melissaahowells

      Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2020 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   368555 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry

   


Read Poetry
<< [Previous]

Shedding Your Skin

On the Wings Of A Bird

My Heart Knows Him Still ( For TLP)

NEEDING /KNEADING MORE (sometimes)

WHAT WILL YOU THINK GENTLE READER, AFTER YOU'VE FINISHED READING THIS?...We Are All Star Children



Not My Season

Belle Du Jovan

The Hope Of All These Things Which Would Never Come In a Box

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

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

A Man Of The Clouds

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

Informed Through Pain

Shrine

Silver-Tongued Devil

I Will Return

TONIGHT

Expect Yourself

When My Blues Are Gone

The Factory of Resentments

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

Where The Weird Actually Tried To Turn Pro

Accountants

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

Errands (WHAT ARE YOUR UNOFFICIALLY APPOINTED ERRANDS?)

the earth is our mother

Marinate On This

I Write This To Remember

And I Smile ( Little Little Bird)

More Poetry >>

 
Features

  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook

 
   

Better To Bend Than Be Broken (CHANGE)


So strange.
What I can always
rely upon
is
change.


Why should I bother?
Why, complain?
About anything as immovable,
predictably unpredictable
as change?


I take one big flop forward,
one bigger flop behind.
I'm not afraid.
I'm trying
not to feel the edge
of IT.
Remain composed in my mind.
Its
only the condition of the conditions of
change, unrefined.
Cursed change.


But, these days,
I feel like a beggar.
Like I've staked a corner
asking for spange. Pleading.
Asking for something better.
What I get is change.
Wicked change.


Whether its the wind direction,
whether its weather-foul,
change,
can be counted on,
insincere BUT reliable,
sometimes undesirable
as cheap pleather.
Blasted change.


Change.
If I don't bend with it
I may snap.
I'm finding it more difficult
to rejoin my separating halves.
Damn change,
full-tilt ahead.


Change.
Who could've conjured it?
Yet, I'm along for the ride.
Am I past the circle of tolerance?
Am I past the point where
my thinning skills can abide?


As long as there's life,
then salt and tears will flavor it.
One thing will remain the same:
Time.
And time will always sell
with it,
change.


Better to bend than be
broken
or rotting in the grave.

Death can be so permanent.
Why not chose then,
change.

Copyright July 21  2013 Directly to the page. All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells  Meloo Tilt-a-World





Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

Comments

 Email Address