i get sad because

you are                                                              ­                                        and i am
  over                                                        ­                                                      over
  ther­e                                                                ­                                             here

                                                     when we should
                                                        be­ **together

He is from fields, endless prairies
runs with buffalo on the Oklahoma plains
all of nature runs through him
restless as a river, he is winding
weaving, fording the depths of soul
masterful, he spends days exploring the outer lands
his hands must be winter leather worn, and warm
in Spring he gathers flowers for his lady's home
sees her essence in sky blue clouds
wanders the salt creek way back home
or sometimes lost in the wild hills
he may lay all the day, watching shadows fall
the wane of sun that melts into moon
or watching storms in gradient greys
windy skies sway with darkest rain
he is soaking in all that he can hold
all of nature transforms his soul
his words are woven - spun gold
sublime, are his poems
to behold.

The words flew out of my pen
The ink tattooing the page
As black stains the once beautiful Earth.

The trees have sacrificed themselves
For the sake of art
Like the way a person may
Sacrifice their secrets for the sake
Of relating
And knowing
They are not alone.

With my spilled ink,
My line
breaks,
My sophisticated syntax,
I create art
Out of nothing
And everything.

The walls that were closing in
Have been smashed through
Now all I can see is the opening,
And it's time to get up and walk
Into the vast field of possibilities

I'm not a doll
I don't belong in a box with a label
I'm not a puppet
Don't try to control me
I'm not anything but myself
I am an individual
I defy society's pressure
To be anything but myself
I won't be labeled
Or controlled
Or molded into somebody else
I'm proud to be myself
Don't insult me for it
Because to be someone I enjoy being
Is far from an insult

Poetry isn't about the words,
Or the emotions,
Or sounding beautiful,
Or looking smart,
Or knowing big words
Like ephemeral.
It isn't about alliteration
Or similes and metaphors.
Poetry is about what it doesn't say.
The silence between the words,
That's what matters.

Death beckons us all
It is like change
Always present
Always a little frightening
Sometimes sad
A little threatening
Whomever you think your Maker is
Death will direct your soul to him/her/it
Whether you think you ascend to the heavens or
Become nutrient for trees
Each abiding just waiting
Life a living
Too much to bear
Too little sometimes
Through it all, I’ll hold your hand
I’ll be there
I’ll hold your hand
I’ll hold your hand

**** plunging short black dress,
Maroon lipstick, just so,
Perfume sprayed
Just a hint here, here and also here,
Clutching the purse
she steps out;
Entrapment laid.

There he awaits,
blinded by beauty and lust,
not aware
the trap has been set.

A light brush of cheeks,
perfume inhaled deeply,
Smitten, trapped.

Coyly smiling,
this is too easy, she thinks.