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The Hoping

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Night Train

Nameless



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

All The Changing....

HOME

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....

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A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out

Devious

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

Words

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

Wake And Remember

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Chicken Fat


you've got your name for me...

you call me
chicken fat.

you think it hurts
each time its spat out
from your foul mouth.

but I think different.

I meditate on this:

fat is what keeps the chicken warm
fat is what keeps the chicken from harm
I think THAT in my head every time your meaty fist pummels me
or when you say your black words.

so every time you cackle or caw:
Chicken FAT!

I think on this. And I've studied it some.
I think on how chicken fat melts and sizzles off the bone.
I think on how I might be different when I've grown older.

But also on how
you'll still be the same blackness inside only
growing blacker
and still playing at the same see-saw game of
"I'm better than you"
and still having the
50-50 chance of coming up a loser.

Every day I'm lookin' in the mirror now.
LOOK:
I see a bright red robin tilting her head.
She sings about the promises of Spring.
I see a Lark too. She sings long elaborate songs of a
beautiful summer. And there is a beautiful wise Cedar
Wax Wing who can survive anything that a rough
winter will throw at her. And somewhere in that mirror
might even be a Swan. Long-necked and graceful and proud.

Where are you these day? Is it a sad bitter end to your
tale? You aren't even planted. No one to visit you in your
last garden. There is no grave. And no one to come visit you
long after you are gone. Not even the wind, Sir,

But I have forgiven you. Is it a child's forgiveness?
No, it is my own, now.


Copyright September 4 2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author
(these various words still stuck in my head from a long time ago
thought maybe in different words from different mouths)

All Poetry/Prose/Stories/Rants/Ideas Are the Sole Legal Property
of this Writer/Meloo/Meliss A Howells
Copyright Tilt-a-World

thank you





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