I'm your trademark.
But not your slave.
I'm copyrighted by you to my grave.

We all can deny it.
But by true love we are blinded.
Copyrighted love.
The kind that produce copies.

You own sole rights to my heart.
You're the only published artistic creation of my soul.
You control the rights to my copyrighted love.

Evening slipped into the long abyss
So fell the red moon
Malicious shadows forecasting doom
For the cursed animal man
Inhabiting the precious earth

Fearsome rolling rivers ran dry
Black smoke filled the spanning azure skies
The churning murky green oceans gave up the bones of their dead
When the moon turned red

The crust of the hard ground shook
Split and burst into deep fiery crevasses
Dark yellow orange smoldering nooks
Swallowing all of life
So obliterated was mans world as we know it
Destroyed
Barron and dead
When the moon turned red

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.10, 2014

What do you think  xy would do?
If he dressed in red and high black shoes.
One fine summer day A = B met
Exactly alike in elements
Produced their own sets

With a ...
Everything keeps on going.
Out jumps { },
Nothing is showing.

So natural numbers are the same as counting
What other kinds are there?
Tell us quickly please
The tension is mounting

Did you say members or elements?
Are there many?
What a find.
Infinite or finite sets,
Numbers in a line

Taking the time,
Oh woeful occasion.
The struggle of learning
Mathematical expressions.

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Oct. 22, 2014

I am somebody
Shot in the Head...
Found the bullets.
Coroner Said.
A child of God struck dead.
Gang related disputing Fools.
Aiming cowardly bullets right at you.
I guess praying prayers just won't do.
There is no safe in these hard knocks realities' Truths.
Our Sista child!
Our mother child!
All the while the bodies pile.
Her body now adds to that 'the shootings aren't as bad as last year' body count.
Can't even stand anywhere in your city NOW?
Something has to truly give.
There's a plague of rigid legalities, relaxed moralities, and political realities stealing the 'safe' from our dying breed.
The Black man withering away in siphoning inequalities.
Doubling unemployment stretches outward like a statistical wild fire....
Our present fact.
There is a genocidal component to these criminal acts.


Copyrighted (C)

Published in the 2018 Edition of the Reconstructed Literary and Visual Journal at Governors State University.

On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away  
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array

Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away

Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease

To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),

Tammy M Darby

This love is reserved.
No part of this heart can be used without their permission.
Only if love was that simple.

We try to reproduce things we have seen.
By anyway.
By any means.
Except in this case.
Your love is copyrighted.
You have given it totally to me.

And it can't be produced electronically.

But it can be restored mechanically.
And retrieved.
When you offer it all to me.

I just know this.
Your love is copyrighted.
And all rights are reserved

Similar to words in a book.
Your love has me hooked.
And don't matter what imprint placed upon it.
You know, who it was meant for.

It is said by smell
Impossible be detected
I am here to say they are quite mistaken
For it is as heavy as night blooming jasmine
Overpowering
Intoxicating

The smell of white calla lilies
Heralds the coming of death
Announcing another soul from life taken
Despair  indeed has a scent

Lain on a headstone in reverence
The wreath of flowers
Posses a perfume of its own
Depression and loss infiltrate the heart
A cologne that permeates the air
There is I can assure you
A fragrance of despair

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Marshmallow factories
Are covered in goo

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Not all of these
Are going to rhyme

Roses are red
Violets are purple
Whoever wrote that
Was an idiot

Roses are red
Violets are blue
My favorite is Discord
Who used to be Q

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If you count in binary
You'll never have 2

Roses are red
Violets are blue
MEEP

Roses are red
Violets are blue, da ba dee da ba daa...

Roses are black
Violets are black
Everything is black
I'm Batman

Roses are blue
Violets are red
Something is wrong
With my head

The Math section is red
Social Studies is blue
I have too much homework
I want to cry

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Please don't get stuck
In the spilled glue

Roses are purple
Violets are green
I'm just here revving
My limousine

Roses are red
They have thorns
Don't touch them

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I want to turn this
Into a haiku

Roses are crimson
Violets are the fairest blue
And so fair are you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
That was pretty good
For being written on the fly

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Ridiculous Inflatable
Swan Thing

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I need to sleep
No

you are so And
sweet is Sugar
blue are Violets
red are Roses

Roses are red
Violets are blue
There is no try
Do not or do

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Dab on those haters

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Think I'll paint them
On my shoe

Roses are red, dilly dilly
Violets are blue
Is this copyrighted, dilly dilly
I have no clue

Lavender's blue
Lavender's green
I store my sanity
In a canteen

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm too cynical
And yet too cheesy

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Spellcheck doesn't know meep?!?

Roses are rosy
Violets are violet
I want to be
A submarine pilot

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Something something
Pikachu

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Illuminati
They're watching you

Gryffindor's red
Ravenclaw's blue
WHY IS IT AN EAGLE
NOT A RAVEN

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Be mine
I'm desperate

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't want romance
Stop asking

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm running low on ideas
We're almost through

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
Don't eat too much

Roses are red
Never mind
Life's too short
Eat all the sugar you can find

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You're still here?
Good job you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Happy Valentines Day
Bye

Wrote this while my best friend since childhood and I drove 1300 miles to South Florida on a whim for Spring Break. It's epic, so get comfortable.

"Approachable but you wouldn't know it.  Proclamations of the Romantically Challenged"

Day one.

We meet, old friends...watch old friends...become old friends again.
We find our lost grins, ones only shared with our closer than kin.
Thin shagrins of lasting cynicism and sinister pasts are masks to the blasts we got away with and lived to tell the tale.
Alas, we are sons and friends first, not last.
We cling to our good old glory stories past,
But at last the time is new, our trip begins.
Wheels burn, stomachs churn.
Our aspired souls yearn,
to fire the liars and unconcerned.
We head for the East coast.
With temperatures rising,
approaching unseen horizons,
rejecting the superficially tantalizing,
we begin to feel our tattered souls wisen.
Talking a new talk, calculating the steps to walk a new walk.
Testifying our pains, devilishly dodging heavenly rains, the bitter bites but invites change.
Watching yourself in a friend, a cynical kidder gone bitter.
Your mirror becomes your babysitter.
We search our hearts and back again down I-10.
We find strength and talk about things friends for life can only talk about on a walk about.
We lift some Spirits to lift our spirits.
Night falls,
we arrive alive… our walk about calls 1,365 miles in 18 hours.

Day two begins.

Meet and greet with the beach.
Get a handle on some handy sandals,
some nicotine candy and butane candles.
A fifth of Daniels.
Jack and Jose will duel this day.
"You know it's know your fault, pass the lime and salt," ends most answers before noon.
Let's take some dares with the local fare, shadowing the glare of our wear and tear.
The sun fries,
windy sands fly,
waves pacify,
dropped bikini tops glimpsed from the corner of our eye, testify.
The Sun sets.

Shuffing off the nightlife status-quo of Clematis Row, we turn our walkabout into a Palm Beach Safari...Club.
Whoa! Rows and rows of walking, talking shows barely clothed from head to tanned toes.
Making funnies about hunting honies preying on money.
The unattainable passes. We tap our glasses.
"Point in case, what a waste, such tragedies as these, a lot of money and a little cheese meets a little ****** in high cut sleeves, low-cut cleaves & cuts way above the knees.
Our cuts are deep. Bartender, two Yagers please."

Low and behold…on those stools sit no fools.
Breaking all rules.
with Coronas as fuel,
we inflate our jewels.
As we coach our approach, mentioning "I-10 and back again" prompts grins,
hides our cynicism and sins,
then, moving in to win friends.
Names and places put to faces, careful glancing, winks and dancing.
Alright, the trips to the bathroom are getting old.
Warm smiles once cold, honest questions and truths told…no souls sold…we fold? Hmmmm.
We leave and arrive alive.
Caffine and nicotine stay the scene until the wee hours overpower us.

Day three unfolds

The sun rises and the ocean calls.
Old molds broken
No lies spoken.
No need to peddle your life away settling on the day-to-day following peers falsely content and full of contempt.
Eyes turn bright,
the Sun pours over night,
dolphin, lime and salt,
golfing talk,
day approaches night.
Less tense and more pensive,
more apprehensive and less expensive,
even so we head out to even the evening,
to end our grieving and start achieving....something.
Latitude changes have rearranged our attitude gauges.
So we choose West Palm's Clematis Row to show us how a little rude,
lude and tattooed could clue us in on the anew.
Fools with jewels.
Girls with rules.
Uncool tools abound.
We walk this street of sleekish freaks,
the falsely meek,
lions that squeak.
"Club Respectables" is dubbed rejectables as the objectionable scene is seen as a scheme by vampires with recessive genes.
Next is Spanky's…Best described as "A frat boy fishing pole contest to tackle box in bait shack." One bucket of beer away from "I got your back Jack in case of attack."
We move along.
Colombia Supreme brewed proceeding it's fine grind and American Online becomes the sign of the times swaying us to stay and play at an Internet Cafe.

"I could live here," proclaims a cynical kidder once bitter now soothed by the sea spray and salty air.

Enlightenment heightened by a magic man,
near night's end, inspires an O'Shea's Black and Tan.
The crowd mocks and baulks the sidewalk scene from the patio Pub Dubbed Irish.
We greet the ground,
not the masses' frown,
seat our ***** down,
toast our glasses of black and brown,
our bitters with bite wash down the bitter frowns we normally wear out in our hometown.
"That's a sharp Harp's and sinister Guinness; can I get a witness?"

We head back down our beaten path, writing our epitaphs and usual eulogies...But you know that the "place" or your "space" will change your face, one makes the case."If you sound bitter and you look bitter, chances are you are bitter."
I begin to smile during our final mile of token jokes,
Corona smokes,
shiny Harley spokes.
We leave and arrive alive at the realization,
we have things to strive for in our lives.  
We smoke and joke and poke fun at the run down broken blokes we were before our fun in the sun had begun.
  
Day four begins.
  
We embark for the Ozarks. Our souls at ease.
Save the scene...the last palm tree's waving leaves,  
we wave our palms and leave.
1300 miles more,  
Pushing the morning hour of four,  
empty coffee cups galore,  
moonings a score,  
pedal to the floor,  
memories and more,  
we knew we would be back for more.  
Suddenly learning how insane our inane claims of waning fame should hold no shame,
we reframe our game.
Upon our return…
the strength to strive, take back our broken banks and breaking backs.
Less taxing, more relaxing..."it could happen"... eliquinent waxing.
As we search our hearts and back again, down I-10,we find the strength in things you can only talk about on a walk about,
but that's what it was all about.
By R.Craig David-copyrighted 1995

A smooth jazz blast from the musical past:
The confused ethnomusicology,
The pleasantly discordant riffs and
Jingles of "Hiroshima"—
The band not the bomb site—
Whose fusion sound
Evokes an insane sextet
Granting membership, inexplicably to
Schroeder-- the Peanuts loony tune—
Hitting only the black keys of his piano,
His miniature keyboard
Sour, melodious & pure.
I am reading Ayn Rand’s
"Introduction to the Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition"
Of The Fountainhead, 1993;
An important 20th Century novel, I am told,
A book first copyrighted—
That’s copyrighted spelled without a W—
First copyrighted in 1943,
A copyright renewed in 1971,
By Ayn herself;
An important book--
Whether you’ve bought into her
Man-worshiping atheism—
Or not.
I write these words on the back of a business envelope,
The only paper to be found in this house,
Not ironic, while pondering
A wireless laptop charging,
Plugged in far away on a kitchen countertop.
Lying on a couch in northern New Mexico,
It is an Ides of March 2014 mid-afternoon.
I am 64 years old.
Old enough to know better;
Growing more conservative each day,
With Ayn, I celebrate he who never gives up,
“By spitting in one’s own face,
And damning existence.”
The Fountainhead:
She called the book a “GUIDEPOST,”
A reminder of man’s noble vision,
Proclaiming man in noble glory.
A Sartre you were not, Ayn.
How interesting to think of
The two of you, co-temporaries,
Aspirating the same Earth atmosphere.
This fact itself, an astonishing example of
"Weltanschaung" polarity.
No wonder the world is so ****** up.

From the black recesses of the earth
She rose from her long slumber
Icy death smile on her crimson lips
Face gleaming with wicked knowledge


Slanted eyes of emerald green
Glazed and mad
Her crown jewels of the dead
Bleached human bones
Encircled her head

Fine glass complexion of shimmering gold
She spoke the words of The Sleeping Three
Hair falling in rich waves down to the floor of snakes
The color of the crows breast
A rich purple ebony

Snake scale gown of finely woven human skins
Gathered from her poor victims sin
Wrapped round her lithe body
A thousand souls it took to weave

Awakened from its dark sleep
Spells cast in  hell's deep
By a powerful witch
Who stirred the cauldron
Tainted with revenge

The demon was now visible to sight
The apparition appeared in smoke and orange red light
To bow down and submit to the witches bidding
The command never waived from intent
One of chaos and death
Slaughtered, cold in rows they lay

Pity for the one this creature seeks
Of a terrible perfume her heart reeks
That of blood and brimstone
Perfumed smoke and fire
The devil is her line and sire


So by demons touch
Plotting cold hands
She claims the souls of mortal man
More thread for her clothing
The beautiful demon


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

One can only imagine
The height and peaks
That may be reached
Until the chase begins

Off dreamland you go
The smoke is offered to all
Who seek this elusive creature
Possessing desire to gaze into its eyes

Chasing the Dragon
Rare nectar for the mind
It may only be found
In the gray fog of sweetness

Within  swirling curls of smoke
Carefully hidden
The dragons yoke
For once tasted
Forever will you crave the hunt

So as the rest
I chase the dragon
Through out the universe and time
My life never more be my own
Tall mountains I will climb
In my quest to ensnare the beast
Chasing the dragon



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby

I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation

raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down

she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”

gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet

she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of  “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******,
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm

I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup

her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments

parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,

”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”


and she would be wright...

A powerful witch
She began to spin
Waiting for the spell to begin

Head held high
She did not weep
Close to the heart
Revenge did keep

Strong in mind
Never break
Upon red moon
His life did take

Now she danced arms raised to the sky
As the captured soul
faded and died

A fierce creature
From beginning to end
Beware of the witch
When she starts to spin




This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

As I looked upon the
Whispers of the forming
Clouds.
So, shaped like a family of ducks
in their times.
Revealed to me the caspered calm and
Distinct instinct and ‘gifts’ to
Float, without prior education.
Towards the sky forests in
Ease and love.


(c) copyrighted

You laugh like I imagine an angel would
Your smile is like seeing the most beautiful sunset in the world
Your hair is perfect way too perfect
but I feel as though its not the outside of you that I love the most
it's that no matter how busy you are you have time to at least say "hi"
You make me smile more than I have in a while
The first time I saw you we had a staring contest across the cafeteria
You started putting your hands behind your head
I tried to do the same thing
But it felt awkward to me
I put them down and so my eyes went
I looked up and smiled and you smiled back
You're honest and sincere
And in my eyes you can do no wrong
All in all
You're amazing and smart
I'm so happy for you
This is how I see you
as you
well the you that I have seen so far

© 2013 Emily Larrabee. Legally Copyrighted, all rights reserved

You are black; we put you through that white school so you won’t be a stereotype; but I hate it out here; they’re expecting me to be this and do that but that’s not me; you can be whoever you want; I want to be grey; great black leaders and their followers struggled so you won’t have to; but what’s a leader if he isn’t reluctant; they had the support of thousands and all i have is you; you always have God; have faith and he’s there; I lost my faith long ago; I am just a number, and when I end, I will be forgotten like half my family and the war that kept them there; as much as I differ from myself, I am still the same as you; I am who I want to be not what old people want me to be; I just want to be treated caucasian; I try to move on but B.E.T. and Worldstar drags me back.; call me a Jaden but a culture as complex ours confuses me, so treat me caucasian; pure as a fresh start, I won't get any glares if I walk by a gated community; i also love being black; the music I listen to could only be black; never let anybody tell you how to feel, but that’s childish; what I think will make people see me as different but if I was caucasian, i could say what I want; be your own human is only something yeezy could have taught me; what I think now could only be temporary just like the vapor; I just want fit in the box you offer because my ideas I carry are irrational, obscure and should not escape from me; I could say what I want now but it’ll cost me my life later; I love being black: we all have a past to fill twenty million books but no one wants to check it out; I love being grey; stupid dumb teen with nothing good to say; I love being white; my words have enough meaning to have a writer to ask me for words; I see and have every future I could imagine yet I have no future; I'm not a gangster, I don't play basketball so what do I do?; I can be better than myself and I really mean that; I am the Internet with all of its weirdness but I am black; the good posture and the way I greet you is caucasion; what makes me what I am?; the person I want to be isn't what the world needs; like the open road all possibilities are endless and I'm taking all the backroads on my skateboard; free as if I'm on air but that won't last; man the world keeps me confined without telling me the charges; no, no, no, no, they can't feel what I feel; why? why? why? why?; I remember when I was important, that I was a friend; now I'm just a minority that was just imported; I am vapor; as temporary as I am, I will leave no trace of my existence; I am just another number in some census; if being black means having life without you then I am just a figure of pigmented cells; someday I'll mean something; someday I'll be something; the door is there and I'm opening before opportunity knocks; I am just a piece of paper that shows I am competent; 12 years of school and what else is there for me; I am annoying without saying a word and I can move you by just living; only if you know what I think; black is the Africa I don't want to know; there is nothing there for me or any where; just a ***** or am I a person?; the water is tasteless but has a mountain of favors as a caucasion; I don't know; its cold outside and I don't know what to wear; the world is cold; full of life and still desolate; the world is black but is best experienced if you're colorblind; the world is cold and all this ice leaves me blinded; people give me a topic that limits me; fenced in my own jail cell; laughed at for your amusement; put me down for your enjoyment; leave me alone; I want to go home, no ones there to guide me home; school isn't what I thought it would be; life isn't as good as I thought it would be; leave me alone; leave me be; I don't need but I want human interaction; I don't know; I only know how to be black; it doesn't matter what I know; better if you decide; better if you choose; I am black and I am wrong; I am black and as temporary as vapor; my idea black isn't your idea white but you sure think so; you can be proud but hate yourself; no one taught me that; I wasn't brainwashed; I saw a better world being grey that treats each other white and makes culture like black; that's cool; oh but like I don't say anything and all of this has no meaning; that's cool; I am quiet and I have no voice; I have an i.d. but I have no identity; my name isn't copyrighted so what's so special; I wish to pitch myself to the world again but as my voice shakes, so does their heads; I am only human let me make mistakes; being black is one of them I guess; yeah I could pilot your ideals; I could follow your plan but what is my purpose?; I contradict myself and I have no point; such a waste that is; such; a; waste; you have no value to us and as your employer, I terminate you; ha!; that get rids of that peon; yeah he was just dead weight; good call! hahahaha; they're **** ups but they're right; what's next for me?

The emotions of a human
Can be lightly
Played and strummed
It can resemble the steady beat of a heart
The sound cannot be replicated
Repeated or duplicated
Once the disturbing melody starts

The highest strings
Penetrates the mind
Representing the sadness and anxiety
For now you are quite alone
The shrillness will increase in strength
But will remain dark in tone

The lower strings
They are the loss of hope
Relaying disillusion
These strings are taut
Specifically for you
In my composition
I will most certainly use them

To complete my vengeful melodies
The strands I pluck and choose
Shall be your life's situation
For you, my sly one are the harp
And I am the musician

I strum the strings one by one
In a familiar rhythm, you know
I am smiling at your rapid demise
As your heart implodes silently and slow

I will continue to play you
Throughout your life
My tunes filled with retribution
Have no doubt
We both know it is true
You are the harp
And I am the musician

The strange and eerie song I play
Notes chose for their intent
For all the damage you have caused my dear
The strings I choose will represent

Now I perform this song
For your blackened soul
Upon which there will be many lesions
Till the echoes of this music
Shall drive you into madness
For you are the harp my darling
I am the musician


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

Pitter
Patter
Fall the rain
The dwelling
Bedlam of London
Residence of the insane

Behind metal rusted bars
Shall they forever remain
Raving madmen  
With minds chaos they lay

How many poets
Are in the echoing screams
The artists visions
In lifeless eyes
A vacant being

The sculptor
Genius hands
Frozen into stone
Frightened into psychosis
For fear being alone

Pitter Patter
The maniacs clatter
Lightly fall the rain
Upon the dark roof
As the lunatics howl

Pitter Patter



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby

Charge in bravely
Release the components of intent
Seek justice long in coming
Press steadily forward
Refusing to relent
Contumacious in action and thought
Until the last drop of courage is spent

Demand respect from enemies
If given with honor
Return in kind the same
But by no means or reason
Ever concede the game

Instead
Cry Chaos
Inflict stinging blows
Focused
This strange power you now posses
Take hold
Scream chaos in defiance
Unsheath your sword

(This is the result of reading Shakespeare)
My new word for the day   Contumacious    (rebellious or defiant in nature)

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

I've tried to write
So many poems about you
But you're beauty is copyrighted
And I don't believe
In plagiarism

Who will place two coins on my eyes
Down the river  Styx
My shade must glide

Two coins for the boatman
Ferry me away
To the throne of beautiful Persephone
Snatched from light of day

Two coins I cry
Two coins for my eyes
Through dark waters I float
To where my body must lie

Two coins for Charon
Always silent looks away
Never seeing a face
Or the light of day
Two coins


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby

The sun is hot in the open desert. A shadow of hope from the plants that look like they have withered.
Shade we seek the critters scream. Little feet scorching as the sand seems to melt.
Why must I live here. Many folk ask. Would you rather have the ocean to see versus the forever ending rows of Joshua Trees.
My skies are full of glistening stars, when the hot sun sets deep down afar. I have darkness you can never see.  I can see the milky way you see.
I don't need the beach house. I can always hear her waves.  A memory recorded deep in my mind.
The night skies are forever now mine. I fear not the heat of the day. I live my life simple like the old days. I have no wants. My needs are all meet.
As long as I have you with me at night. The stars are our peace in this crazy world.
I love my desert as I love you. Harsh at times. Life gets rough you see. But in the end it is just you and me.
Nashoba copyrighted 2014

From what glorious kingdom
Will my armored warrior hail
That for my small hand
On slathered horse
Journey roads of heaven and hell

Riding stone covered ground
Of long black waiting shadows
To return to my lost soul
Stolen waiting tomorrows

On the quest to my heart
Slay the crimson dragon pain
His jeweled reward but one
Eternal love to gain

Written when my thoughts are not tainted with Poe
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby  Dec. 29, 2013