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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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Beyond Door Number Three


what's so funny about the end
of something
of things that you thought would remain
a sunrise and a sunset
that clouds always alter themselves
that people who are real smile with their eyes

dark irony is rich
but not in the way it would fill your pockets
more like a blip to the head
with a rusted battle-ax
the sort of alarm clock
that does you in

getting older has its points
and some of them are pins
like pain
unsubtle reminders to once again
rouse you from the daily inertia
of expected routine

life is not what it seems
an unending well
from which to raise a bucket
to quake the thirst

true
you in it does have its worth
and all your persistence
will not keep the end
from knocking at your door
or turning the last page

rage away he once wrote
at the dark spark called life
I didn't always seize it when it mattered
opportunity
those old ghosts of people gone
now scattered

I visit them in my dreams
and still wake to find one beside me
snoring sonorously
in deepest peace...
would I know his sweet relief
to leave the unnecessary of the past
like clothes and shoes you outgrow
and must replace

otherwise the endings
have no flavor
just laughable irony
a clunky space

I was told by someone
that we do not die
just shift into another form

I'd like to put in a request then
I'd like to be a bird
so that when trouble comes
I can fly
and take my flock of friends
for company

if this poem makes sense
like it does to me
then reader
let me know

especially those
at the end of their lives
not knowing quite what to expect
just beyond the door.


written directly to the page Memorial Day 7:02 5/25/2020
as outside people are clanging their pots and pans, whistling
and kazooing and yelling their support of "heroes"
I appreciate this fanfare...but there are other heroes, unsung
and unfortunately, those who will never have their song.

legal copyright for this poem 5/25/2020 7:02PM PST time/date stamped
and also for this poet Melissa A. Howells...and also for this legally
copyrighted and registered site title-Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World

we all deserve to be remembered for something after we've gone...
I hope my words here and my art serve that purpose.





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