i.

Beset next to me
Coadjuvant to mine need's;
I couldst not asketh for more
Mine Reyna's all do I believeth.

ii.

She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies
Her suntanned dermis is momentous;
Wallowed in her oversea's memories
A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented.

iii.

In Luzon, the older part of the firma
Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's;
Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour'
To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's.

iv.

Covered head to toe
By these inked protection's;
Spelling out the word's
Brandon and Jane's resurrection.




©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Every day the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy,
sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white.
She swung sunbeams into starlight
And I thought it'd drone on forever.
//
Every dawn the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils,
pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy.
She swung sunbeams into starlight,
And I thought it'd drone on forever until

I realized that sprinkled sugar cookies made hands numb flammable,
that you can't feel them again until they leave the powder blue locker room,
until they're in the car, worried they might melt the steering wheel, when they’re left to figure out why.

Now streetlights gassed with Canadian lypophrenia
make snowflakes float like stardust,
while splintered lilac fingertips trace meaningless constellations,
as they ponder whether daisies can tell
if someone loves you,
                                       or not.

With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust
for December's cruel weather to warm,
so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor
and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves.
We’d swing dance in the sidewalk cracks
drowning in footsteps and manhole steam.
Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake
and you would never feel small.

And I thought cocoa butter was our solace,
that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes
that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars.
The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed-
a dripping orb of love and light thrown against
the burning oblivion of the universe.
I pull in the horizon like a great fish net
So much life in its meshes!
I call in your soul to come and see.

With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died,
still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans
and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles,
unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was.
I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong.

Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars.
But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills,
drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket
of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets.
To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers-
for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine,
and still, you slathered it on.

Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out,
the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up,
and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart.
Eyes streaming, I reached for a shooting star,
but the night does end, dawn always rises,
and my precious last chance melted in my desperate hands

because i fall in love with everyone
and my lips are never chapped
  so now i eat cinnamon toast
   and I paint the sun
    with blackberry juice

In apple-killing cold, stars fade in the amber glow of tiger's eyes,
gray clouds are still bursting with starlight,
willow trees will forever weep diamonds,
and daylilies still steal away sleep.

I hear the Earth as she laughs
In the flowers that I plant
It's like they are all tickling
As they bloom in early Spring
I hear the Earth as she laughs

I see the Earth as she smiles
With her dimpled daffodils
She keeps grinning back at us
In a pink peony blush
I see the Earth as she smiles

I hear her chuckle in the breeze
To the delight of daylilies
With each laugh they all know
It brings new colors to their fold
As the Earth chuckles in the breeze

I have often heard it said
Every time the Earth laughs
Another flower is set to bloom
I guarantee that this is true
Every time the Earth laughs

How many authors,
Unearthly meticulous,
Have left us symbols in scarves; or, say,
Surreptitiously submerged in salad dressing,
The idea of the priest confessing;
Clues folded carefully between innocuous lines,
So carefully that in ten thousand pairs of eyes,
Not one perceives the crease?

And what kind of beautiful sadist plants flowers in shadow?

I cannot bear the empty tears that they must shed,
The monstrous mute meaninglessness of these
Lessons taught, and not learned!
Worse: words, while wise,
Are not our only teachers.

So I look for the mirrors in smoke,
And in skies, in eyes,
In every word the wind spoke.
Until everything is a mirror;
Everything, however dull, reflects.

When I tried to ride a bicycle today--
And not just because I want that idiom to be true,
But simply because I want to learn how--
When I put my heart to the pedal,
And the wind bent down to whisper,
Unintelligible, but clearly intelligent,
Into my ear,
It felt like I had failed them;
I could not listen, but only hear.

On this generally generous June morning,
The very last of the Daylilies bloomed.
I saw it later, in an evening hour,
And I imagined, as I rode past,
That it (or its reflection) asked
“Might I be, after all, only a flower?”

“To navigate by mirror alone
Is to walk always in reverse.”
So the lily seemed to say
As it awaited, alone, its floral hearse.

I will not, without reason,
Deny a dying wish.

I hear the Earth as she laughs
In the flowers that I plant
It's like they are all tickling
As they bloom in early Spring

I see the Earth as she smiles
With her dimpled daffodils
She keeps grinning back at us
In a pink peony blush

I hear her chuckle in the breeze
To the delight of daylilies
With each laugh they all know
It brings new colors to their fold

I have often heard it said
Every time the Earth laughs
Another flower is set to bloom
I guarantee that this is true

Every time the Earth laughs...

Time rides
but on wings of butterflies.
Hardly noticeable
as they flit by…

From flower to flower.
Underscoring the fragrant,
outlining the beautiful.

Yarrows to daylilies.
Lavender to pansies.
Goldenrods to marigolds.

Supposedly impartial yet,
seemingly bestowing
just a little more
upon those most pleasing.

And the unchosen only watch
with bitter, hungry eyes
that go unnoticed, unslaked
and
          unvisited.

won't you stay for toast and jelly
the day has just rose
like cream all over the hills
and vales are beckoning

with songs and daylilies
opening and the winks
of oranges tang sweet still

oh
the flowers just awoke
most of the village
is asleep
and will never notice

the beauty of
the sunrise of ten minutes more
enjoying
small nuances
of golden stars
setting

replaced by
the bright snowy clouds with an
angled sun glowing

My friend asks
me where I get
the fodder for
writing my poems.
I tell him, life.
He says that's too
simple.
He isn't satisfied.
I tell him that
sometimes, I sit at
my desk and open
the window above the
litterbox, and look
outside at the
orange daylilies and
wait.

He says he writes
from a small place above
his left ear.
It tickles at times, but
often it's painful.
I nod and make a
note to call my
doctor about the
headaches I've been having.

He reads his posey at
the coffee shops while
drinking espresso and
chatting with the other
young poets in sweaters.
I tell him that I used
to live under a bridge,
I read my poems to the
savage river and the
Mallard ducks, and the
drunk friends that
wandered in for a drink of
***** or a beer.
He says the little place above
his left ear is beginning to
hurt.

I walk him to the door and
tell him goodbye.
He asks if I will come
to the coffee shop to
hear him read his poetry.
"Sure", I say, smiling blankly.
After closing the door,
I sit and smile at the view from
my window.
I can smell the freshly cut
grass, and hear the
grinding whine of the
lawnmower.
A woman across  
the street is lying in
the sun.
She's wearing a turquoise
bikini and big sunglasses.
Just then, a slight hint
of coconut wafts into my room.
I get hard and pick up the pen.

The tawny Daylilies
of orange and red,
are suspended like star bursts
above the carpeted bed.
They hang like streetlights
over the green splendor,
and illuminate the envious riot,
so tender.
The tangle of fronds
though they reach for the sky,
will crane their heads vainly
although they must try
to attain the heights
and the lofty glory,
that their progeny mount
to tell their sweet story.
The blooms burst like fireworks
coloring the heavens above,
and broadcast their fragrant
message of love.
To all who would listen
to their honeyed-song,
heard with their hearts
though it wouldn't last long.
For the Lily did know
that her day would soon end,
her time was but brief
for her message to send.
So she bloomed so brightly
with all of her might,
and swayed with the wind
though it gave her such fright.
For the glory of others
for those down below,
who had lifted her up
to make such a show.
And that was the story of love
that she told,
the heart's sacrifice
is greater than gold.

The night takes the sun,
The cloud is now black.

She will wear the cotton in his voice,
Like a satin waistcoat,

Hearing her call through splintered walls,
And the wind blows as easily as the rain falls,
Slowly,
He feels as though he were a drop,
Hurtling through the sky,
Towards the moss-covered earth at a shattering pace,
Yet barely making a dent,
On the silver side of the place where she was,

On the other side of the door,
Just a track away,
And although she could not see him; she heard his sway,

She will not love him.
For she hardly loves herself.
She will only convince him that she is happy being this mess, this disaster,
And he will have no choice but to believe her,
Because their love is short-lived,
And only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want his company,
He knows this,
She knows this,
Neither of them will say it.
The truth is an ancient myth neither of them has ever heard of.


2 am,
She can't sleep,
Sitting on the bathroom floor,
In the foetal position,
Cradling her own limp frame,
Love, to her,
Was that bottle of bittersweet wine,
Which she held in her hands,
As if it were a crucifix,
Her holy saviour,
Like it would really save her,
And every mouthful of that cheap rosé,
Burning her mouth,
But that was love,

Her Friday nights were filled with excuses and cheap wine,
She'd curl up on her bedroom floor,
She knew she missed him,
But she didn't want to admit it,
She'd dance in the cold, comforting hue of the refrigerator light,
Her face, red and swollen from the tears,

She thought about all the things that they adored,
They both loved summertime and flowers,
Her favourites were peonies,
His were daylilies,

She watched the rain pouring down the window,
And thought about him,
How his smile threatened to shatter his cheekbones,
How she'd rest her head on his chest and dance her fingers like Spider's legs up it,
How she'd count his eyelashes because she felt like every blink might send them flying,
He'd draw lines with his fingers across her freckles,
Imagining they were constellations,



Halfway across the city,
He stumbles in,
Late night,
Working overtime to pay the bills,
Pours himself a cup of tea and sits on the living room floor,

Thinking about her,
Thinking about whether biology could ever explain this ache in his chest,
When she is gone,

He thinks about how hard he works to make sure she gets the happy life she deserves,
He has her measured just right
When she grinds her teeth in her sleep, just rub her jaw gently,
She'll stop without
Waking up.

When he’d read to her in bed,
She'd watch him wide-eyed from his shoulder; Quietly studying his features
As he spoke.
She'd stop him if he lost her between two words she didn't quite understand.
She'd thank you him for explaining.
He was happy to,
She's worth it.

She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. He'd made her a hundred recipes, just right,
He had all the tricks
So he knew she'd eat.
He got used to the hassle.
She's worth it.

She was crazy about cartoons.
He'd let her watch them; seeing her laugh beats the game,
Hundredfold.
She'd love him for letting her read for hours and sit quietly drinking her tea,
Because their love was worth it,
He knew it. She knew it,
But they were both too shy to say.
The truth was an ancient myth they'd only ever read about in storybooks.

Nicotine-stained fingertips,
Curl around a pen,
A mouthful of hazy breath,
Calling it " her friend "

She inhales and holds her breath until she sees black-
blank spots in her vision.
She exhales and releases,
beautiful, long-limbed clouds of smoke.
Shrouding her face, covering her eyes
blinding her to everything,
but these pale tendrils,
fluid and simple,
Are all she wants right now,

To hover not quite at this moment,
Somewhere between the present and the future,
Blades of smoke,
Cut softly through her hair,

Her hand brushes against his,
His mind screams,
louder than even the most horrific of bombs to hold it back,
to close that last ******* space between their hands,
But all he feels,
All that shakes his entire body and soul is this crippling shyness,
That he can't shake,
And he refuses to go it,
It digs its toxic roots down to the depths of  his stomach and refuses to let go and he can't and he won't and he doesn't hold her hand,
  
He wondered if she loved him back,
He always hides from love,
Batting it away like it doesn't belong to him,
He was always scared,
That his hair is too brown for her to like it,
His eyes too dark for her green,

Little does he know,
She worries too,
That her legs are elegant but they are marked with her disappointment,
The purple and the blue will never go away,
Yes, the bruises will slowly heal,  
But by the time one problem is resolved, another sapling and will slowly take root and show its colours,

She said his heart is made to heal
But he can't find it,
It's buried so deep he can't hear it keeping time to his life song,
It's crushed under all his self-doubts and worries,
In that hollow, it grows,
Like a new bud,


And one day it will turn into a flower,

She mutters " what are you doing? "
His response to her comment is lost on his tongue,
It is somewhere tucked inside his conscience,
Playing hide and seek with the directions on how to talk to boys and how to talk to strangers without turning red,
And he's the seeker,

She tells him that he's beautiful,
But he can't hear her,
The voices taunting him inside his head are too loud for her soft voice,
Arguing about which way right
When he finds his answer it seems as if the time has already left,

It was already heading off in the other direction,
Leaving him tumbling over his daydreams and expectations,
Trying to get a grasp on what was happing,

She always forgot to say thank you
It was sort of a bad habit,
But she's already too focused on work,
She's always too worried about what will happen if she says something wrong,
If he'll turn you away,

He wants her to know that he wants her to stay,
Stay close and hug him whenever he needs it,
So he can help her through her hardships,
And they can help each other's hopes and dreams,
And carry them upon their shoulders.
Because they can speak now,
Truth isn't just a story,
It's their prophecy,

She likes stuffing unhealthy food down her throat and defeating
the urge to throw it all out and pushing it all down into her skeleton so that the food remains into her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly,
She likes that no one ever notices her and when they do, they don't say a word she likes that, she punishes her eyes every morning,
By waking up and realising,
She’s still here,
But he has her,
And she has him.