Style
        Texture
                    Shape
                 ­            And grace
They put the smiles on your face
                              Brown and
                   Green and
      Blue and
Grey
Eyes like that just make your day
Curly
       Wavy
*****
     Straight
You love all that, you think it's fate
                   Curvy
              Skinny
          Thin
Or not
Who cares about heart, you think she's hot.

Yet talent
   Skill
Passion
   Love
They're the things that life's made of.
Caring
                            Giving
                   ­                              Loving
                 Heart
They bring us together, not apart.
  Spirit
   Strength
    Sensitivity
Faith
Someone like that will keep you safe.

But money
Fashion
***
And greed
Those aren't things for which we were freed.

I once knew a man,
One who played all the instruments,
And sang all the tunes,
And cried with the lullabyes when children bedded down.
And when I last met him,
On Father's High Hill
He told me, "Music is the only language you are born with."

I once knew a lady,
One who met with all the people
And loved with all her heart
And laughed when she saw the children run.
And when we last spoke,
In the summer's suburbs,
She told me, "We live to await the next emotion."

I once knew a couple,
One who lived with all their might,
And climbed every cliff,
And carried all the children in thier shoulders.
And when we last past,
In Leconte's thickened forest,
They told me, "Trying times are not the times to stop trying."

I once knew all of those people
And sang and loved and lived,
And played with my fellow children.
And when I last saw them,
Through the course of my life,
I would reply simply, "That's a truth to live by."

Rejoice, rejoice
Sing once, sing twice.
Let's gather here.
Bring your brothers
Bring your sisters,
We'll make music
Under the setting sun.
Red dirt, underfoot
All of you, and me
We'll make a memory.
We'll touch the sky,
My friends
And make harmony
And dream of Peace.

Have you ever heard that growl
That comes from some beast's mighty bowls
A rumble from way down the street
That makes you shake from head to feet?
Have you seen the woods at night
So dark it's seems there's never light.
Have you walked right down a trail
Dressed in red, so small, so frail.
Have you ever felt such fear,
You wish to see your mother dear,
One last time before the beast
Takes you in and makes a feast?
Food from the basket in your hand,
Have you ever seen such teeth on Gran?
Or claws so thick, they're rip and tear
Just by passing through the air?
Have you ever heard it told,
Where beast keeps Red within his hold?
The woodsman fell asleep that night,
But never had the beast to fight.
So Red was eaten with the bread,
She'd saved for Gran, who'd been long dead!
So now, I think I'm willing to bet
That you haven't heard that ending yet!

Thick is the mass upon his head
Long is the pass before his tread
Green are his eyes that close slow to sleep
Pain is his prize when his cuts run deep.
Grim are his features when his losses are great
Though tears are rare creatures once he's buried their weight.
Praised by hell below and heaven above,
He walks the path for his one true love.

I am as the ocean,
I am a wave of many things,
On the surface I am a plain blue desert,
endless and unchanging.
I am as the ocean,
on my coasts, come tidal waves,
however, on my shores the emotions
break into a million, foamy things.
One may step into my waters,
But will never know my depth.
                            For I am as the ocean.
                            I am a wave of many things.

Capture ice
Meld it to your dreams
Take the stars
Bind them at the seams
Grasp the earth
Fist it into stone
Cradle my soul
Leave it not alone.
Gather the trees
Bend them into bloom
Swallow the sky
Break off grey and gloom
Embrace the falling waters
Wipe their tears away
Relieve the straining mountains
Set them down to lay.
Brace my shaking shoulders
Warm me with your touch
Reap the wandering shadows
Trap them in your clutch
Claim my quivering heart
Take it all and whole
Be my love forever
Be my heart and soul.

Wide eyes
Neck bent,
Gaze, gawk, stare.
Joyous cries,
Skeptic gasps
Step, step, glare.

Shrill ring
Wise eyes
Color foreseen
Fiery wing
Spits flame
Fly, glide, careen.

Arrows fling
Fury falls
Glory for the bowmen.
Victors sing
Puff of smoke
Rise from ash again.

Born and brewing on the road
A choice on me has been bestowed
To grant one side my presence there
Take time to choose; contrast, compare.

Offers, one side, an easy life
Let's sing all day, and play the fife!
The other, it seems, is harder still,
Yet full of life; a forest's trill.

"Come here!" one says, "there's much to do!"
"Have fear!" one says, "it's brutal too!"
"It's crueler there," says one, in rebuttal.
"It's cruel, but fair," one says with a scuttle.

Forever struck, undecided on the road
For which side is better; my humble abode?
Made soon is this choice, for ahead comes upon
Two lights on the hill, like a double edged dawn

Quick like a deer, I unfold into action.
Be part of the woods? Or a slave unto fashion?
To the judgement of others, their eyes on my back?
Or the home of the hunters, to survive their attack?
To the glistening great cities with the smog thickened air?
Or the rolling green trees, all alone in despair?

So towards the lights I will run, on the road I will ride.
For I will always remain with one foot on each side.

The sky is grey
With falling ash.
I wait upon
The snapping lash.
The sonic boom
That scalds my skin.
Bites my back,
Licks my chin.
A cry bursts through
My ****** lips.
And tiptoes through
The sails and ships.
My face is raw
And black and red.
By blades as thin
As pin and thread.
The rope that binds
With hostile ease,
Is as merciless
As the greedy seas.
The cannons gleam,
And spit out smoke
Then fire sang,
And war awoke.
I strained a gaze
On black and white,
That streamed right through
The brightened night.
Now torn to shreds
And at my feet,
It was the last
Of the pirate fleet.

Words that warm my heart and soul
Are cut into glass as cold and clear as
the stormy skies.
Sent to me in black and white,
   -emotionless, uninviting.
Yet they heat my frozen limbs,
And send the blood racing to my fingertips;
   -white and cold as snow.
To my face which glows with blushing light,
To my toes which curl in happiness.
A coil restricts my chest, it seems.
And breaths grow shallow and daunted.
My ribs will break, my breath will go,
And I will live vicariously through you;
Your words in cloudy skies and black ink,
   -And cut glass.

I stand behind a pane of glass,
it's tinted, from outside.
Friends in front will speak to me,
But they see only their tinted reflections.

I've often wondered, while I walk,
and watch as people pass,
Why when their glance turns to me,
None will meet my eye?

I'm a listener, you should know,
I listen, rarely speak.
My life's a bore, why should I?
But I wish that they would care.

When I do speak,
they look away, and they cringe inside.
I know its lame, I know, I heard.
And I wish my mouth stayed shut.

I'd meet a lesson kindly,
if it'd dilute my window's tint.
But for now, I watch, as clear as day,
While they speak to me through darkened glass.

And there stood a lady with a mild-mannered eye,
Saying, "May those frost-bitten lips of other's die.
With their marred tongues of a dastardly word
Deep under influence their language is slurred."
And with a thought of imbued awe,
Beneath her pressing eyes I saw
And never again would I lay waste
To a poor fortuned tangle of delayed grace.

Everywhere I walk-everywhere I go;
the titles follow like aftershave.
They're not warm, they're not soft,
They're not enveloping,
They give a bland emotion to their matter.
       This is Big.
       These are People.
       They are Insignificant.
Titles follow everywhere.
like shadows to our frames.

Don't cry, my son
I'm here, I'm here
I'll stay with you,
My boy, my dear.
I'll float with you
In dreams of streams
And pools of light
Knitted into your seams
Don't cry, my son
I love these clouds.
But how I hate
Black clothes, black shrouds.
On blackened earth,
Right here I am.
We'll go together,
Hand in hand.
Amidst the trees
And mountains, and breeze
Let's go meet God,
Brush off your knees.
But don't forget
My darling, my son,
I'm here, don't cry.
Our suffering's done.

Did you ever dream of trees
Of living in the mountain breeze
To cling to faces made of rock
To float beyond your cabin's dock.
Have you dreamt of flying high?
To wave goodbye and search the sky
To meld with rock and sand and soil
To wrap with oak roots tangle and toil
Have you ever been like me,
And wish to roam the great blue sea
Or look a lion in the eye
To feel it live, to feel  it die
For if you know, for if you've tried
Then nothing makes you run, you hide
But if you still live in fear
Then you don't deserve those dreams my dear.

I am weary.
I must stretch my limbs,
And never let show,
The knots they bear.

I am tired.
The wells beneath my eyes are tinged,
As if to mimic a bruise,
And seem to have no intention of clearing.

I'm wiped.
Ready to let my heart relax.
And if anyone wakes me up,
I'll knock them out.

Ashes scatter in the trees
As I fall upon my knees.
Whispered words of muted grief
To me the sorrow's been bequethed.

From the metal can in hand
You catch the wind
Like powdered sand.
Goodbye to you
My dearest friend,
I'll see you soon,
Around the bend.

Farewell to tears
That never dry
Everytime 
I say goodbye.
Ashes fall
Spirits rise.
Life goes on
And heartache dies.

Autumn is current, in time and in motion.  
Swirling around me and sweeping the ground in giggling whirlwinds.
           Warm air and cold dabble in each other for a short while.

                          The leaves still waver, undecided.
                                Half quite progressive,
  Already in the fiery transformation that brings their lives to a close.
                                       Half lingering,
             Watching their brothers’ change with green faces.

        I help them along, waiting all night for them to change.
    Then fall, fluttering in indecision for their final resting place.
I catch them lightly, delicate and brittle, and lay them down together.

Billowing, bounding, bumping,
through a cracked, white door
a bouncy, fluffy, white puppy flies.

The ground is soaked, saturated.
From the ever melting snow.
Water rises, water falls,
with a step upon the grass.

The breeze blows cold, shivering,
Stings my face in welcome.
It should be so, I think to myself.
The snow is melting still.

The puppy barks, sharp and clear,
but I bear no notice there.
For on the wind, there's something strange.
A smell that's out of place.

It makes me miss the summer sun,
It makes me miss the green.
Miss the sound of a rushing stream,
and a cloudless, sky of blue.

A smell so strange, I chase it,
As it whips away with the wind.
It stops me at the glaring gate,
And laughs in a freeing voice.

Come back! I wish it,
But in vain, I smell it nevermore,
I miss the smell as it's gone,
Flower petals mixed with rain.

As I've said before, and I'll say it once more,
My heart was born in the ground,
Raised by the sea,
And housed in the trees,
And that's why I love them so.

In separation,
My soul was lifted on wind,
Traveled by light,
And slept in the clouds,
And that's why I love them so.

For my heart and soul are one,
One that has yet to meet me.
One that carries nature on his shoulders.
And that's why I love him so.

He and I are separated still,
Distanced by time,
Lost in the woods,
And brought closer by opposite currents.

We are carried by will
Followed by fate,
Inspired by others
And freed by blue skies.

And that's why I love them so.

No solace comes from solid walls,
No warmth from wooden floors
I feel no freedom from closing doors,
Nor life in well lit halls.
Great tumult comes from twisting trees
And sun makes shimmering snow.
No fences block my way to go,
And branches bear no broken leaves.

What life I leave with lives behind,
I'll miss in the land of weightless souls
They'll feel my warmth in flame-less coals,
And my loss will leave their hearts defined.
With my running brothers, I go,
And take no view behind my shoulder,
Yet, I'll watch them as they all grow older,
And await them with my joy in tow.

The bait of breath- to and fro,
My mind is witless as I go
Certain my words are last to fall,
Does the last word matter at all?

Actions are words in disguise,
Should I look into your eyes?
Arms uncrossed to rest regression
Have I schooled my expression?

Do you find me strange and senseless?
why do I feel so defenseless?
Best to leave it straight and civil,
Lest I'm somewhere but the middle

Amidst discomfort! Amidst uncouth!
How I tire of my youth.
Ever gauche, tact and class-less
I've never been a gifted actress

Can someone teach me how to see
What everyone else wants me to be?

In groups of three,
Me, Myself, and I.
In three sentences,
I miss. I live. I sleep.
In three words,
Not Quite Enough.
In three syllables
Ex-Haust-Ed.

Snuck between the bars at last
Holder's faces all agast
Thoughts of future, brightened gloom.
Failures stalk back to their doom
Slip between the steel-wrought veil
Holders, demons, on my trail.
Panic reigns,  instinct rides
Deep inside the hope resides.
Sneak away and lose them quick
Willow's weeping hides me thick
Blamed for treason, ****** hands
Yet Guilty sleeps and Innocent stands
A swell of joy and I am gone.
But freedom's cradle rocks till dawn.

This poem is no Billy’s babble,
I know this girl who tends to dabble,
Dabble with unkind creatures.

She’s beautious, dark, and loyalty-tied,
Non-gregarious, starry-eyed;
Starry-eyed for the inexpedient.

Wit is written on skin so fair
Eyes like skies, too deep to pare.
But pare her idea of ideal men.

Challenge, with whom her morals meet,
Picks scoundrels, wreaking calm deceit.
Deceitful words are hooks to her.

Beknownst to all but she herself,
These rogues take riches, turned to pelf.
Pelf, for she is better than them.

Too low they sink below her merit,
Her virtue, they could stand to inherit,
Inheriting her in return.

The entrance winds behind an imperceptible dirt road,
And if you pass too quickly, its glamour won’t yield;
Tricking you.
Chances are slim that you will pass it again.
But if you peek, and pry, and probe-
Fooling the glamour to slip a little,
The part in the trees will open to you.

Through the leaves,
Over the natural bridge,
And you come upon it.
Indian Steps.
Where smoke curls amid your hair,
And drumbeats school your heart’s own thrum.

The lake will lap on stony shores,
And voices, oscillate past you.
Here, the only shining thing is the sun through autumn leaves,
The only siren a steady note,
Drawn from the deepest woods and threaded through a flute.
The trees’ leaves embrace its call,
And give it back, lovely in their mimicry.
Just like the others who catch their eye here,
You will always choose to stay.

Where do you take a story?
To the deep and dusty dungeons filled with rubble ridden cages?
Or to the telescope of fame that starts with talent, strength and stages?

Do you have a happy ending where the girl and boy get married?
Or do they drown into the sea where they're taken, swept and carried?

Is their world a crystal cave of wonders; stone and solitude?
Or do they fall upon the rocks, too sharp, too strong, too crude?

Are their masters death and dark and depression, silent and abused?
Or are they dreamy- light and creamy- hazy or confused?

Do they take the path less traveled, sure that they are wise?
Or is their confidence a plague that's hiding in disguise?

Does she run across a meadow with the daisies in her wake?
Or does she swig the pills down fast for a childhood mistake?

Will he make the deal of the devil
In a race for gold and soul?
Or does he spend his life in hell for sin and shovel coal?

Is she strange, and strong, and special,
Is he big and brave?
Is anger, lust, and vengeance,
The only thing they crave?

Where do you take a story?
Where does it meet its end?
Is it written in a poem?
Or pretend that it's your friend?

*To be continued...

I sing sad songs to soothe my pains,
And curse the evening when it rains.
I wallow low in self-pity.
Forced to bear suburban streets,
Feel fear where arid country meets
With paranoia in the city.

Stereotypes sadden, cynicisms break
What friendships I still stand to make
In this, my schooling’s final tool.
Emotionless, a way to make me smile,
At friends with whom I should reconcile,
  With hope, not looking like a fool.

My breath is like a ripple in a still blue pond.
      Going out but never coming back to me.
It's a never ending labyrinth  in this hall of smoke,
      All I want is for someone to set me free

With blackened face and fingers I search desperately.

But the fire's all I see and all I hear,

There is fire in my face and hair, there is fire in the very air.
                        Yet the fire's not the only thing I fear.

Burnt and broken I may stumble out,
                                                            ­     But dead alas.
My lungs  logged with firey smoke and falling ash.                            
  I  am blinded from my walk with death forever.
        My mind is bleeding like a beating by the lash.
                        I'm a goner, I'm a loser to life's wrath.

In absence,
A lost key is only
                   A catastrophe,
When the door is locked from the outside,
And everything important is within.

That is when we are reaquianted,
With an old concept.
One that can occur to anyone-
                              If they have the mind to lose the key.
It is the called,
                  The snowball effect.
When we are to leave without our prizes inside.
And all that is taken for granted,
Is kept beyond the width of a door.

But most of all, there is one,
Who will again take for granted his prizes,
And lose them along the way.

And although, these are not materialistic prizes,
They are prizes of greater worth than any
Kept behind that blasted door.

When these, his friends,
Give sacrifice, and he cares not to thank them.
When these, gifts to an undeserving man,
Are asked yet again, and these favors are not repaid.

This, is the snowball effect.
Something that can occur to anyone,
                    -if they have the mind to take their prizes for granted
Or ever have the idiocy to lose the key that unlocks them.
For locked out he may be,
This man has lucked out.

A ceiling of texture, ominous and cream
Four walls of difference surround me in a dream.
Songs from my memory lead my poetry
a ceiling of texture, keeps me in my dreams.

Five clocks stare, but only one has no hands.
Every one is different, but only one correctly stands.
Dimmed down and dangerous they watch  me, faces white
Five clocks stare with their fingers pointed, ******.

Strange, misshapen chairs, and a maimed and mangled cat
Nothing give me comfort, nothing gives me that.
I am out of place here, lost in my own head.
On a strange misshapen chair sits that creepy little cat.

Ticking clocks and memories surround me in a dream.
In a living room of senselessness I couldn't even scream.
So don't try to find me. I'm lost subconsciously.
Ticking clocks and memories haunt me eternally.

To have that terrible urge
That horrible, grotesque thing
That feeling we wish to purge,
But we do not push, we cling.

It's that wonderful squeeze
Of his hands in yours
That tiny viral disease
We hear of in legends and lores.

Whispers of little white lies
We tell ourselves at night
One half loves, one denies
Warm in joy, cold in fright.

His wicked love devours
All your morals, all your cares
His crooked smile empowers
Warmth like poison, it ensnares.

Here, it whips you from clear eyes
And it blinds you of the truth
All decisions, it decides
Made of confidence, of uncouth.

You fall victim, you fall ill
Endless falling here and there.
Still you tumble down that hill,
You are taken, *love beware!

Sneakers left in blue shoe boxes
Milk is spilt on ruined floors
Sewing chair just ricks and rockes.
Paint is chipped off old, white doors.

Mice and murmuring reconcile
Sheets left huddled in room
Books and briefcase in a pile
Hatbox smells of old perfume.

A child's dollies left, and loveless
Glasses cracked and on the chair
Courtyard empty, dead and dove less
Frames are empty, cracked and bare.

Stairs are winding up, unending
Cotton seeps from cushion wounds
Old oak branches broke and bending
Cluttered forks and silver spoons.

Empty always, still and lonely
People come but never stay
Stay one night but one night only
Then they up and go away.

Lost? No, wandering.
Alone? No, independent.
Afraid? Undoubtedly.

                                            Lost is never lost for long.
                                  Alone may never feel so wrong.
                                Afraid can never seem so strong.
                                              Never will never belong.

Separate? No, different.
Peculiar? No, quirky.
Crazy? Undeniably.

                                Separate's just a calloused touch.
                              Peculiar's just a weathered clutch.
                                        Crazy's just a mental crutch.
                                       Just has never been so much.

There is a stream that drifts below me,
Not lingering, it seeps away.
The water creeps around the rocks
and ebbs with mindful swiftness.

I close my eyes and listen;
Ignore the wind that sticks my skin
And if I hear the brook below,
Then perhaps I will return to you.

I crane for twinkling, water moving,
Hear nothing, not at all.
No whisper of the whipping wind
that dances on the water.

Water flows, as infinitely restrained,
As blood that surges from a wound.
It hurts to see; this hurts to hear;
Just nothing, loud as silence.

Dirt roads wind with hours’ distance
And a green canopy stretches,
Suspended above the bare core of trees.
Pine nettles rest year long,
Settled into their collective bed.
Still water fingers the shore,
Smoothing out its stress lines,
Imbedded in the granite lake floor.
Here, towering mountains with impairing storms,
Wild wind, and impetuous fog
Stands in the crystal clarity
Given by reality.
When night comes, bringing with it
A dark unimpeded with polluting lights,
The stars outnumber their dark counterparts,
Leaving no expansion of space
Without a twinkle
Or a holy glowing light.

October, with lilting melodies that play,
Rocking my frame with frisson,
Has yet to send the warm winds away,
And succumb itself to autumn.

The season change has just begun,
We’ll watch it turn in equinox,
As I bid goodbye to the sun,
And again await its warmer rays.

I sometimes think the trees can scream
So loud as to change their color,
In desperate need to re-achieve the dream,
And catch the sun’s eye with their flame.

My soul, so dark, what things it lures!
What things that writhe into my pores!
With teeth like stones
they devour my bones,
And slip past my heart's ice locked doors.

My soul, so dark, with evil it teems.
It blinds you and, and breaks you, with ravens' black screams
Stream into flood,
It chokes you with blood,
And send shadows to skulk and to stalk through you dreams.

My soul, so dark, what demons it hives!
What demons that pose as emotion's disguise!
It robs you your trust,
It's blinded by lust,
And forever it lies, and it lies, and it lies.

My soul, so dark, what hell it demands!
What hell, that will grab you with soot-covered hands!
Its fires go on,
In the dark, in the dawn,
And the devil will curse you and laugh his commands.

My soul, so dark, what sadness it sighs,
What sadness that fills out your head with its cries!
The heartache that breaks,
From tears, into lakes
And strength that burns up, withers, and dies.