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To Them, I am Dead, I am Dead

I Turn Forward


Beyond Door Number Three

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Someone Send Out A Search Party

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The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

The Differences

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The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall


last year the Spring leaves
made a silhouette on my upper bedroom wall
and ceiling
as if God, Himself, had cut out folded paper leaves--
the details so precise and delicate

they were there
adorning the wall for me to see
when I woke up from my late afternoon nap
pantomiming real life
saw-toothed edge crisp
and giving my artist's eyes a gift
of simple yet refined happiness

today I woke and saw once more
the silhouette of the leaves
but the shadows were altered

they remind me
instead of how far removed I am
I can no longer pretend to be perched high
in a tree-house home;
I am not Jane to my partner's Tarzan
this is not a leafed nest
in some primeval rain forest

outside the entire world is ravaged
by mistrust, hate, prejudice and disease
some of it malingering ailments
and others, perhaps, a planned accident
by some careless madman

these all are long ingrained
experiences in the frail humanity
called mankind
it is more than unkind
it is a huge systemic failure
to see and to care and to understand
how much alike we are in our fragility

now as I watch the shadows on the wall
lengthen into night
I am aware that there is also
gathering darkness in my room
my thoughts
only interrupted
by the playing of taps
by a broken tree branch upon
the bedroom window


legal copyright for this poem 11:47 AM PST June 16, 2020
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

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