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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Call This Our Autumn

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

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



Falling Leaf, Falling Man/Woman, Rising Star

It Comes At Night

The Hot Seasons

Perhaps I Too, Was Frozen

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)

Oh What A Fall

Last In Class

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)

I Long For Stars

From The Point Of A Star

Someone Send Out A Search Party

This Is It

If I Were Your Island....

Spokes Spoken

Plain Speakin' (Lyrical Poem)

All Beings Considered

It Is The Rain

Like a Small Child Tucked Into

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

Its Their Problem

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

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Live And Let Live


large round bees
finding a cranny
in the crack of our building
soon enough someone will take them down
destroy their borrowed home
its a mistake to be so close to the ground
and be accessible
to the inevitable
humans who are simply other animals
who have 3 pounds* of adjustable parameters
in their heads
but fail to use them when they can
do not see
everything simply wants to
live and let live

one day
everything that constitutes life
will be gone
and returned back to whence we came
recycled back into star dust
its inescapable how
each and every one of us
big brain brutal creatures
and the ones with shorter lives
share so much
in that we all return
to the other side
that might be
what is truth
what is distraction
don't you owe it to the lesser ones
to generate kindness and mercy
and not the usual infractions

why doesn't the inevitableness of
your own death
make you kinder
why instead is it a reminder
to be cruel
is it because death steals
from all of us
what we value so very much
another day
another sun
another look into the eyes of someone
another possibility
another shot at a dream
life is a kind of sleep
I've heard we awaken
when we die

yet none of us
are in any big hurry to
arrive at this destination
be kind
be kind
be kind

do not destroy
that which has
only a little borrowed time
in which to live.

* footnote: the 3 POUNDS to which I'm referring to
is the exact weight of our brain, of which humans
are reputed to possess greater intellect, yet we
program ourselves badly.

legal copyright for this work/poem
and also for this author/writer/poet
Melissa A Howells and also for this
11:35AM PST/April 24, 2018 date/time stamped for copyright

It strikes me as odd and ironic how I write
and write and yet there will come a time
when no one will notice me after I am gone
and all that will remain is a bunch of words
(which passed for poetry and pithiness TO ME alone)
and lots of watercolors...and the ragtag significance
which I attached to them will too vanish into dust.

Making meaning while I breathe sustains
me somewhat. Otherwise why would I be doing it?
Why would I be painting so furiously that
I've developed numbness, tingling and occasionally
pain in three outer fingers
in my dominant hand? Is it the knowledge of
my inescapable impermance which I've been
acutely aware of since I was a child?
How fragile everything  and every one of us is.

Here is an altruism: good times and bad times and ALL times
get over.

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