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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

You Are (I'm Here With You)

Joyce Will Soon Be Seventy-Something

All Too Clearly Now

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

Like a Small Child Tucked Into

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

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

in-EFFECTIVE (Fragile)

From The Point Of A Star

Someone Send Out A Search Party

If I Were Your Island....

Spokes Spoken

Plain Speakin' (Lyrical Poem)

All Beings Considered

It Is The Rain

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

I Long For Stars

This Is It

Its Their Problem

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

the life and times of Medusa

Max on the max

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

For the Years of Dancing (Dance Hall Days Gone)

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Someone Burned The Trees

Crowded Out

Sometimes Love Comes With Electricity

I Feel Fine(r)

Try To Have A Good Night

Better To Bend Than Be Broken (CHANGE)

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Romance  For The Unrefined Mind...

She liked reading novels
mostly of romance.
She felt it was her only chance
to have some...
just a little bite of fun
she barely bothered anyone
the only bother was
that she had a singularly lonely non-precocious mind.

She came from a place where she lived
well into the background...
she was velvet wallpaper curling back
on herself...
a bit old-fashioned, a bit gauche and unrefined.
She had to borrow love
as a flower borrows sunshine.
She had to garner her only attentions...
even the images and ideas which entertained her
were second-hand from long-ago times.

She read odd old novels
looking for themes which could make her resonate
and chime...
sad sagas mostly of wearied broken-down hearts.
Or long-distance sort of relationship
where love was a protracted unresolved engagements
and no one seemed to quite connect
nor part.

Their desolation were, for her,
so like her own emotional desert.
In her life, she got the most meager notice
or respect.
It was as if her feet left no footprints
no matter how she came or went.

Small rewards she received
for her emotional labors-
she only felt alive reading novels...
their pages were the new growth
green shoots of happiness like new leaves...
symbolic of the aspirations of all her bookish heroines
that is how it was for her
until the end.

They found her curled up
collapsed in on her herself
in a tightly wrapped cocoon...
her lint covered comforter crumpled over her...
she, a little caterpillar hunched over
in an uneven high-back chair
in her dusty living room.

Clutched with in her veiny hands
was one last unsatisfying novel...
in the center of its page some wet residue
as if her eyes had dribbled
in one spot...
the pages like some burial plot
for her graying head.

Late into the night,
lost in her one last novel
her old heart had finally burst like fireworks
as once again she dreamed of becoming
the best bosom friend to one more of her heroines.

Then leaning, pitching forward onto that book
the foolish, full-hearted old woman
found finally the lost pretended love
in life she never took...
and in the next stark morning
they found her cold and dead
yet within her fertile mind swelled images of love
that lived beyond her then, now, and forever.

DRAFT/ directly to the page
will return and edit


re-edited and altered 6:47AM PST April 21, 2018
legal copyright for this newly edited poem/work
and also for this author/writer Melissa A Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title
re-edited 4/22/2018 10:32am PST final edit.

I was listening to the song "Eleanor Rigby:
and thought to myself, what kind of person was she?
And, also, aren't some of us, a bit more like her at times,
than we might care to admit?

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