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A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life


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Wisdom of the Infinite

Not Someone's Grand Illusion

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After Wide Sargasso Sea

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The Storm

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Beyond Door Number Three

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Elise, Elise

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Someone Send Out A Search Party

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At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

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Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

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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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