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The Nature Of Water


the wonder that always shall be...

Do You Gather Up Your Days The Way Others Collect Wild Butterflies?

Tender Love New And Quick...

Have You Ever... (DECEMBER 4/2021)

The Man On The Red Bicycle (an ode) RE-EDITED 12/4/2021

Stray Cats and I have an understanding... 11/23/2021 copyright

If It Does Them Any Good At All 11/16/2021 date/time stamped


Still, More Time NOV 6 2021

The Wonder Cat

Little Bundle I Call Joy


Wishing Them Onto Better Days

Seize This Day, The One You're With

Only Grief....

Forgive Me (GHUEY-BOY)

The Loving Art


The Stars Go Out

Soothe (re-edited 1:40Pm 8/17/21 for clarity for me as a five year old)

No One--I Know Who I Am

At My Gnarled Feet 7/27/2021

Here, After?

Burning The Trees Into Ghosts

Only The Lonely.... (its not about what you may think...)

And The Next, And The Next..... (written directly to page, will return later for edits)

My Truth Is Out There (re-edited for clarity of thought and image later)

All My Friends Are Dead, It Seems....

The Better Poem

Crimson Crush (Re-edited and Mispellings Corrected 6/11/2021)

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I'm not like anyone
you might know
there may not have been a mold

its not false pride
nor terminal unique-ness
that I'm infected with

the world is a large place
and I spent the early portion of my life
living under circumstances
beyond my control

children cannot select their parents

I had to embrace my
different-ness to survive
I'd no other choice
or dive down a hole

At eight I began to find
solace in running away
I'd load up my bike
and head to the winding river's edge
south of town

I didn't like night sounds
nor the dark
still it was the preferable

I chose to leave
when I felt I had no other
I knew
I could be obliterated
or maybe
I'd explode

It was better to be lost
afraid in the dark
and in the late morning
to lay exhausted in the
hot noon-day sun
screaming at the clouds
when I wanted to

I was purified
living through my fear--
and knowing without any doubts
I could make it
through almost anything
on my own

lying about being an orphan
was closer to the truth
than fiction
and there was no reason
to rue the lie

today at sixty
I face the same challenges
again I am alone
Any illusion of having my real original family
is long gone

it was a fiction
an impossilbe ideal
like a sitcom on t.v.
I was no longer some little child
who clung to the hope
of being considered
to be loved

its odd
isn't it
how sixty can be grown-up
in years
but somehow
not enough time has passed
to drown the past

how it comes back to me
when I close my eyes
in dreams
with the dead
and half-living murmuring into my
shriveled ears
and even now..

in the morning when I wake
I have to vigorously shake the ghosts from
my head
since, to them
I am dead
I am dead

morning can be so cold.

legal copyright for this poem/rant 11:49 PM PST Oct 8 2020 time/date stamped
and also for this legally copyrighted and registered site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World
and also for this Author/Poet Melissa A. Howells

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