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A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

THE STITCH IN THE TELEPHONE WIRES

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

The Differences

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak



Wisdom of the Infinite

Not Someone's Grand Illusion

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Great Big Waterproof World

The Storm

I Turn Forward

Patch-Worked Trilogy

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

The Make-Up of Molecules

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Dragons

HOW

EVENTUALLY...

THERE WILL BE MORE ...

At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

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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
usefulness.

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
generation,
looking for meaning but
living well beyond their expiration
dates.

Inferred:
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
airwaves.
"They are dying in waves,"
she brayed...
"Well before their time
and by their own hands."

Are
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,
yet.

I am sad
for Mr. Jagger's
Girlfriend.
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
companion.


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





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