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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 >>

Sweet Old Red    (River)

I will go down to the river.
I will ride my rusty blue bike.
It is dark by the river.
The dense trees make a curtain to block out the light.
I will sit near the tombstones.
I will read to the old ones my young words.
I will listen to the living river groan,
The wind whispering and the chorus of birds.
Here I am someone.
Here I am at my best.
Here I sit happily alone.
In nature my tired heart sighs,
is at rest.
I forget all things, all others.
My thoughts come to life and begin to roam.
With the rush of the water pulsing in my ears,
I find I feel most at home.
I will go down to the twisting banks
of the river.
I will shout and listen for the echo
of strength my tender voice delivers,
the new voice I've gained since
coming here.
I will walk among the tangled tree snags,
then sit and linger.
I will stay and watch the sky turn to purple night through
my small fingers.
All becomes calm, becomes clear.
Here its true, no flowers grow but
the discarded plastic ones from long neglected graves.
Here its true, an old beaver uses
these same flowers
and tamps them into his sturdy dam,
like an old miser utilizing everything he
gathers and saves.
Each day
I will go down to the river.
For the muddy Red is good enough for me.
The Red may not be the great Mississippi,
But her pace and her peace is slow and easy,
So I sit down beside her and just be.

From an old childhood memory. This is a real river that flows north. One of very few that does.

Copyright January 29, 2002  Melissa A Howells Tilt-A-World  Meloo







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