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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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Words


some days
words seem like sharp sticks
smacked about
and poked in faces
words used to be more reasonable
and didn't insist
they were the law
or the rule
or the example
or even
the very last word
on the subject
any dang subject
words have changed
or is it the mouths
that speak them
and to whom those
mouths are attached
there seems to be a frail link
to the head
nor consequence attached
we no longer look each other in the eye
but banty words
electronically through the air
and without the stare or look
they often lack
conviction
but purvey
malice and pride
some words are better
left inside.


LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 12:12 pm PST February 26 2019/time-date stamped
and also for this writer/poet/author Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted website
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD





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