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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

Ramada

Sometimes I Hear Him

the life and times of Medusa

why not ask the cat?

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What Is This Death? ( As I  Grow Older And Nearer To It)


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as each day pulls me
nearer towards the inevitable
I grow reflective

in youth I might have been shallower
still noticing the events
their significance
but time seemed an un-emptiable well
and days were rolling hills
stretching out like a vivid landscape
before me
I'm sure I squandered many of them
being morose unfocused distracted
depressed overwhelmed
undone
haven't we all
thrown important bits of our life away
like detris
and underestimated ourselves
when truly we were only doing our best


today I see myself differently
I do not live my life
on the surface
but rather I am
a deep pool of emotions
shimmering and experiencing
the small waves of feelings
expanding out as I reflect
on the colors of life
my life
and the lives that have
intersected with my own

who will remember us
the way we were
when there is no one left to
remember
when all who knew the slant of our shadows
the footfalls of our steps
the turn of our keys in the door
the certain manner of our walking
down a street that was ours
when all of them are gone too

who will recall a certain street
a specific house
where we lived

or the color of the light
we walked in
and how we cherished our days

when I reflect
on my happiness
it is like trying to see the bottom of the ocean
sometimes

how
do we live on
how will I live on

I wonder
and the wondering of it all
keeps me awake
up in the night
typing on a computer or
staring out at stars
and growing clouds
and into the chasm of darkness
way up high
grasping at
infinity

what bits are left of those
who have gone on
before us
before me

and what is this death
and how does the weight of someone you love
leave their body
as they become lifeless and limp

will someone be with me
when I go
or will I go
alone

is life or the joy of it THE weight
which keeps us pinned to the earth
is that why there are earth-bound spirits

how we all relish each opportunity we dance again
to have another turn to embrace another day
in the light
which is
our
very own
joy
our life/lives

is this why
it is so hard to leave
is this why
it is so very hard
to watch others go

even strangers' deaths move us

the will is strong
the thread of will
holds us to the joy
which is the best our life
has to offer us
it is
a singular connectedness
and connecting

how hard it is
for us
for all
and for mean
when it is time
to break
that string

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March twenty-first 2017
4:39pm PST time/date stamped
March twenty-second 2017
1:18am PST time/date stamped for second editing



LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM/WORK
AND ALSO FOR THIS AUTHOR/WRITER
MELISSA A HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD

I've been wrestling with this great
scientific and philosophical question
for some time now; literally, how can something
someone be gone that was only there moments ago
..I think this question has come up because
I have had so many occasions to observe
death and near-death lately. Maybe all this
musing is just going through the stages of grief.
Though I don't agree with the stages part.
I think there are some people and pets we lose
that we grieve our whole lives. No one teaches
us how to grieve, only not how to. Or that it
is frowned upon as an activity over any great
length of time. I think we fail ourselves
and others when we deny them opportunities to
discuss their feelings, especially about
something as complicated and inevitable as dying.





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