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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 >>

Love A Possibility

I left the laundry in the dark to think.
While I gingerly climbed the stairs to daylight.
What is it that makes things, living or not, different?


We come from the same origins.
Stardust when the universe exploded
a Milennia ago.


Where did this sentence, this inanity come from?
Does laundry think? Does it fear darkness
like small children sometimes do?
Does it possess life when traces of us
are ground into it with daily wear and use?


Old houses have memories, traces of energy of
those who lived within them and then moved on
temporarily, but often leaving a psychic imprint behind.


I love a mystery, a conundrum. I do not trust those
who dispel all mystery as nonsense.
Theirs must be a pedestrian life.
Nothing suits them but the most precise logical explanation.


Ah, so that is where my thought enters in.


My mind wanders, then wonders, on the possibilities
of laundry, being animate, and how it might be fearful
being left alone, unattended momentarily in the dark.
Here my awkward empathy makes a bow, not an intrusion.
I won't be dissuaded from the possibility
of wonder, fantasy or mystery.



Always been able to entertain myself, I have.


A facile talent developed among a society which shunned
me for my oddities.
Call me a Pseudo-Scientist but...
I like not fitting.
I cherish mysteries.
I love a possibility.


I trust who I am.



Copyright September 15 2012 All Rights Reserved By The Author
Melissa A Howells  Meloo from her Tilt-a-World




  







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