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The Differences

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

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)

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Burying the Dark


ONCE
I was young and smaller
wading in my thoughts
down by the river
the water waited then
shimmering in the light

I
a young woman with corn silk hair
and eyes so blue
the sky envied her
and bluebirds stared

back then
water was my refuge
flowing currents were my release
down by the river,
the clouds forgive

by the river its
a time to forget how
I wanted to leave
the earth quietly--
it was not so long ago

here,
I found my heart even
and much quieter

then,
my high pale cheeks altered
my fierce face framed in fright

the two-tone wing tip shoes turn in mid-air,
pink laces flying backwards
and somehow caught,
suspended high in the wind
while my right arm cast itself backwards
to fend and defend....

the woods across the road
beckoned
like the deer I was
I ran
my thinness couldn't save me
but anger, perhaps,
could
so I flew
and struck backwards

years later in the dark
the white panel van still glistens
its heat rising in the glaring sun

his dull dirty uniform reeks
and the dark blur of horn-rimmed glasses
hovering above my freckled nose while
his fixed blank black eyes bored in

how do I catch myself...
but I must try and
dare...
with my own frail flailing arms fluttering
backwards...
yet, still, somehow
forgetting now
how hard it's been to learn to breathe.


LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 3:40AM PST TIME/DATE STAMPED
AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER MELISSA A. HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED AND REGISTERED SITE TITLE
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD





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