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

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019


Checking Out

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

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

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

If I Could Be The Sky...

It Feels Better To Be Unfinished (Wish-Unspoken, But With My Eyes)

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Sky of  Pall

This is not a religious poem.
Are You listening?
Is Your face behind the clouds?
No, I see the clouds have blown away.
I, too, now am dissipated.

Why do You not speak aloud?
Make Your voice a thunder?
And did You make this fine day?
Or has the day created itself?
As we, each, must make our own way
relying on poor dumb luck and

I confess.
I have a problem I didn't make.
I cannot find the answer within myself.
I cannot create happiness.
Not within the sky.
Why? Oh,...are You asking?

I have no family nor neighbors.
Left here, I am, left alone
to only Your regarding eyes.
I've heard You see all things.
But I wonder if You're as wise
as they say?
Letting us/me muddle through it down here
in this awful everyday way.

I am one who's spent much of her life alone...
Living in shadows while I was
burnt by your sun.
Am I a raisin?
Or a human being?

What does not kill us
sometimes merely eats us.
What does not kill us
wears us down to defeat us.
What does not kill us
crawls and thrives
making messes
making us send out many many
call distresses
to the Skies
that seem filled with Pall.
Are You listening at all?

You do not aid
but listen dumb and blind.
Sky of Pall, my throat is dry from calling;
I guess You have forgotten to mind
the store.
Or left it carelesly in the care
of the killers.

Copyright August 12 2001
Melissa A Howells Meloo Tilt-a-World

I found this in an old I added this in.
I wrote this when I first moved to P-town. I was sad, lonely.
I ammended and edited it to adhere to my sense of writing today.

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