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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Your Next New Dying Black Swan



The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past

Accountants

Shrine

Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Cuba Libre

Dragons

Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself

TONIGHT

I WILL RETURN

Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

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(poets beware...someone is hacking or
editing the creativity out of your work...see at the end of this
once beautiful poem which I now have to try to piece
together from memory....)

June 30 2015..update...I found an old copy of this poem,
so I am doing my best to restore it to its original form.


the violent steep valley
the undulating hills
echo through me un-quietly
how does a sad poet fall down
the steel mouse sits at her window sill
rusting away
knowing she has never had her day
and all there will ever be is rust

there are my sweets, my beloved boys...
they are two small children heaving their lungs
hard and high filling the room
with billowing clouds of air and
with their heavy sighs

but sleep does not meet me
half way
my mind is un-quieted
a violent steep valley 
undulating hills
they spread out before me
echoing un-quietly

how does a sad poet fall down
the pale steel mouse frets
at the window sill
rusting away
watching the clouds as they steadily
fill up the sky
and the rain never goes away
and the rust on her mantle
is her inheritance

so many live carefully emeshed within
the amber light of day
their skin is pigmented rosy with success
I've lived in the waning
it is a monstrousness
sometimes half-awake pinned like a butterfly
sweating to a mat
other times pinned to a nightmare
each a web of marionette madness

where do the fear words come from
do ideas come full-formed
miasma from the air

and

hope is a tsunami of drowned debris

and

I am the black art witch
if this is any art for which you care


I doubt it


I am past the point of
care...
(where is this located
on the atlas by the way,
or is it significant enough
to be on any world maps?)

you either read or don't read this
you chose or chose to not chose
you filter and sift
or you let stink what you believe sinks in here

go ahead,
be your own Ship Titanic

or

be your own Savior

or

be your own Buddha of Benevolence

or

be your own Meme-oh

be oh-so-right

then make yourself great feet of clay
dissolve yourself in pills, drugs or alcohol
take a picture of yourself each hour of the day
so you disappear less
when you die

I know things:

I've already drowned a lifetime ago
pulled myself to shore in a north flowing river
I know about reincarnation
reinvention, rust
un-quietness

but, today is the advent of
the self-important
self-referential
generation
who at times
just doesn't care
nor knows what it means to notice

so why not join them
and
just
p*ss off...

call me a rotten windbag
but call me it soon
write me an epitaph
or a dirge for the bassoon
because we're
all
out
of time
sooner than we think
and I've been thinking way too much
lately

un-quietly

and the time?

I just checked my watch and the second hand
on my watch is missing...
yes,
we're outta time.


COPYRIGHT August 30, 2014 ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THIS AUTHOR
MELOO/MELISSA A HOWELLS
SITE/COPYRIGHT (STRAIGHT FROM HELL ) TILT-A-WORLD
ALL IDEAS/RANTS/POETRY AND PROSE ARE LEGAL PROPERTY OF
THIS WRITER
THANK YOU FOR READING

recently re-edited March 2015
recently re-edited April 19, 2015/final edit


June 24th 2015...I recently noticed that my site was
well HACKED AND THAT THIS POEM HAD BEEN EDITED...
IN SUCH A WAY THAT I WOULD NEVER WRITE...NOT COOL.
Even the type face was changed and theme was changed
and all of the flow and word-choice were unrecognizable in places.
Violet was substituted for violent...i.e.
This was a poem that I worked diligently on and poured my heart into.
This wasn't yours to mess with. Artistry is sacred. To be respected.

******* June 30 2015/
I found a copy of the old poem. Made necessary revisions. Blessings!


LEGAL COPYRIGHT TO THIS WORK THIS SITE TITLE BY THIS AUTHOR





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