melissaahowells

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Little Man Orange--My Mister Peanut Butter Trout

Wisdom of the Infinite

THE STITCH IN THE TELEPHONE WIRES

The Differences

I Turn Forward



The Storm

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

The Make-Up of Molecules

I Will Return

Marinate On This

A Smattering Of Mattering (How Do You Matter)

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

from the tomb of three days sleeping

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

Lemonade Days and Rhubarb Pies

Life Among Clouds

HOW

EVENTUALLY...

THERE WILL BE MORE ...

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

A Man Of The Clouds

The Cruel In The World (Blue Bag Metaphor)

Somtimes in Surrender

Encounter Before Dawn

Great Spirit

Shedding Your Skin

Liminality

NEEDING /KNEADING MORE (sometimes)

WHAT WILL YOU THINK GENTLE READER, AFTER YOU'VE FINISHED READING THIS?...We Are All Star Children

Not My Season

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Open Lines


*********************


no caring words have passed
between your lips
dear Brother
they're stitched through
with black thread
you've become the dead
as silent as the grave

the past
the truth
are all lost too
your words explode like cannons
in my head

we're un-alike
you said
so we must
consider this a divorce

you  said
I may have been your sister once
but what's between us
has run its course

he's alive
he lives his life
not thinking one jot of me
he lives ever so carefully
high up on a hill
his perch looks down on everyone
and everything

his phone's been changed
his media's blocked
his mailman knows my name
any evidence of me has been
removed from plain sight
it's always been this way

at night
in a dim and darker past
at night
sometimes when I dare dream
he materializes from the mist
I try to cry out
my words not words
but a silent angry scream

his arm thrust up in the sky
sometimes he carries a bow
sometimes he aims arrows at me
barely missing high or low

did we ever know each other
did we slide down a wintry hill
did I make sure you had enough to eat
did I stick up for you and take your blows
so you could rest and sleep

didn't I defend your name
didn't I dodge your Bo-bo jabs
didn't I hear your pain
each time you were pummeld by Dad

no more open lines
nor an open range
you set up all your posts for high fences

this was your decision
not really mine

I've decided
not to get caught this time
in your barbed wire--
I wonder,
what would our Mother say?



legal copyright for this poem 12:07 PM PST
and also for this poet Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World

 





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