meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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The Un-Promised Land

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

(You're) Still Here

I Know Most Who I Am When You Are In The Room

I Travel Every Time I Think Of You



From The Desert

As Sick As My Secrets

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

Then The Little Silver Fish Came

I Keep My Ray Bans Handy

Upwards Into The Swirling Sea Of White.

He's There

Oh, Now, The Pink Moon

And Even Stars Die

You Are Not My Audience, I Just Borrowed You For Awhile

why not ask the cat?

Odd Thoughts and Juxtapositions

Some Meaningful Proof For A Hopeful Dreamer's Eyes

Ramada

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Beauty

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

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

the life and times of Medusa

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

A Man Called Tsuris

Tuesday afternoon in the jewelry box

All Beings Considered

Disappear

Woman Of A Certain Age

Better Than A Cyanide Capsule

The Life of Tigger

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Where Did Mrs Smith and Her Little Pink House Go?..



she coaxes the porch swing
into a soothing rhythm with
her slipper-ed foot
it feels good to linger a little longer
in spite of the chill

a brisk fall breeze brings
a rush of dried leaves
onto her front porch steps
she smiles to herself
declaring they make a noise
brittle as the sound of crushed cellophane

you can still smell the last of autumn's harvest
abandoned fruits and vegetables
fodder moldering in the ground
rotten tomatoes, embittered gourds
forgotten onions
her nostrils fill with the dank dark smells
ones not unpleasant to a gardener
she being a familiar of the earth
and all things growing

across the street the carnivores await
her far-farsightedness prevents her
from truly seeing them:
a dozier, an excavator a loader, a dump truck

she senses their shadows
but ignores them
there's time left

closing her eyes she leafs through
the pages of her memories...
springs first brave crocuses
a chorus lines of tulips and daffodils
dancing in the wind
the tall bearded irises delicate yet masculine
her vibrant girls the rhododendrons of many hues
and the old rose bush planted when she first was married
next to the lush dark lilac
on the corner of her lot
so full of heady perfume and secrets
at last her bountiful pride and joy
a victory garden filled with everything
a woman could hope to can, pickle, preserve
or share with a neighbor

a car pull into the drive
a familiar voice calls to her
Mother, we're here to take you home
but this is my house
she knows this
my neighborhood
my garden
my life
will it be all changed now
except in her memory

Mom the papers are signed
and you still aren't dressed to go

No
she thinks
strong plants grow deep roots
to weather the storms
I am that old oak in my backyard
I am planted here

she opens her eyes
to see a modern son-in-law
her daughter
high school sweethearts they were
do they remember how they both used
to love my homemade
raspberry jam
and sit on the porch swing
watching the rose colored sunsets

there will be no more of that
she reminds herself
how soon pleasures are forgotten

how soon my sweet and simple life
is replaced
with progress.



directly written to the page
legal copyright for this poem/for this
site title by this writer
Meloo/Straight from her Tilt-a-World
Melissa A Howells...December 28, 2016
2:57pm pacific standard time.


dedicated and with dedication to:
The Little Pink House on the Corner Lot
of Yamhill and Its Former Owner
Mrs Smith. God Bless You Both and
Your Little Green Garden.





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