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Not Someone's Grand Illusion

Wisdom of the Infinite

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

The Differences

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

The Voice Lost In the Wires

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

After Wide Sargasso Sea

Great Big Waterproof World

The Storm

I Turn Forward

Patch-Worked Trilogy

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old

Prairie Town Progress

Beyond Door Number Three

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

The Make-Up of Molecules

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)





At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

More Poetry >>

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

Dakota In August



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