors
All used to fill my heart with glee
Now music blaring louder than ever
Headphones keeping the anxiety away
The cold floor of my closet as my rock
Barely surviving the 12 am fireworks
It’s hard to be hopeful for a new year.
Maria Sep 2018
I’m not checking his Instagram again
Not another time
He has liked other people’s posts
There’s nothing special with mine

We’re not thinking about him
At least we try not to show it
But it doesn’t get easy
You and I both know it

My mum and friends are against it
Again I’m out of my mind
It’s not that he’s bad
It’s just that I’m not like that in his eyes

Next time I walk past him I’ll try not to think
Of the million butterflies that I get near him
Next time I walk past him
I will be prepared
Not run away, not even be scared

Next time, I’ll just forget
That he makes me feel some kind of way
Next time, I’ll forget,
That only he can burn my brain cells in the sweetest possible way

So goodbye my dear
Goodbye to my infatuation
Goodbye to what we could never be
Goodbye to my imagination
Just some ranting about my crush who I’m trying to move on from. *insert loads of sarcasm HOORAYYY
Well there’s Hooverville
   on the edge of the river
haint nuttin boot flimsy cardboard
   e’en with clothes will shiver
waiting for tension to be released
   like a arrow in a taut quiver

major organs ready to burst open
   cuz day r all a failin'
unless salvation does da liver
from a stingy farmer
   nada one of him a giver

Hence a goin to Cali for n’ya
in battered up truck n wailin wah wah
ta feed da chill n beasts o burr den –
   ‘cept un shaw

if me pa
will ever appear on Oprah
whar guest’s literary car –
   rears into grand prix hoopla

An win free dim lifts us lock a hawk,
   this kid rock will nah
dat he suffered faw a distant few cha
migrants we may be – butta we bah
dog on judas priest, Christ and allah

Rose of Sharon wool extend
   da family tree
dat ma will live to see
re:

charging the Joad jalopy
   in part from me
tink rin hands dat like ta mess
   with oil hand stains
one mo scar – craning neck 2 earn

An huh tha red badge of courage
   upon this Okie
hunched o’er with stiff back
   while wounded knee

continually bunged up with utter glee
at engine cough fin smoke
   to *** us free
whar we kin sally in da pacific fields yipeee.
momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught entrapment also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men

     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
child bearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
     where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet

tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee

less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
DaSH the Hopeful May 2016
She dipped her fingertips in paint

        And left her identity on my canvas
brandon nagley Dec 2015
Man hast sought, and wilt seeketh,
Supernal treasure's until the
End of their day's;

I hath found the jewel
They seeketh; not wrought
By men's hand's, nor stored in some cave.

She's mine, all mine
So beast's goeth away;
She's mine, O' mine
rapturous hooray!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
So I'm going camping—
Hooray!
I just hope I don't  
Stay bored all day.

So I'm sleeping on hard ground—
Whoopee!
I just hope it doesn't
Get to me.

So I'm getting family time—
That'll be great!
The best thing that'll happen
Will be the memories we make.

— The End —