Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2019 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   321724 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry


Read Poetry
The Inner String

The Hoping

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Night Train


wandering the rolling hills ...(written for his model)

All The Changing....


Lonesome Love

two out of three people

A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

The Little Bird Said

cat speech

Funny, Not Funny

All You Have To Do Is Breathe....


A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out


Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

Last Night

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

More Poetry >>


  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook


I Am Sad For Mr Jagger's Girlfriend

Mick Jagger's girlfriend
is dead
He is distraught
over the loss of
his long-time companion.

It is a trend,
they say.
People of a certain age
are dying
dropping like
flies, fallen leaves,
too old,  they've been told,
they've lost their

Value is
bright and shiny and
belongs to youth.

Woe to the dulled
copper pennies
of life, woe
that they feel
a certain uselessness.

Out-moded, they are
yesterday's non-computerized
looking for meaning but
living well beyond their expiration

Its not too late
to kick the bucket,
blast yourself back
into the auto-matonic outer space.
Return your star dust
back to God.

How irresponsible of the
Un-News-Worthy Newscaster
to spew her doom over the
"They are dying in waves,"
she brayed...
"Well before their time
and by their own hands."

ages 49 to 64
leaving because
they've been penciled out
of future's plans?

Reaching my left hand right into
the guts of the radio, I wanted
to shake the sunshine from
a voice trained
to be unnaturally
cheerful. Sickened by
her earfuls.

And so, the twenty-somethings
blubber and deplore their
joblessness or underemployment,
much too outraged and crippled by
their school time debt.

At least they haven't been
counted out of
the living,

I am sad
for Mr. Jagger's
Who had her own name.
Who had a birth, and many years in between a shortened life.
Who thought she'd out-lived
her usefulness.

I understand.
She deserves a better
epitaph than long-time

Copyright March 20, 2014 all rights reserved by
this author/ Meloo/ Melissa A Howells
site: Tilt-a-World

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem