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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

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

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

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



Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Cuba Libre


Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

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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
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

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