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

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Devious

Checking Out

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home



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

Unwelcomed Like So Much Unfinished Business

In March (Finally, Spring 2016)

All For Algernon

Weak In The Knees

The Finisher's Song

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

All Beings Considered

This Is It

Max on the max

I Long For Stars

Falling Leaf, Falling Man/Woman, Rising Star

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

Its About Waking In The Middle Of The Night And Having To Write It All Down

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

If I Could Be The Sky...

It Feels Better To Be Unfinished (Wish-Unspoken, But With My Eyes)

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For The Loss Of Words


words are
a lost art

and we are losing them
oh, yes we are

words have been...

an art of crime
splashed across
a fence
or bloodied brick facade

words have been
prayers
hushed
grumbled
to a silent
blind-eyed God

without words

not even a mumble
can be exchanged
nor a hot syllabic
interchange nor
the hypnotic weaving
creation
of a holy conversation
occurs

words used and meant to stir

but
words
are no longer spoken carefully
or listened to
they are more often
than not tossed about
misunderstood
manipulated
worn out
run down
boots

I wonder at the loss
of language
and if any one would
notice
or would they know how

and would noticing do
any of
us
good
when its too late

I miss real words

I miss them being heard

I listen for some sense
I listen for justice
I listen for truth
I listen for words
with conviction
and strength

words that stand up
on their on two feet
and scream

is there
someone
anyone

who would
go to any length
to defend
his
her
words

where is that person
show yourself

I hear mostly noise
nonsense
echos
and lots
of violence

dazed
we are

we are
robotic
methodical
pedantic
plotting
even dulled by indifference

the juice of life
has been sucked dry
out of our marrows

we have been frightened
into their very
narrows and
their little ways of thinking
and behaving

without our words
we are lost

this is
why
I must write

for these are the days
I call the
Times/New Roman

the armies await marching orders
from the ruling Kapitals

while keen remote eyes
are counting our keystrokes

remember your birthright of words
use them now
before they are taken from you.


3-23-2015 3:52 pm All Rights Are Reserved By This Author
All Poetry/Prose/Ideas/Rants/Words Are the Legal Property of this Writer
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World








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