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  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
brandon nagley
(Greek translation \version)
i.

Ischyró, sígoura
tha aposvestoún
pétra.

ii.
Parelthóntos, en afthonía,
lefkí stefáni tou
xediplotheí.

iii.

paratiritís kípou
Pýli tou katóchou;
Chrónos ágnosto.

iv.

Ékti aísthisi, Pra shatrent,
Eyne tis astrapís;
theóstaltos.

v.

Ái tis pragmatikó, ái
tis símaine. Pántote
i feeleth; zontanós
kai to periechómeno.


(English translation)
i.

Puissant, certes
whittled on
stone.

ii.

Yore, galore,
white corolla's
unfold.

iii.

Garden watcher's
Gate keeper's;
Time unknown.

iv.

Sixth sense, Pra shatrent,
eyne of lightning;
heavensent.

v.

Aye tis real, Aye
tis meant. Aye
i feeleth; alive
and content.

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou)
Puissant- means powerful or almighty ..
Certes- means in truth or certainly .
Whittled means like carved ..
Yore- former times! Long time ago.
Galore- in abundance
Corollas are like petals same thing...
Sixth sense- a supposed intuitive faculty giving awareness not explicable in terms of normal perception.
Pra shatrent- is a word I made up meaning ( Aware of all spiritual things and non spiritual, aware of both ...
Eyne - archaic for eyes.
Aye- is yes in old form.
Tis- it is ....
  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
Sally A Bayan
Every death
I have felt, or known,
In silence, i mourn,
Within my breath...

No words come upfront
Just thoughts, preponderant...

I'd feel the freezing cold of an empty space
Feel the absence...clearly imagine a lost face
No smiles, spanning from cheek to cheek
Eyes, seek answers...
suddenly, I'm there by the shallow water of the creek
While some nearby creatures quietly chirp...and squeak
While I......... I could not even speak...

Living,
Is realizing...and accepting
At the right time, they turn brown, the weeds...and reeds,
But, under the water...waiting, growing...are their seeds
Brown ferns...are almost detached from a mossy concrete wall
With a strong current, and wind, they'd be carried...ready to fall

The driftwood lying by the shore...is always wet, but petrified
Brown fallen leaves, on the green grass...no more hold...crisp and dried,
The dead bark of a tree...in pieces...are crumbling...
Merging with the wet earth...in a process of fertilizing
Deep down under ....a fresh spark of life is starting.
All these, remind,
Life and death stand side by side,
That in the midst of death-
Something new is birthed...
When faced with death,
there is always someone's living breath
And, as long as the heart wills to beat
Then, life.....will still exist.

Hundreds, or a thousand times,  
We all have died
In the high and low of life's tides,
Physically,
Emotionally.

We remember
Those who have left
Those who have survived..are still around
We think of those who are next to leave,
Waiting for their chests' final heave

---And then, we think of ourselves---

Worry not of our own time
Make each of our remaining days
Be golden, beaming, and bright
With good deeds, and straight pathways

The earth is a moving circle
It makes a round.......as it spins
We try to live outwards....and then, within
Any way we live it...life is an endless cycle.


Sally



Copyright March 23, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***A  HAPPY  EASTER TO EVERYONE!!! ***
  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
Denel Kessler
longing to be liquid
a restless wanderer
let loose the lines
unfurled the main
with severed heart
set solitary course
on an uncaring sea

adrift
the lonely sailor
preserved remains
from his lips
the final note
love's lost
refrain
Manfred Fritz Bajorat's mummified remains were recently discovered aboard his sailboat by fishermen off the coast of the Philippines.

Found on a internet sailor's forum were Manfred's final words, written to his deceased wife, Claudia:
"Thirty years we’re together on the same path. Then the power of the demons was stronger than the will to live. You’re gone. May your soul find its peace. Your Manfred."

Like the tiger shark he was nicknamed for, Manfred roamed the oceans alone for many years.  He hadn't been seen by anyone since 2009...
  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
Minal Govind
They say 'when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.'
Had 'they' made lemonade before,
'they' would know just how much sugar is required to do so,
and life rarely throws that at us.
Even if it did, it would be hard to pick up, what with it being dissolved in residual lemon juice and all that.
But that's beside the point.

She stands there being
pummelled
with
lemons.
Not even sour-faced
although the acidity erodes her open wounds.

I ask 'does it not burn?'
She replies 'just tingles like a lemony sun'
and then smiles that crescent silver lining
which tames the acrimonious bite that makes me wince.

Little lemon pip tears drop from my eyes
and she collects them in her palms.
'Just a yellow lemon tree,' she sings in her zestful tone.

She may not be the type to catch, juggle and juice them,
but if she could,
she would be the sugar in her lemonade.
  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
Minal Govind
In predictive text
on my cellular device,
the word suggested after I type
'I'm'
is 'sorry.'

I guess that shows how often I say it.
And if it's me saying it then it shows how often I mean it.

I'm tired of saying it.
Mostly,
I'm tired of meaning it.
  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
Minal Govind
Your rage erodes
through your smiling teeth
and makes holes in
your throat,
spluttering
corrosive through your hearty laugh.
Your rage is like battery acid on your tongue
fueling your acerbic words.

My rage is rope making the ring in which
me, myself and I
battle it out in my head
cyclically.
My rage is a steely triad of me, myself and I
in my mind,
a metal mental instrumental
triangle tapping incessantly
ringing the ting ting ting of
soft subtle slurs.

Our rage is visceral.
Eternally internally infernal,
crackling embers dying within
leaving us shells of ourselves -
warm bodies with blackened ash souls
daring not to breathe should someone notice the smoke.
  Mar 2016 Tommy Jackson
Vanessa Gatley
Focus On Me
I can tell your curious
Written on your lips
I here doing what I like
When  ur here
      Focus On me
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