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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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usually I feel better
only afterwards

writing is akin to
an aching
an opening up of the wound
a blood-letting
to release poisons
into torrents of words

everyday hurts
they take their toll

some poisons are more effective
because they seem to choose me
why do I let them chose?

who in their right mind
would choose poison
its not as if almonds
improve the complexion of the mind

here is my sweet sip
in its pretty blue cup
the one with swaying blue willows

drinking it up
for me
isn't much of a choice

why then
would I even choose?

LEGAL copyright for this poem
and also for this writer
and also for this legally copyrighted
site Title: Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World.
7:23am pst after one very long night

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