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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 >>

Bad Blues Boy

Bad blues boy,
mad music man
in a
dark drowned town.
Joint juke n' jokes joy,
unmanacled mewed sound.
Purred perfect pitch prose
lyrical wizard lopes
up n down
the streets
with the
giant keyboard
that he totes.
Portable playster,
playful punster.
Hippy huckster,
licks like thunder
mad mind plunder.
Mister mister
no pretend hipster
everyday there's
people who never
get famous
but stay with us forever.
Everyday there's
people who live
their lives alone.
They're not counted on the
fingers of the living.
No one hears their cries,
No one hears their moans.
You speak for the
lost
and those who know and
pay the cost
and who will always continue to do so.
But I gotta say this to you, so...
listen, if you will..
I hear you
mister mister.
out in the corner pocket,
out in the world,
keep on delivering
your wake-up music
a tasty stew
home-cooked up, a seven days a week meal.
I'll keep eating
your lyrics with my fat brain spoon.
Keep on howling your lonesome tunetelage.
the hairs like notes
racing up and down my spine
curl up as you croon.
From early spring through dark November,
even on a dull winter's day
echoing through the halls of the city
echoing in my heart,
don't crumble,
don't fade away.
Mister mister
quizzical eyebrows
and those over-active fly-out curls
you and your style always
and forever recognizable
leave a footprint
on this world.



Copyright October 2010 /// Meloo Tilt-a-World ///// Melissa A Howells
A very rough cut.







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