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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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The House Is Alive


the house does not ever sleep
I heart her heartbeats
in the measured click of clock hands
the refrigerator does not rest
and the water awaits the turn of a knob

there are remnants of those who've gone before
shaved hairs, clipped toenails and puffs of dark fur
that hide in the corners
skin cells shed creating dust

occasionally I hear rustling
amid the hush
I feel I'm never quite alone
in this house which doesn't sleep
sometimes I bolt awake
like some inner clock giving me a push


it know the promises we made to each other
it knows the ones we made to ourselves
yet often forgot to keep

the fan whirs and disperses the molecules
our dreams
our clouds of breath
our fears
the fan purrs and reminds of
being in the womb
the warm haven
surrounded by our mother's thoughts

in the furthest corners
half-shadowed
lying in wait lie the days demons
and the rearing ghosts of doubt
the intrepid night light leads the way
and does its best to banish them away
like a shaman commanding demons to move out

passing car lights
flicker and climb to the ceiling
hint at movements outside
hidden strangers driving past
their lights settle on bare shoulder
a rising chest
but move on past

the house is a body
the house is alive at night
the house is here to protect

still
we lie in bed vulnerable and fragile
not knowing how she
is our unsleeping sentry
ever vigilant
in the daylight
she can rest.




legal copyright for this poem 8;41pm PST 11/9/2020 time date stamped
and also for this writer/poet Melissa A. Howells and also for this
legally copyrighted and REGISTERED  site title:
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World


WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE, WILL COME BACK FOR EDITS LATER.





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