Who has agency to guide?
The one with the most likes
Can be used to divide.

Wealth makes you elite
Favoring blind submission.
Your charisma is highly valued.

Now we live underneath
A flinty harsh heavy-handedness.
Ram your authoritarianism

Somewhere else.
Concentration of only your power
Is called a cult, a regime.

Constitutionally respond to the people.

It is feeding time.  Time to push the hay
from the back of the truck.  Whistling,
calling for the cows to come up.

I see the morning mist among the cattle,
smell the scent of pine hanging in the crisp air,
in my heart and mind, I want to be there.

The forested pastures, the open grazing fields
wrap around my soul memorized comfort, where
I can reach out to touch and to feel.

As for me, that place will always be there,
yet, it is gone.  Gone for many a year.  All gone,
the pond dried, the forest overtook the fields.

Gone is the truck, the hay, the cattle too.
Yet, my memory is a place where all it lives on.
And memories turn my thoughts to you,
- as they always do;

Beautiful you.  You are gone, too.

I am just an old woman who has read
And written poetry for many years.  
It is like daily bread to me,
Sustenance on which to feed
And to fill a deep soul need.

Poetry is like the essential oil
In an exceptional perfume,
Refined down to its essence.  
A distillation to what is pure.
It is the molecular structure,
The scent of the blossom.

Its scent deeply impacts all  
Who are privileged to inhale it.  
Smell a high quality rose otto,
Immediately you know it as a rose.  
You do not wonder what else it is.  
It is a note of singular distinction
Because it has been distilled down
To the very soul of the plant.  

Good poetry makes you feel that.
It does not rely on cliché,
Nor unsophisticated childish notions.
Poetry must not be superfluous.
But must be succinct, the essence
Of the feelings being expressed
Without the fluff.

You must tear a poem down,
Rewrite it, set it aside for a while
Then come back to it with fresh eyes.
Poetry is work and an inner struggle.
We must be willing to give the time
Each poem needs from our loving attention.  
They are our children, born of us, part of us.  
No child should go nameless,
Each one deserves a name to be given it.
We owe them nurturing as loving parents.

Give me your eyes
In love, look solely at me
Give me your body, wholly,
To be part of mine

Your hands are mine
For only my caresses.
Your feet are mine, also,
To walk straight back to me.

I give unto you the "all" of me,
All who I am or might be.
All that I become is yours
And you are my gift, as well.

True love does not vary
Nor change like shifting shadows
True love remains ever in the light
For all to see its honesty

A love that maintains its vow
To love, respect, and cherish
It does not alter or "bend
With the remover to remove"

Love is everlasting and true
Real love is yielding to the other
It does not possess, nor smother
It trusts because it gives it to receive

Love is the very soul of equality
It does not reveal but protects intimacy
Love grows with time and with maturity
True love by all is easily seen

Only fools poke out their own eyes
Mistaking true love for hypocrisy
True love is from celestial heights above
And lights the way to unfaltering love

Strong my castle walls!
For it has been so long
Since any hand has touched
Her imposing gates.

Please do, cross this mote
Of my desires, I
The cry within my throat.
And must you wonder why?

What is a queen without any hope?

Some whom you feel you knew so well
Fade from the mind, in time.  Why?
Who forgot first?  
They once were real.

Time taken is time gone,
Only the memories linger on,
And remain there in the brain's folds
Even though we become old

Let them flash before your eyes
Long before time for you to die
Grab them like the precious gems
That they are, reclaimed