waves crash and pound the
hard earth till it softens

soft caress of the mysterious moon
and the vast ocean

O' man
What wouldst thou chooseth;
If in front of thee?

A dollar bill
With Ben Franklin's face;
Or thy family, and loved ones, whom it's thee they need.

O man'
What is it that satisfieth thee;
Thy material's, of muck, and greed?

O' man
O' man;
Tommorrow doth not alway's cometh.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

On August 18, 1936,
a 38-year-old Spanish poet
named Federico García Lorca
was taken from a jail cell
in the city of Granada,
escorted to a courtyard
in the hills outside the city,
and executed for the crime
of loving life and Spain.
Bullets are as lethal to poets
as to anyone else.
Lorca died and fell
and was buried in a rude grave
just where he hit the ground.
His books were burned
in the public square.
What the Fascist beasts
failed to understand
in their deadly ferocity
was that killing a poet is easy,
but killing his poems is impossible.
Franco is long dead,
his Fascist minions scattered,
but Lorca's poems sing
more sweetly than when he breathed
and the Spain he loved
listens with eager ears
and chants them with living joy.

Faiths
When I grew up there as only on religion available-
choices are better now- Christianity. We had bible
classes every week and I found it entertaining
but I never got the message, I simply lacked
the gene that makes people believes in the impossible.
There was a time when I was around sixteen when
met a Christian girl and went with to meeting, sang
and prayed, while preying on her, but it never got
more than holding a damp hand. I went to the movies
instead Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman now
that is a reality for you. I'm old now and set in my ways
I know I shall die but, an abstract god play no role in
the drama of my death, that role is reserved for me.