meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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Unseen, The Lilacs And The Daffodils

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

A Man Of The Clouds

The Cruel In The World (Blue Bag Metaphor)

Somtimes in Surrender



Encounter Before Dawn

Shedding Your Skin

Liminality

A Smattering Of Mattering (How Do You Matter)

NEEDING /KNEADING MORE (sometimes)

WHAT WILL YOU THINK GENTLE READER, AFTER YOU'VE FINISHED READING THIS?...We Are All Star Children

Not My Season

I Will Return

Like The Wind In The Middle Of The Night

The Hoping

Better To Bend Than Be Broken (CHANGE)

Belle Du Jovan

The Hope Of All These Things Which Would Never Come In a Box

The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Informed Through Pain

All Too Clearly Now

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past

Shrine

Silver-Tongued Devil

TONIGHT

The Factory of Resentments

Expect Yourself

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

One Which Brings Me Unending Release

Where The Weird Actually Tried To Turn Pro

Accountants

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

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Unknowing


Depression is a deep blue bowl
with old sour milk
in which the mouse nearly drowns
because he thinks only of how thirsty he is
and not how to climb out.

Sadness is that same blue bowl
with a wide crack
which is a means for the light to escape
and move on to a new place
the mouse,
doesn't even enter into the equation.
he's left the room to move on
and find his next piece of tasty cheese...
such is the difference between these two storylines.

The unknowing dream is a dream
in which there is a sticky thin sheet
so filmy I walk into it
and get caught.

I see Her
and find I cannot move on.

She's frail, precious and pale
a singular puff-cloud negotiating
a sky of darker clouds
wearing a sack-gown of daisy flannel

Sitting Indian-style
wide-eyed in front
of a box blaring inscrutable language
She's barely aware of me...
Hello isn't a word
which registers
until a new light enters into Her eyes.

But I  wait and I wait
and the gauzy film once thin
now grows opaque.

The incoming waves of Her thoughts
have cast me adrift off to sea...
She doesn't know me.

She is as Real As Flesh
to me
but I have no name
I am eclipsed
I have no address
for the Collapsed House
of All of Her Memory.


legal copyright for this poem
directly to the page
and also for this writer

Melissa A Howells
and also for this legally  copyrighted site title

Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World
7:11am PST October 19th 2018.
9:56 PM final edit Friday October 19, 2018 PST





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