Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2020 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   352509 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry


Read Poetry
Wisdom of the Infinite

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

The Differences

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

The Voice Lost In the Wires

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Great Big Waterproof World

The Storm

I Turn Forward

Patch-Worked Trilogy

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

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

The Make-Up of Molecules

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)





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

More Poetry >>


  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook


Checking Out

I'm not here
any longer
its the wind
I'm the wind
those too familiar sounds through my ears
I'm not here

I'm checking out
so silent
as to go unseen

the one wearing
dull green
and dull brown
a mixture of earth
so I might be stepped around

I'm not here
I'm checking out
so silent
as to go unseen

not the usual tactic
being quiet
so the monsters avoid me
at last

the past
not in this moment
the past no longer adheres to me
tightly and fast

I thought I preferred
but attention fades
and is eaten up
by the Mass
my silence is
the new re-invention
my lease here has lapsed

I'm not here
I'm checking out
so silent
as to go unseen

taking up space takes more talent
than any talent
I've been deemed

I'm going back into the earth
to the brown
to the dirt-nap
with the grass and the weeds

a-mixed with
the un-sightlies,
the un-seemlies,
the shriveled,
the dried-up
the un-green

I'm checking out
the white out's tipped over
the silence of my experiment
has granted me
sweet invisibility

so silence
is the Never-never
not again
to be seen
go ask the Doorman,
ask the Night Manager,
ask the Cabbie
who always wore the same dirty jeans

So quiet becomes the Grave
as to be all that is unseen.

Legal Copyright for this Poem 8:35pm PST 4/8/2019
and also for this Poet Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title...

This was written directly for the page.
I may or may not come back to re-edit.
Blue Menu.

There are many double-entendres contained within this poem
...The Grave means more than just a hole in the
literally refers to the person writing this poem.
There are also a lot of other-worldly metaphors
The Doorman, The Cabbie, The Night Manager all refer to
the literal person...but also a Being much greater than that.
This poem may require more than one reading, if you
want to make the effort. Thank you.

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem