Poet's Home Page  Poetry Search    321134 Poems Read
 Other Poets  PoetryPoem  Sign Up!  Login

  Search The Web

Read Poetry
o The Hoping

o Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

o Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

o Night Train

o Nameless

o wandering the rolling hills ...(written for his model)

o All The Changing....


o Lonesome Love

o two out of three people

o A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

o The Little Bird Said

o cat speech

o Funny, Not Funny

o All You Have To Do Is Breathe....

o Different

o A Dog Should Have His Tail...

o Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

o Checking Out

o Devious

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

o Last Night

o Someone Send Out A Search Party

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

o Words

o Only The Choice To Be

o When People Go

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

o Wake Wake Wake

o It Is In The Rain

o Dream Goblins Of The Night

o Wake And Remember

[More Poetry] >>

  Sign Guestbook
  Read Guestbook
Watercolor Daydreams

A serpentine line of traffic
lazes towards rain-slicked
on ramps.
Below the river, swollen,
and the water buffalo pedestrians
bracing under the bridge underbellies
and store front awnings,
no choice left but waiting

lining up in
rush-hour congestion,
remind me of the colored construction paper circles
I made in grade school:
caterpillar length reading lists
each separate circle representing a book I had read.
These cars seem so much like circles
their many colored bumpers touching.
Each separate driver inside inching forward
carrying with him or her
a daily story
from the stacked curves of the highways
towards home.

Rounded mackerel sky above continues melting.
Oozing profusely.
Washing down pavement and pothole.
Splashing tires and stick figure humans.
Fog fingerlets rolling in around
occasionally obscuring the city
from complete view.

I watch from the bus.
perched high in my seat,
So agreeable.
Observing the ways of the weather.
Rain feels so much simpler than
Midwestern winters.
Everything there blanketed in
from late October until sometimes mid-April.

Shifting focus
I begin to sketch the back
of the bus driver
into memory.
His broad shoulders
are taut lines
tense with concentration.

So unlike me.
Dazzled by the
rhythym of windshield wipers.
Twin lulling pendulums carrying me
back to
some old watercolor daydreams
mixing and falling
in with the puddling
of unending showers.
Where I trickle down
to fade
into the cracked sidewalks
of my past.

Copyright March 15 2012 All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells    Meloo of Tilt-a-World

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem

 Privacy Statement       Terms of Use  © 2000-2019 ++++ Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors