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YOU DO NOT GROW OLD

I Came From Water

Every One of Us Has a Door....

The House Is Alive

THEY NAMED ME ENOUGH



THE CRYPT OF THE KEPT AND THE KEEPER

UNDECIDED

THE MILES THAT ARE LEFT TO GO...

To Them, I am Dead, I am Dead

I Need To Fly

Burying the Dark

Knock, Then Come Through

Being Ourselves...

Like The Wind In The Middle Of The Night

Uncovered

The Blue Buffalo

Little Man Orange--My Mister Peanut Butter Trout

Not Someone's Grand Illusion

Wisdom of the Infinite

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

THE STITCH IN THE TELEPHONE WIRES

Patch-Worked Trilogy

I Turn Forward

The Storm

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

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

Elise, Elise

A Bird, A Fly, A Cripple (Pity Poem?)

The Make-Up of Molecules

HOW

Haiku's In Triplicate

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The Change In The Change(s)



I wonder about the weather
not the social climate
that can be a big enough worry

the changes
of the seasons
how they used to be predictable
and how that
was in itself
comforting

in the Midwest
there were the four seasons
one would follow the other
and each had their place

things to look forward to
and know they would be there in each season
just like comfortable friends
and reasonable expectations

winter could be long
but there would be snow globe snow falls
and blizzards that howled
but were comforting and also mysterious
reliable boots and a good warm coat were a fact of life
as well as dreaded black ice
I fed the birds and squirrels in the park
and made tracks there like was a snowshoe hare

spring was exceptional
an eruption of joy in people
who frequently wore shorts and sandals
as soon as the weather turned 60
the profusion of life and activity
the cheerfulness in the song of the first robin
crocuses and daffodils dancing in zephyr-like breezes
and a gentleness to the air
and in people's faces
ah...warmth is coming, at last...

summer meant the baring of skin
the making of vows for some
the promise of reunions and picnics
and unending blue skies
and the laze of long days and the heights
that grass and weeds and corn could grow
especially by July
the time seemed to creep
but by August it seemed to fly
September seemed a poor joke
sitting at my desk and sweltering
when I would be much happier outside

and fall
harvesting the garden
canning the last of the tomatoes
and making jam and jelly and cracking into
the first summer jar of dill or bread and butter pickles
the honking of south bound Canadian geese in lengthening nights
and how trains sounded further and further away
as their horns echoed through the crisping air
the deliberating trudging through piles of damp leaves
carving pumpkins and baking their seeds
being the character or the person you
always wanted to be
no one know who you were underneath
the makeup, the mask, the sheet

the quartet of seasons
predictable
the annual cycle completed
to be over and over
repeated

not anymore
the rising temperatures
the seven billion people
the extinction of species
the calving of ice bergs
the islands of plastic
the numbers of cellphones
the fewer the conversations in real time
the technology outstripping human grip on humanity
and light speed at which
is nearly profanity

unpredictable
now like the weather
look at our current calamity
separated from one another

maybe
just maybe
we might crave the simple life
once again.

this is more or less a rant and not a poem
read it or don't read it....if you choose to read
my stuff you have well over 800 choices.

LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM/RANT AND ALSO FOR THIS
LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED POET/AUTHOR/WRITER MELISSA A. HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED REGISTERED SITE TITLE
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD





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