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

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Someone Send Out A Search Party

Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month

Words

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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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Adult Child Has Questions For Her Dead Parents.


I have thoughts in my head I'd like
to share with them.
I can't.
They're dead.
Earlier than most.

They are...
Beyond the reaches of healing.
Beyond the shores of forgetfulness.
Yet, I can not forget them.
The nuisance of the minutia I wish to share
threatens to remind me of them, daily.


How they did not take care of themselves.
How they did not take care of me.
How, in ways small and large,
they were incapable of caring. For
they'd been damaged by something as
indiscernible but palpable as
life.


Together
they were so miserable as once man
and wife.
And, at times, miserable with the
responsibility of children.


What do I want? Its
a question they never  would have asked.
I want them back with all the troubles
of the past that
having them alive entails.
But it won't happen.
I know this.
I don't have super powers.
Lapsed mortals do not resurrect.
Time does not lapse backward. The dead don't hear
in the present. They merely
malinger.


So, I talk to them in dreams.
I talk to them in poems.
Tears of frustration rise, some days,
in my eyes. I pretend it is the wind
causing them. It is not
the wind.


They were both
larger-than-life personalities.
Even on family vacations,
improbably, people, everywhere, knew them.
They made large foot prints while
they were living. Charming,
disarming lots of gullible strangers. But,
taking a different tone at home.


They are both ashes, now.
Past the pains of, the plane of
existence.
Burnt offerings,
to the Gods,
but are they
worth my forgiving?


In a dream I speak to them:
Why didn't you take care of yourselves better?
(Answer me! Please?)


On paper I write to them:
Why didn't you take care of me?
(No answer.)





Copyright April 4, 2013 All Rights Reserved By This Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her tilt-a-world
Re-edited and hopefully improved April 6th, 2013





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