melissaahowells

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The Petty Player Who Rarely Sleeps

I'd Like A Taste (The Wolf Said)

The Crow Is A Black Bird

When I Start to Bloom

I'd Like To Be Your Shirt (when you wake up in the morning)



All Beings Considered

Words Between Edward And Jane

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

The Great Tsunami Of Our Growing Grief written 3/2.2021--retitled 3/14/2021

After Wide Sargasso Sea ( For Those of You Readers Who Have Empathy For the First Mrs. Rochester.)

WAITING ON THE WORLD (March/February 2021 poetry)

Wild and Unraveling

What Must Be

These Hands Exist July 4 2023 rei-edited 7/12/2023

I Am The Color Of Black

The Tide of Your Lies (2019-2023)

How I Wanted Your Pearls 6/24/2023 WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE

Love Wants What Love Wants re-edited 5/31/023

Winter's Been Too Long.... 4/18/2023 (LONGING)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Like A Small Street Dog Lured In By The Promise Of Meat

This Is What Mermaids Dream Of

At Night, As I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

And You Will Be Called Ashes As You Leave ( from a dream)

Certainly No Bread 3/16/2022

Someone Send Out A Search Party

THE FAN , AT NIGHT, GIVES GOOD ADVICE completely re-edited, an entirely different poem

What Is The Price For Your Touch? re-editied 5/31/2023

Where Is My Bed With The Pleasing Tree -Lined View(NOW REEDITED)

Oh What Fine Physics (Before Me ,Lies) re-edtited @4/17/2023

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

THE COMPANY THAT WE KEEP WITH THE ONE WITHIN

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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
and
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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