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Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019


Checking Out

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month


Only The Choice To Be

When People Go

The Day You Left (Words From A Half-Remembered Dream)

Wake Wake Wake

It Is In The Rain

Dream Goblins Of The Night

Wake And Remember

Unwelcomed Like So Much Unfinished Business

In March (Finally, Spring 2016)

All For Algernon

Weak In The Knees

The Finisher's Song

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

All Beings Considered

This Is It

Max on the max

I Long For Stars

Falling Leaf, Falling Man/Woman, Rising Star

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

Its About Waking In The Middle Of The Night And Having To Write It All Down

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

If I Could Be The Sky...

It Feels Better To Be Unfinished (Wish-Unspoken, But With My Eyes)

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Sweet Old Red    (River)

I will go down to the river.
I will ride my rusty blue bike.
It is dark by the river.
The dense trees make a curtain to block out the light.
I will sit near the tombstones.
I will read to the old ones my young words.
I will listen to the living river groan,
The wind whispering and the chorus of birds.
Here I am someone.
Here I am at my best.
Here I sit happily alone.
In nature my tired heart sighs,
is at rest.
I forget all things, all others.
My thoughts come to life and begin to roam.
With the rush of the water pulsing in my ears,
I find I feel most at home.
I will go down to the twisting banks
of the river.
I will shout and listen for the echo
of strength my tender voice delivers,
the new voice I've gained since
coming here.
I will walk among the tangled tree snags,
then sit and linger.
I will stay and watch the sky turn to purple night through
my small fingers.
All becomes calm, becomes clear.
Here its true, no flowers grow but
the discarded plastic ones from long neglected graves.
Here its true, an old beaver uses
these same flowers
and tamps them into his sturdy dam,
like an old miser utilizing everything he
gathers and saves.
Each day
I will go down to the river.
For the muddy Red is good enough for me.
The Red may not be the great Mississippi,
But her pace and her peace is slow and easy,
So I sit down beside her and just be.

From an old childhood memory. This is a real river that flows north. One of very few that does.

Copyright January 29, 2002  Melissa A Howells Tilt-A-World  Meloo

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Sweet Old Red (River)



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