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

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

I Long For Stars

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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



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The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Cuba Libre

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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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when, we, en masse, are dying

youth is unwise
for not always will youth be
as they are today
and yet there remains
in their logic
a failure to realize
their fleetingness.

and a sniping-ness
a snooty-snot entitlement
and disdain
lodged within many an action,
perhaps even in thought,
but mostly in an attitude which is
towards elders
towards their environment
towards earth.

I worry about
a propensity towards the loving of
gadgets instead of
fauna, flora, human beings...
unless there be some utilitarian
function. Ugh.

elder-berry's is what we
may be. a decaying rot,
unrefined vintage
not to be listened to.

we, the boomers,
with whom they do not easily
empathize. we, who, in
a short twenty-thirty years
will meet our journey's end,
our due demise...
and the youth who were
youths...will be in charge.
while we die and die by and by
and largely large.
will they notice us,
heed us then,
en masse
are dying?

Copyright September 29, 2013
All Rights Reserved By Author

Melissa A Howells
Meloo from her Tilt-a-World

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