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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)

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

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

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Poetry: Its How I See

Poetry isn't for the faint of heart.
Its for loose cannons
and mavericks.
And those with mutilated egos.
Sometimes, for those who have no one
to talk to but the page.
Poetry is not relegated to an older age.

Poetry is for the misunderstood.
The ones who seem to have no voice
until it comes roaring onto the page
the words reverberating.
Shaking up any heart made out of wood.
Poetry has its own conscience but does
exactly as it thinks it should.

Poetry isn't for Sissies.
Its hard honest work.
Even if it doesn't pay.
It satisfies and sets free
the most troubled of all human hearts.
Its sum is always greater than
its parts, if you listen
from the source within.

Poetry is for the daring.
And sometimes for swearing.
And for saying all the things you missed but wished
you hadn't.
Poetry is having all the oomph that bullets never have.
And the nerve to aim them skillfully at a cad.

Poetry is about tomorrow or today
or the darkness of you left over from yesterday.
Poetry is forever stepping into the future or
dipping into the past. But poetry has the equilibrium
to dance into the present to make a gift of
the moment and make it last.

Poetry is a craft that can be honed.
Like a rouffous pearl it can be lustrous
when its shown.
With a shininess that surprises
and illuminates the disguises we all
hide behind. With poetry there is no place
you cannot go, draw or refine.

(Poetry is an open-to-the-public diamond mine.)

Poetry isn't simply the power of the pen.
Poetry is the place in your mind
and how you live within.
Its an ability to notice what others don't.
Its an ability to magnify what others won't.
Its an alternate universe,
not a faded away country.
Poetry is not for the faint of heart.
Its for the brave. Its where I live.

Sometimes I lurk within
the narrow corners of the dark,
a quiet place my conscious sometimes parks...
until poetry illuminates
becomes the way I see.

Copyright January 30, 2013   All Rights Are RESERVED by this Author
Melissa A Howells/Meloo from her Tilt-a-World

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