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A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old

Just Beyond The Door

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise



MOLECULES

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

threading myself through the river of night

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Dragons

HOW

EVENTUALLY...

THERE WILL BE MORE ...

At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

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

How Does It, 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

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All For Algernon


carefully
I planted them
in the furthest fields of my heart
perennials of every hue
all for Algernon

flowers that would not be
plucked nor picked
flowers that would grow in
wildly thick
all for Algernon

blue for skies and pink for clouds
reds and purples for luck
and golds for warming sun
yellows for the optimism of many days yet to come
and knowing every Spring there'd always be
flowers
all for Algernon

one day Algernon didn't rise
nor come out to play
he'd barely eaten, barely slept
his eyes look glazed and far away

that day Algernon was no longer
the fellow I once knew
well-attended flourishing and aglow with health too
like all the flowers for Algernon
I tenderly kept

the second morning Algernon could no longer rise
his voice barely above a whimper
his legs were wobbly and awry
off to the doctor he was dispatched
as knowing tears filled our eyes

but on the second day Algernon succumbed
aided by a needle to his final rest
I feared the flowers in the far fields
too would no longer come
knowing Algernon would not return
their purpose had been
after all
to grow and strive and yearn
all for Algernon

carefully
I had planted in my heart
a garden for Algernon's play and rest
in that garden
lived all of him that was best
I tell myself
this is surely where we all live on
with the other secret blooms
waiting for another vivid Spring
when we'll fine evidence again
of the places where Algernon has joyfully stayed
and played
the place where the spirit of Algernon lives on
and where He has always been.

January 3, 2019 4:37PM Pacific Standard Time/time date stamped
legal copyright for this poem/and also for this writer
Melissa A. Howells and also for this legally copyrighted site title
Meloo Straight For Her Tilt-a-World
re-edited 3:51pm PST January 4 2019 for clarity and emotional content


The literary reference is intentional
for those of you who know the book
or maybe know the film. To have someone
who is so precious in your life or a gift
or an ability that is so integral a part of you
and then to have lost any of these people, friends,
(animal or human which often are one and the same or
some intangible but essential ability that actually
becomes a part of our identity...who we think we are.
This poem is about loss. If you haven't read the book
or seen the film, you ought to.





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