Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2018 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   274088 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry


Read Poetry
In Simpatico

Hunger (Whose Is It?)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Not Mine


Dog Lives Are Shorter

Hello Grief...

These Prognosticators And What It Means To Go Missing

Portland/ RIP...This is not an ode or love poem

Better To Bend Than Be Broken (CHANGE)

For You Who Knows The Rain


The Seven Billion

Preschool Presence of Mind

I Long For Stars

All Beings Considered

Have You Ever Been Blue (self talk of encouragement)

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

What Truth There Is When You See It (Maybe I'm A Man...)

transaction and interchange

Throne Of Stars

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

In The Winter Park

Max on the max

And Even Stars Die

Time Does Not Recognize Me

The Knowledge...

Some Women/Some Woman

Crowded Out

what makes a monster (sympathy for the monster)

Laughing Maid (They Called Me)


More Poetry >>


  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook


Sometimes I Hear Him

I carry Him with me
in my purse
pieces of Him
I've saved His fur
and put it into packets
black fluffy motes
small puffs of smoke of Him
curried from off the bedroom carpet
and other places He slept

I open it occasionally and peer in
hoping it will transform
back into Him

I can smell the sachet,
the soothing warmth of his compact body
radiating from the packets

I don't know why I do this
bracing myself
like I do with my prayerful

sometimes I close my eyes
take a deep whiff
and I'm certain
so very sure
I hear Him.

12:35pm PST date/time stamped
legal copyright for this poem/work and also
for this author/writer Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World

Ghuey kept me company in my early mornings
before I'd go to work doing art with clients.
I'd give Him His insulin, His special food,
feed the crows and squirrels for Him so he'd
have something to watch from off the balcony.
Occasionally He would come into my lap. Always
He'd come over to see what I was up to and as
Himalayans often do, He'd chirp...His way of
making conversation with me. This was our habit
for years. I still rise early expecting to see Him.

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem