melissaahowells

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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)

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

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 ...

At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Unseen, The Lilacs And The Daffodils

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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THE STITCH IN THE TELEPHONE WIRES


dialing the number
the one which is automatic
reflexive
my fingers have it memorized

235-0315

a number before there were the
obligatory ten
before the country exploded into
a cacophony of unrecognizable area codes

the line rings
expecting a voice so real
its nearly like my own
there's a dark echoing across the wires
I can hear the darkness behind her
its not her darkness
but my own

answering I say hello
like an actress saying her lines
rehearsed to perfection
pacing with the chord entwined between fingers
delivering my soliloquy
but the background betrays silence
no one is in the audience
only empty seats in long lines of darkened rows

its the persistence of memory
which makes me wait for an answer
the shadows of realization
the darkness of negativity acknowledged:
she isn't there
but somewhere and some way
(I bargain with myself)
she does know where she is

what is there-- is the sway
of the suspended wire stretching,
tightening and loosening,
measuring the strength
of the distances between us
in the strong prairie winds

somewhere what's left of her
is stirring through the air,
a sort of current

the spectral shaved wooden once-trees
raise their stiff arms to the Great Spirit
pantomiming as Ghost Dancers
in a fixed line stitching the prairies to the coast
where I live waiting for
my overdue answer

the Earth is Our Mother
but who will take care of my own?

in prayer flags
and through telephone lines
and in storm clouds measuring a horizon
or in birds in flocks on the wing?

where is she--
is she now
in everything?


LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 9:15AM PST 7/13/2020 time date stamped
and also for this poet/author Melissa A. Howells and also for this
legally copyrighted AND registered site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World.








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