All of  the rowboats in the paintings
They keep trying to row away,
And the captains' worried faces
Stay contorted and staring at the waves.

They’ll keep hanging in their gold frames
For forever, forever and a day.
All of the rowboats in the oil paintings,
They keep trying to row away.

I Hear them whispering, French and German.
Dutch, Italian, and Latin.

When no one’s looking I touch a sculpture
Marble, cold and soft as satin.

But the most special are the most lonely
God, I pity the violins.

In glass coffins they keep coughing
They’ve forgotten how to sing.


First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up,
Masterpieces serving maximum sentences.

It’s their own fault for being timeless,
There’s a price to pay and a consequence.

All the galleries, the museums
Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs.

They are just public mausoleums,
The living dead fill every room

The ideal beauty
Do we not have guidelines?
Different strokes for different folks
They appear to be well made
Built upons a solid foundation
In a world where everything done is judged
All relatively similar
All completely different
Admired from a distance
Please do not touch the art!
Violations and fees
Are we not beings?
So beautifully made
All works of art
Different definitions of such
Are they real?
Are we?
Some well recognized
Others independent
All beautiful regardless
Their eyes peer into our souls
“Why are they looking at us like that?”
Quoth the painting.

through art, it conceals
through art, it reveals

I speak symbolism,
only eyes and mouths that bear the fruition of my words can seek for truth

let the wind blows, let the storm howls
be it a fault or a foul,
only those eyes and mouths that bear the fruition of every truth I hold
could seek for clarity within them all

I was born for agony, not harmony
I was born to ride the waves, not streams

through art, it suppresses
through art, it unveils

This man I don't know
stopped me in a room full of paintings,
asked me if I knew that
Helonias was having an ******

as she clutched the head
of John the Baptist
and pierced the tongue
that spoke against her-

I had always thought
the woman was mourning.

Her face seemed contorted
in statuesque grief,
but, no -

She was *******
as she mutilated
the first cousin of Christ.

How, strange, how brutal
a thing to know.

I'm an artist?
I wish someone would of told me that earlier
I would of told the actual ones i was so they could laugh at me
I'm just a soul trying to improve on the ordinary lines that normally come out
I'm not your Prince bragging about being a King
I'm just the by passer that gives a thumb up to the man making his very own ring for his woman

i.

Affluent men seeketh out
Van Gogh hanging's;
Whilst studying
Da Vinci painting's.

ii.

Prosperous blokes
Solicit Monet's;
Whilst they dream of the beauty
Of Michelangelo's marvelous way's.

iii.

Old and young chap's
Exhibit sixteen-hundred's Rembrandt;
The well-to-do, art on the move,
For the newest material, for the Hall's of their muse.

iv.

As whilst they payeth
For mundane stroked charm's;
I'm smiling,laughing at them,
For mine heaven is already in mine arm's.

v.

She's not bought by paper
Nor traded with Jewel's;
She's a queen, not just a thing,
Not made for the rich, nor fool's.

vi.

Verily, mine Jane
Mine muse;
Verily, the art
Of celestial cruise.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication-Filipino rose

You may not have meant to
and you probably didn't  
but your smile
and your voice
have left soft footprints on my heart.
Because of that, as soon as you left
I had to get up and dance,
alone here on the gallery floor,
amongst the paintings I am meant to be selling.