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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

I Long For Stars

When Mr. Bemish Lost His Last Good Pair of Glasses

Dr. Frankenstein's Surprise (Re-Galvanized)

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

After Wide Sargasso Sea

What Is The Price For Your Touch

This Is What Mermaids Dream Of

My Grey Haired Love...La La Lullaby , La La Lullaby My Love

Words Between Edward And Jane

I'd Like To Be Your Shirt (when you wake up in the morning)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)


Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

A Girl Is More Than a Beautiful Box re-edited 10:15pm PST 1/31/22

The Wonder Cat

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

It No Longer Surprises Me...

Certainly No Bread 3/16/2022

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

WAITING ON THE WORLD (March/February 2021 poetry)

Great Big Waterproof World

Words Being Yours...Until The Grave 4/23/2022

A Stranger In a Strange And Angry Land.


Crimson Lake (From 2008, flashing forward to 2022/April 19)

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

A Girl Always Leaning Forward Looking for A Breeze

Your Candle Burning In the Wind

We'll Decide That For YOU

That Time Love Took Off Running On Its Achilles Heels....


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written in December before Christmas **

pay no attention
to the rise and the fall
of the sea water,
your tears
and your fears...
they are the snakes hissing
a false sermon.

at times were you
treated like vermin?

not performing the right function.
misery is now the injunction.
that pouch-billed b*tch,
is feeding you her regurgitated

and you are swallowing.
your chest now a hallowing,
an empty niche where your heart used
to sleep.
hush now, come now,
not a peep.

this news is a test,
a harbinger, at best.
he was the
son to his Mother,
and she not the Mother
to you.

its an odd time
for thinking of favorites.

she's beyond speech and
here, she's left you her broach
and gifts of all her best lovely jewels.
yet, you find life is curious
and cruel?

fine words would have been
much better gruel.
wasn't it love you
were seeking?
fine food for a fool.

now you slide beneath the water
and waves. there is a certaintly
we will all grow towards our
graves. some even too soon.

and what of this
misappropriated portion of grief?
from which you are finding no
unrelenting relief?

quelle bon chance,
it is tied to the holiday
and makes of your birthday
a bl**dy fine blossoming
funereal wreath.

**the first poem written in anger after
my Mother's untimely death

Copyright written January 2007
most recently rediscovered November 3,2013
Melissa A Howells /Meloo Tilt-a-World

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