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Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

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)

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Someone Send Out A Search Party

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Wake Wake Wake

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Dream Goblins Of The Night

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All For Algernon

Weak In The Knees

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All Beings Considered

This Is It

Max on the max

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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

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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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