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The Inner String

The Hoping

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Night Train


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

All The Changing....


Lonesome Love

two out of three people

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

The Little Bird Said

cat speech

Funny, Not Funny

All You Have To Do Is Breathe....


A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out


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

Last Night

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

More Poetry >>


You have gotten too many poems.
You are a greedy ghost.
Your words come fast to me in the night
when I haven't a pen
but just a splaying of thoughts,
like old blood soaking into paper.

Who were you then? How are you now?
When did you make the escape or,
did you? I did, I thought. But perhaps not.
Am I different or is the difference that
different, or is the difference that
I no longer change?

Old cells dying off but
old memories remaining.
Sometimes a dream is a blink but I think
even language, your words can be
ingrained as
indelible ink.

I am trying to clear my head.
But all the shaking from side to side
isn't erasing you.
I have had a long night of listening.

The Chinese, I've heard, have a practice of
banishing ghosts on one night of the year.
I don't want you here. In my dreams or my head.
How does one, could one, re-kill the dead?

Placate them a bit...so they don't return to remit
all their dead vitriol onto
and into the living.
Are you worthy of forgiving?

Sometimes I believe the living
can be dead to us too.
You and I became dead in a certain
"memory space"
where and when I remember a time
when you dug into my face
and whispered "Goddess" into my rounded ear as
I was near dying myself.
98 pounds of nothing with a label.

Was it a goading, a rhetorical remark,
an encouragement to remain in my dark
where my bone spider eyes stared out
into your and my nothingness?

The Goddess who doesn't eat nor sleep.
Doesn't drink. Cries dry tears as she weeps.
Your Goddess, a husk, marionette on a string.
She isn't, wasn't me. Your Goddess. Not me.

Giving up my life to the blood-pumper for free.
Sad dried-up cow with no home. Like being led to slaughter.
Wake up its a dream. You're not death;s fodder.
No Marilyn woman toy girl lost last at the ball.
You do not answer to the Goddess girl call...
Chase bombshell blond beauty tiny foot/hand cutie
down the dark hall to the light where she'll fall
and disintegrate into ash...to rise up at last
into some bird but no Chica-chickadee.

Goddess baby, she isn't me.
Be gone you male necromancer.
Be gone too
Goddess Ghost.

Copyright November 13, 2012 All Rights Reserved By This Author
Melissa A Howells    / Melissa/Meloo  Tilt-a-World

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