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The Petty Player Who Rarely Sleeps

I'd Like A Taste (The Wolf Said)

The Crow Is A Black Bird

When I Start to Bloom

I'd Like To Be Your Shirt (when you wake up in the morning)



All Beings Considered

Words Between Edward And Jane

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

The Great Tsunami Of Our Growing Grief written 3/2.2021--retitled 3/14/2021

After Wide Sargasso Sea ( For Those of You Readers Who Have Empathy For the First Mrs. Rochester.)

WAITING ON THE WORLD (March/February 2021 poetry)

Wild and Unraveling

What Must Be

These Hands Exist July 4 2023 rei-edited 7/12/2023

I Am The Color Of Black

The Tide of Your Lies (2019-2023)

How I Wanted Your Pearls 6/24/2023 WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE

Love Wants What Love Wants re-edited 5/31/023

Winter's Been Too Long.... 4/18/2023 (LONGING)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Like A Small Street Dog Lured In By The Promise Of Meat

This Is What Mermaids Dream Of

At Night, As I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

And You Will Be Called Ashes As You Leave ( from a dream)

Certainly No Bread 3/16/2022

Someone Send Out A Search Party

THE FAN , AT NIGHT, GIVES GOOD ADVICE completely re-edited, an entirely different poem

What Is The Price For Your Touch? re-editied 5/31/2023

Where Is My Bed With The Pleasing Tree -Lined View(NOW REEDITED)

Oh What Fine Physics (Before Me ,Lies) re-edtited @4/17/2023

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak

THE COMPANY THAT WE KEEP WITH THE ONE WITHIN

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Beyond Door Number Three


what's so funny about the end
of something
of things that you thought would remain
a sunrise and a sunset
that clouds always alter themselves
that people who are real smile with their eyes

dark irony is rich
but not in the way it would fill your pockets
more like a blip to the head
with a rusted battle-ax
the sort of alarm clock
that does you in

getting older has its points
and some of them are pins
like pain
unsubtle reminders to once again
rouse you from the daily inertia
of expected routine

life is not what it seems
an unending well
from which to raise a bucket
to quake the thirst

true
you in it does have its worth
and all your persistence
will not keep the end
from knocking at your door
or turning the last page

rage away he once wrote
at the dark spark called life
I didn't always seize it when it mattered
opportunity
those old ghosts of people gone
now scattered

I visit them in my dreams
and still wake to find one beside me
snoring sonorously
in deepest peace...
would I know his sweet relief
to leave the unnecessary of the past
like clothes and shoes you outgrow
and must replace

otherwise the endings
have no flavor
just laughable irony
a clunky space

I was told by someone
that we do not die
just shift into another form

I'd like to put in a request then
I'd like to be a bird
so that when trouble comes
I can fly
and take my flock of friends
for company

if this poem makes sense
like it does to me
then reader
let me know

especially those
at the end of their lives
not knowing quite what to expect
just beyond the door.


written directly to the page Memorial Day 7:02 5/25/2020
as outside people are clanging their pots and pans, whistling
and kazooing and yelling their support of "heroes"
I appreciate this fanfare...but there are other heroes, unsung
and unfortunately, those who will never have their song.

legal copyright for this poem 5/25/2020 7:02PM PST time/date stamped
and also for this poet Melissa A. Howells...and also for this legally
copyrighted and registered site title-Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World

we all deserve to be remembered for something after we've gone...
I hope my words here and my art serve that purpose.





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