Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2017 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   265790 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry


Read Poetry
Laughing Maid


Some Women/Some Woman

The Knowledge...

Time Does Not Recognize Me

I'm A Slug

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

I Long For Stars

And Even Stars Die

Crowded Out

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

All Beings Considered


what makes a monster (sympathy for the monster)

Max on the max

why We celebrate the losers

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

The Times Have Come Back Of Great Want And Lack, This Is The New Great Depression

The Light Goes On In The Attic (WeAll Have Addictons)

Little Water Bug ( learning the lesson of true pain)

Hope You Enjoyed The Eclipse While It Lasted

Written For My Father Who Isn't Here To Know

I Feel Fine(r)

And With Words I Let Them Go

Used to Think I Could Fix Them.

Sometimes Love Comes With Electricity

Into The Swirling Sea Of White.

Boy Restored

Life's A Candle

Malla Batsick

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