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The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

I Long For Stars

All Beings Considered

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past



Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Cuba Libre

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

I Write This To Remember


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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

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

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
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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