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Informed Through Pain

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home



Where The Weird Actually Tried To Turn Pro

Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

I Long For Stars

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

I Write This To Remember


And I Smile ( Little Little Bird)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)


the earth is our mother

All Beings Considered

This Snake

All Of Who I Was

Where The Dead Don't Mind...

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

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When People Go

I heard a small child say:
"Why is it
when people go
they don't ever come back?

"And why are good-byes,
are not so good?"

Today the March snow falls.
Spring is nowhere near.
Warmer days are
a foggy distant memory.

I squint.
Try to recall why you liked Winter best...

How you could skate backwards...
and make school figures with precision.
You sang mezzo-soprano in the church choir
on Christmas morning so proudly.
And when you struggled through my birth
enduring fifty-eight hours of intense labor.

I resented you
for what I thought was your continuous campaign
for self-improvement of me or
anything within your sphere of influence.

Many years we made ornaments together for the tree.
Sold most of them at a boutique for spending money.
Sang carols while we baked quick breads and cookies.

I never told you how much I hated
Christmas, but,
especially, my birthday.

Why didI protect your feelings,
while burying my own?

Several days before you died,
you called me to reconcile.
I ignored the phone,
your pleading message.

Today as I stand here in silence,
your eyes are closed in death.
Yet you appear to be sleeping...
Your clothes are stacked neatly on a corner chair.
You most likely wore clean underwear...
and the freckles are strewn fresh across your face
like familiar daisies.
I've counted every furrows in your brow.
Each worry line is there.

Panic has begun to settle in.
I know...
Surely this is my mistake.

Where do the dead go,
how they get there?
This isn't some stupid question
a silly child needs to know.

Its all wrong.

Mother's gone
Father's gone...
orphaned now
the motherless child.

Time has sped on winged heels.
A familiar ache remains
in persistent, dulled defiance.

She once said to me
"You're stubborn...
full of ill will and
indignant self-reliance.

So now my toes curl
rooted into the floor
as I rage away
in renewed anger and defiance.

Mom, I need you now
yet I can no longer ask.
Time tapped you on your shoulder
years ago
my want remains
but you are beyond the task
thus is the tyranny
of the final silence.

straight to the page.
Legal copyright for this poem March 6, 2019/1:30PM PST time/date stamped
and also for this Writer/Author/Poet Melissa A. Howells and also for this
re-edited for clarity and emotion March 8 2019/7:49 PM PST.

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