Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2017 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   259955 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry


Read Poetry
Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

(A Prayer of Intercession--Brief Joy)

Upwards Into The Swirling Sea Of White.

Tuesday afternoon in the jewelry box

What If

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

the slave is freed

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

All Beings Considered

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

Max on the max

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

A Man Called Tsuris

For The Loss Of A Ghost Like You

Love A Cat

Fragile Shell Of Morning

I Long For Stars

I Feel Fine(r)

The Crow Is A Songbird

Sometimes Love Comes With Electricity

And With Words I Let Them Go

When He Returns From The Road

Flashes, Glimpses, Moments, Time

the brand of disappointment

Boy Restored

Please Don't Bring Me Flowers

No Woman's Friend


Sometimes I Hear Him

the life and times of Medusa

why not ask the cat?

More Poetry >>


  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook


Tuesday afternoon in the jewelry box

mother and I
we keep in the separate corners
of the jewelry box
it is the heat of August
she is surveying the turquoise
I am silent lying among the silver on the left

I am
my tenth grade picture looking upwards
staring somewhat blankly at the top of the box
I think about the day that picture was taken
how my windswept hair danced everywhere into a tangle
and how I hated showering with the other girls

my soon dead mother is chiding me from the other
she always had the uncanny nose to smell out my
negativity and be the first one to push me
in the direction of joining the bluebirds or a sorority
Melissa Ann, you who do not get along with anyone
she says...let others come to you and appreciate you for who you are
(eye roll)
like it is one of God's own commandments

she does not understand we are merely pictures
from another time and dimension
conversing in her overflowing jewelry box

she has lost most insight/awareness she
may have accumulated over time
she is now only a photo talking back to me
in a jewelry box
I am aware that I am a photograph too

I say your birthday just passed us by again
a thought occurs to me suddenly
why are we here
in her jewelry box

she stops talking then like a skip on an old 78 record
she does not understand either
Gee its so stuffy in here

Mom-ma I've missed you
I say
I'm right here!
she shouts, I'm
I right next to
your Mother's big bold turquoise necklace

now this I can't take
and so I fold my photo edges over
like a long neat pocketbook
and say to her Mother even in the afterlife
you joke your pain away

Copyright August 19 2014
all rights reserved by this author
All ideas/rants/poetry/prose are the legal property of this writer
Meloo/Melissa A Howells/straight from her Tilt-a-World

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem