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Two Better Pasttimes. ( A Bit O' Rant)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

This Is It

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

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

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

All In The Family (Family, What A Concept)

Unknowing

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

Max on the max

All My Children ( CATS ARE PEOPLE TOO)

How I Think That About Every One...

In Layers

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Silent Endings

All Beings Considered

Wake And Remember

Call This Our Autumn

Small Sentry

If I Could Be The Sky...

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Evidence

Afterwards...

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

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Joyce Will Soon Be Seventy-Something


Joyce will soon
be seventy-something

Her husband died
over twenty-seven years ago
She has a lot in Her storage box
of memories
seems as if She's still very comfortable
talking to nearly every one She meets
but what
she doesn't want you to know
is that She feels alone
and how She feels defeated
and where and how She lives
doesn't much feel like
any kind of home
but more like a last stop

not the sort of place of dignity
where a Seventy-Something Lady
would care to jump off
into the wild blue
She has relatives still living
but She feels forgotten
nearly buried
by Her worries
and fears

the grave looms nearer
yet still She clings on
because life is dear

what does it take to be acknowledged
to be truly seen?
what would it mean if it happened
and would it change for Her,
Her mind?
Her everything?

often I find Her wandering the halls
or see Her walking up the street
always presenting me with Her cheery smile
Her warm hello
making me feel Her presence is some birthday treat

what I rarely hear
is how She feels
alone
even though I can see it in
the forced comedy of Her shrug

"I never thought I'd live to be
this much older"...
She'll say
"maybe its 'cause I've been taking
some better drugs?"

still She'll swear
its so grand to see me
and how the weather couldn't possibly be
any better or any other
than the way it is
(so what would be the use in complaining...)

She'll recall how when Her old car got too old
it was parted out
and how most of Her clothes are worn
but there's not much use in mending
them anymore
yet how She doesn't have the heart
to throw anything away
because each little thing
has some tiny soul
and just wants to be loved

or how it is that older people
mostly frighten the young
with their getting older
but why is it they see frailty and decline in
lined faces and greying temples
instead of understanding how we all will
arrive at this destination
some day...

"Look closely at me, Dear,"
She says...
"see how I'm fading away..."

today, when I knocked
Joyce invited me in
I sat Upon the only comfortable chair
in her tiny apartment
I felt I was sitting on a throne

She sat below me
on the floor
with legs tucked behind Her
she was Hans Christian Anderson's
Harbor Mermaid
seated near my feet
She was
all ears and wide-eyed attention
Her boxes stacked high
like cardboard skyscrapers,
retaining walls housing inside them
everything She ever wanted
or collected or felt She needed
yet
She tells me
She's emptied out

I listen to Her
how She carefully repeats each word
each sentence beginning with
"well, I must tell you..."
and then continuing with
"you just might laugh..."

She smiles then
She engages me with an occasional nod
in Her ringed hands She holds some small token
to ground Her
so that She can focus
be more clear

Joyce
I think
I know
I enjoy giving you my whole attention
Joyce
You are so full of spunky life
Joyce
You make me happy  and feel so important
Joyce
You ought to know how much good you do
every time you bump right into my life

Joyce shifts positions often
sometimes sitting forward
sometimes legs bent Buddha style

is it She's uncomfortable being the focus
of my attentions
She bats Her hand in wide gestures
as if to push me away from her duress

She under-estimates Herself
and doesn't see my best intentions
She blushes and laughs
as if to duck and shuffle out of the way
any compliment I give Her
couldn't be meant for Her
but would have to be more for myself...

my Mother died nine years ago
my Father died the year before
one of my Brothers has a traumatic brain injury
and though I love him so much
it pains me so every time I see how
He's no longer the person He was before
the other Brother tells me how
I no longer exist
and its as if
we've just gone through a divorce
then declared irreconcilable differences
when really its all His
irreconcilable indifference

Joyce
doesn't notice the subtle difference
in how I feel when She is around
She makes me feel like I'm
The Most Important Person In The Room
and once again I have some family around
even though most of them
are gone

Joyce,
some day soon I'll be
Seventy-Something
I hope to be just like you.


LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE
7:34pm 8/2/2018 TIME DATE STAMPED
AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER MELISSA A HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD.

EDITING LATER, THANK YOU.
edited 8/5/2018 11:33am PST





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