melissaahowells

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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

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Confessionalists


they called

Theodore Sylvia and Anne
the Confessionalists

poets who said way too much about themselves
they were
those who opened all their doors
letting it all fall down
and spill over

words pushing forward with insistence
and flooding emotions
in times when emotions where analyzed
kept in check
polite

when men and women had to wear
sedate 1950's disguises
so there were never bad dinner guests nor
unwelcome surprises

uh-uh
that's what the
Beat Poets were for

but then along came the
Confessionalists
and opened
another wide door

they wrote what was most directly in their hearts
took their pens and stabbed themselves there
and used the vital ink to spill their words across
a blood-stained page

and filled it up with fury and hunger
and whimpering and longing and rage
and an ennui of troubling terrors

perhaps that is what killed them
in the end
and not simply just
the age

but another kind of ex-sanguination
a giving of all of themselves to
a public who may not have deserved them or
who often misunderstood them
as mildly disturbed

they gave up their wedded bliss to the word
and died like Romeo or Juliet did
on the dagger of their pain

wedded to their art

Honor them
I do
as

they are so much more to me
they are braver than the brave.


Copyright December 31, 2014 directly to the page last day of 2014
All Rights Are Reserved By This Author/ Meloo/Melissa A Howells
Copyright Site: Tilt-a-World (straight from her Tilt-a-World)

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