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The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

I Long For Stars

All Beings Considered

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past



Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Cuba Libre

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

I Write This To Remember


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Dakota In August

Red tomatoes on toast.
Brown-berried bread.
Fresh tomatoes gathered from a garden
in the shade, near our shed.
Here the tomatoes climbed, grew skyward
up a home-made ladder.
In the morning, hot-buttered, fragrant-sweet,
I ate breakfast from a blue cat platter...
the way the Welsh would make their toast,
I would make my own.
Then frappucino with canned milk
heavy with foam.
With crickets for my company,
and the powerlines humming.
an early morning symphony all August long.
Blackbird sentrys in golden fields of durham wheat strumming
and squacking,a familiar dawn song.

Meloo/Melissa A. Howells Copyright 2005

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Dakota In August



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