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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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Beautiful Friend

dancing, a homeless Shaman
man in a sparkling pink cap.

cocks his head sideways,
looks up into me.
I can see his heart in his eyes
as he stares up into the night.

he sings familiar notes, his voice
pained, plaintiff with the music:

"This is the end, beautiful friend,
this is the end..." **

rain pours like its poured all day.
its just a taste of the monsoon season
to come. and the days of grey are stacking up
into the future.

"west coast weather is lonely," he says.

from the black pitcher of the sky
a rare peal of thunder sounds.

"pardon me, ma'am" he says, "but music is
all there is that soothes my soul."
and he picks up the old refrain again...

"this is the end, my only friend, the end..." **

smiling, I say, "ma'am is what they call my Mother, sir"

" I know," he replies...."but don't we all get older
in the end?" and picks up the verse again.

he's out in the street light now, face bruised,
a fresh gash across his nose.

"I'm just waiting for the taxi to the next world,
the next life..." he grins.

smiles so wide I feel I can peer down into
his throat to see the cancer growing throughout his body.
a shudder and I feel the cold night air
going through mine.

"no need to call the po-po, ma'am...I'll be gone soon
or soon enough..."
and then he disappears into a glowing patch of fog,
the Doors Of Perception
blinking closed.

Copyright September 30,2013 with the initial writing
begun sometime in September 2007.
All Rights Reserved by This Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World

**--Music from The Doors, " The End"
based on my experiences in Portland Oregon

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