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The Petty Player Who Rarely Sleeps

I'd Like A Taste (The Wolf Said)

The Crow Is A Black Bird

When I Start to Bloom

I'd Like To Be Your Shirt (when you wake up in the morning)



All Beings Considered

Words Between Edward And Jane

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

The Great Tsunami Of Our Growing Grief written 3/2.2021--retitled 3/14/2021

After Wide Sargasso Sea ( For Those of You Readers Who Have Empathy For the First Mrs. Rochester.)

WAITING ON THE WORLD (March/February 2021 poetry)

Wild and Unraveling

What Must Be

These Hands Exist July 4 2023 rei-edited 7/12/2023

I Am The Color Of Black

The Tide of Your Lies (2019-2023)

How I Wanted Your Pearls 6/24/2023 WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE

Love Wants What Love Wants re-edited 5/31/023

Winter's Been Too Long.... 4/18/2023 (LONGING)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Like A Small Street Dog Lured In By The Promise Of Meat

This Is What Mermaids Dream Of

At Night, As I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

And You Will Be Called Ashes As You Leave ( from a dream)

Certainly No Bread 3/16/2022

Someone Send Out A Search Party

THE FAN , AT NIGHT, GIVES GOOD ADVICE completely re-edited, an entirely different poem

What Is The Price For Your Touch? re-editied 5/31/2023

Where Is My Bed With The Pleasing Tree -Lined View(NOW REEDITED)

Oh What Fine Physics (Before Me ,Lies) re-edtited @4/17/2023

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

THE COMPANY THAT WE KEEP WITH THE ONE WITHIN

More Poetry >>

In Response to Denise Levertov

So what?
Denise doesn't like
the over round words
the unpleasantly plump sounds
of happiness of peace
of sunsets
and picnics where everyone
gorges on cold noodle salad.
No, me thinks she doesn't like them in the least.
But if only these picnics
were in graveyards like
days of old,
then she might believe a little less that they stink.
Denise would be pleased
should all bright round words
by death
be taken by the throat and strangled cold.
But if optimism
like jello at a Midwestern potluck
should abound,
Close cultured ears
dear listeners,
begs Denise,
to any and all beaming sounds.
No poem should ever release,
but strangle
and drag everyone down.
Tis better to remind us
that for our live's entirety
we have allbeen clowns.
Perhaps Denise
you're right,
but only to your opinions at the very least.
Though its truer than true
my poetry
and that of others
maybe bloated,
and somewhat confessional,
somewhat like a penitent to a priest.
Yet, unlike a nun
you are not
keeping your silence
of what you must consider
prettied poetry.
To you,
mass poetry is a violence,
it is a murder.
Perhaps even intellectual blasphemy.
Have I  belabored my point
somewhat beyond its proper length?
Still I feel I must go on.
My point assuredly has its merits.
My points assuredly has its strengths.
Denise,
you may opine
on poetics and poets
as much and as long as you may wish.
How you must loathe
poems built upon golden couplets,
a common writer's allergen
so much like spoiled tuna fish.
And any man
or any woman
who attempts to put
thought to pen
is not always be what you consider
to be disingenuous,
nor like drinking a strichnine cocktail
you calamitous hen in a foxes den!
Denise
I have to admire you
I have to a point,I guess I always will.
I've perused you often.
I once pinched a collection
of your works
when I had no money
to pay the bill.
But Denise
you cannot stop the mass production
of silly purplish poems.
Relax a bit and
let us all think
we're still poets
while you continually protest
with all of your renewed gusto and groans.



After reading a poem by Denise Levertov about BAD POETS and their BAD POETRY.
Yes, Denise, I believe, you did inspire me to write another bad one. We all have to
laugh at and then live with ourselves, now don't we?

Melissa A. Howells/MELOO Tilt-a-World                Copyright November 23rd 2010.







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