melissaahowells

      Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2022 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   460009 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry

   


Read Poetry
Appetites

Entanglements

THE TIDE CALLED LONELINESS

The Great Tsunami Of Our Growing Grief written 3/2.2021--retitled 3/14/2021

The Smile Which Eludes @



He Says To Me, I Think Too Much (and hence dream too much as well)

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

Words Between Edward And Jane

When You Learn Who You Really Are And What Is...

Certainly No Bread 3/16/2022

This Is What Mermaids Dream Of

It No Longer Surprises Me...

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

You Do As You Please 8/17/2005 found poem, readjusted 6/20/22

Anti-Poem Number Three 8/2/2022 Or, A Poem Your Proper Mother Wouldn't Write

Breathing On My Own

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

I LOVE YOU ALWAYS ANYWAY AND INSTEAD

Talk To Me In The Dark 7/8/2022

ANOTHER REFRIGERATOR POEM 7/2/2022

A NOT-S0-SILLY ANTI-POETRY DITTY

In And In Between The Silence 6/21/2022

Not Alone In the Darkness (As I Once Thought I Was)

Each One Of Them Is Accounted For (And Matters)

The Fire Once Within Goes Cold From Lack

Like Books Full Of Stories Stacked Behind Her

Call It Grace (another Anti-poem)

Like A Small Street Dog Lured In By The Promise Of Meat

Lights Out

Saudade: the feeling of wanting to be near someone who is far and distant

That No One But I Will Know (anti-poetry)

To Be In The Way

More Poetry >>

 
Features

  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook

 
   

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
pitch.

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.
boo-who?

she's beyond speech and
reproach,
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






Vote for this poem