Permanent

120 Vista Drive
Warminster, PA 18974 USA

e-mail  danceofmyhands@aol.com
home page  www.danceofmyhands.com




The truth is that I am not one of those
who find their satisfaction in one person, or in infinity.
The private room bores me, also the sky. My being only glitters
when all its facets are exposed to many people.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

Professional Resume


Objective

To leave a lasting impression on the literary world.

Personal Attributes and Goals

I am a creative and passionate person, continually striving to enrich others through my literary and visual art. I believe that people rely equally on words and images when retrieving information from the media. Using my love and knowledge of both arts: language and photography, I would aim to educate and inspire the readers of your publication.

Computer Skills

Digital Photography, Adobe Photoshop, Microsoft Word and Excel, Adobe PDF, Beginning HTML, Internet Research.

Education

B. A. Dual-Degree in Communications and Dance, Muhlenberg College, PA, Dean’s List, 2002. Curriculum included: Writing About Pictures, Visual Communications, Photography I and II, Mass Persuasion and Propaganda. Study abroad: One semester of modern dance study at Laban Centre in London, England.

High School Diploma, William Tennent High School, PA, 1998. Ranked 9th of 376. Activities: Co-Editor-in-Chief of Yearbook, National Honor’s Society, Student Government, Dance Team.

Employment Experience

Jeffrey A. Miller Catering Company, PA, 1997 to current. Head Waiter: assembling and disassembling wedding banquets; friendly service as an employee of a fine dining catering company.

DaVor Photography, PA, Fall Term, 2006. Senior Photographer: photographic sessions for high school and college seniors; instruct students to pose correctly; travel, transport and set up portable portrait studio; keep accurate records of film; ensure all materials and supplies meet requirements for the company contract.

Barnes & Noble Booksellers, Inc., NY, ‘05-‘06. Customer Service: telephones, cashier work, book categorizing.

Dance of My Hands Publishing, ‘03 to current. Owner and Founder: books published include Of Women, The Poet’s Purpose, Unveiled, Only to be Covered Again, Bedroom Poetics, and Ceremony Collected.

Jack Caputo Photography, CA, ‘02-‘03. Photographer’s Assistant: DVD time-coding, website photo upload. Clients included actress Sela Ward, Prince Charles, Steve Garvey, and Gov. Wilson, see www.jackcaputo.com.

Notable Awards and Commendations

Pushcart Prize for Poetry Nomination, 2006
Espi Guinto Young Writer’s Award, Muhlenberg College, 1999
Third Place in the Phillips Mill Photographic Exhibition, 10th Annual Show, 2002
William Tennent High School; Community Scholarship, 1998

Writings and Photographs Have Appeared In

The Storyteller, Indented Pillow, Soul Fountain, http:thisromanticworld.blogs.com, POETALK, Give-Cut Sheets by Mark Sonnenfield, Hazmat Review, cc&d magazine, LanguageandCulture.net, Iconoclast, The Poet’s Art, Ancient Paths, Paradoxism, Red Owl Magazine, Poesia News by Indian Press, Ruah: A Journal of Spiritual Poetry, Diner, Shemom, Shadow Poetry/SPQuill, Willard & Maple, Splizz, The Penwood Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Sweet Annie Press, Black Book Press, Canadien Zen Haiku, First Offense, and Writer's Bloc.

Photography Exhibits Include

Phillips Mill ‘03 and ’07, Muhlenberg College Senior Display, Buzz Coffee, Warminster Library Showcase.

References

Available upon request.

___________________

Cover Letter

Dear Editor/Publisher,

I have written, designed, and published nine poetry books.
In love with language, I ask myself, what next?

Writing has been my serious vocation for the past five years.
All my life, I have read voraciously. Lately, I have been dedicated to
offering art, self-expression, and beauty in the form of poetry books and
a personal website. Now, I would like to contribute to society in a bigger way.
I would like to use my gifts and talents in a way that is more necessary to others,
and more culturally effective. At your publication, I would strive to give all that I can give to others.

I seek freelance, internship, part-time, or entry-level employment.


Sincerely, Melanie M. Eyth

___________________________________







____________________________________________

Ceremony,  a journal of poetry and other arts





Based in Bucks County, and presented by Dance of My Hands,
Ceremony upholds and celebrates human expression and beauty.
To contribute, contact Melanie at danceofmyhands@aol.com, or
120 Vista Drive, Warminster, PA, 18974. Copies cost 2.50 each.


Fall 2006, the fifth issue
___________________________________

Two Poems by Vivian B. Schroeder
Two Poems of Ed Galing
One Poem of Kristen Howe
One Piece of Robert L. Harrison
Two Pieces of Peter Menkin
One Poem of Kyle Van Heck
One Poem of L. W. Neitzert
Two Poems of Jennifer LeBlanc
One Poem by Derrick H. Hurd
One Poem of John Grey
Two Poems by Ron Ryan
Two Poems of Vince Fitzpatrick
Three Poems of G. A. Scheinoha
One Poem of Russell Rowland
One Poem of Cathy Porter
Two Poems of C. David Hay
Two Poems of Dave Church
One Poem of Murray Kaufman
Two Poems of James A. Anderson
One Poem of Corey Cook
One Poem of Karla Ungurean
Two Poems of Wendy Parent
Two Poems of Ray Succre
One Poem of Ellen Fuchs
One Poem of Melanie Monterey
One Poem of Simon Perchik
One Poem of Jon Wesick



TWO POEMS BY VIVIAN BOLLAND SCHROEDER
_______________________________________


Ideas,

like birds egressing eggshells,
Beak a swift staccato in my subconsciousness.

Hush.
A thought is hatching.
We dare not frighten it away.


Hindsight

Rushing headlong out of childhood,
We did not foresee
Anything in our prosaic lives
We would ache to remember.

And now, in our nostalgic dotage—
Everything.



TWO POEMS OF ED GALING
_______________________________________


The High Ground

when the mourners had
finally left the stage
and the cemetery went
quiet,
i had sprinkled some
earth on my wife’s
grave,
said my prayers,
now i stood alone,
looking around,
noticing the quiet
reverence of this
solemn place, and
thought about how short
life can be,
already overwhelmed
with sadness, i put
my hand out, and she
arose and smiled,
put hers in mine and
together we walked to
our car at the gate,
and she said with a sigh,
let us get out of here,
and I said softly,
where to, honey?
she waved her hand
lightly and said,
anywhere with you is
fine,
i was so delirious,
and we took off, and
i began to talk, and
then i turned to her,
and she was no longer
there,
no longer there,
as i drove on,
feeling her spirit.


Nursing Home

old age sometimes
becomes a burden
and then
the nursing home
becomes a haven
for those who
can no longer
manage on
their own;
pity them,
the poor,
the old,
the homeless,
the infirm,
the demented,
the ones in
wheelchairs,
say a prayer
for those who
have to take
care of them
the nurses,
the doctors,
those who have to
feed them
dress them
even bury them
say a prayer
and hope you
never have to
be in one
yourself.



ONE POEM OF KRISTEN HOWE
_______________________________________


Winter Sunrise

After two weeks of snow, which lay on the ground,
It's a winter sunrise, a bit early than planned,
Colors to light up the wintry sky with a jetstream,
Blumes are white, thin, wispy, and stretched.

Red dazzles the azure, like a bright flame,
Orange surprises us with the coloring of sunlight,
Yellow sneaks up in the background and pale,
It stretches from the shoreline to the mountain peak.



ONE POEM OF ROBERT L. HARRISON
_______________________________________


Gray Morning

The fog has courted
the coast of
Shelter Island.
One long gray wall
hanging near the
tips of trees,
rubbing its fingers
around the bay boats;
giving a safety net
to the osprey on
their morning catch.
Sometimes it lifts up
in spots letting you
peek beyond its curtain.



TWO POEMS OF PETER MENKIN
_______________________________________


Notes from the Study House in March

The master speaks
of singing us forward
within the paradox of intimacy:
to come back
to mercy and pardon;
return
again like the prodigal son.


A Light to the Eye

Angels are a light to the eye,
offering clarity of the night
bringing joy in message and
presence of the morning
through day;
this season again what song,
what peace ---
Mary who says yes to the Lord.



ONE POEM OF KYLE VAN HECK
_______________________________________


The Last Memory

Plastic castles
in fish tank gravel,
a country in a dark cold world.
There is nothing greater
than freedom
seen through glass,
something all visible,
but intangible.
My dreams are broken
fragments of a mirror
that caught your face.



ONE POEM OF L. W. NEITZERT
_______________________________________


The Pebble

A pond serene and tranquil, disrupted
By a silent stone thrown from a somewhere,
Changing this painted idyllic picture.

Ripples moving from a silent pebble
Affecting and stressing everything,
Nothing escapes those moving circles.

Objects that were ordered and motionless
Now move chaotically to a new order,
Altered forever by that distant hand.

Purpose of the thrower unknowable
To those who watch the concentric circles,
Disturbing and changing everything.

We do not know the purpose or intent
Of the action that changed our world,
Only the effect—life altered and new.



TWO POEMS OF JENNIFER LEBLANC
_______________________________________


princess of the goths

my debut as the next gothic princess~
gray dress of scattered ballerina length,
cloth tied on my hands and feet,
a little in my brown hair to reveal my face,
ribbons flowing from my shoulders.

brown-red lip color, the most reluctant horizon,
two petals on a pale brushed visage,
heavy make~up surrounding my green eyes…
hazy smoke rising clouds.

the cloud of beauty coming over my body,
reach out to me though i cannot be touched,
lovely mist of seclusion perfuming my being so
i dance through life solo…
i become the poem,
throbbing, throbbing,
never flowering but to burn.

soon my dress shall be tattered,
lips faded, my eyes shall look unruly like my hair,
but then he shall love me before I die so
i shall not have death.


dancing

drowning from the romance lingering over the gray pond,
her pink dress damp on her body,

he holds her like the colored pearls resting on her neck,
tender and lovely on the balmy night.

their dance,
living and breathing like the bodies themselves,
moves cautiously through the poses,
the lifts, the turns,
the milky sunset resting on the horizon
closing the life of before.

touching her soul through her motions and thoughts,
he promises nothing but the next breath…
nothing but living until they offer their love in the last dance,
the marriage.



ONE POEM OF DERRICK HARRISON HURD
_______________________________________


Sunset

So… the sun is setting and this autumn takes me by surprise
so comfortable after so long away
and still not anywhere at all.

The forfeiture was too much to examine at the time
but sunsets remind me of the destruction I left behind.
It could not have gone any other way
and I have waited a very long time,
and looked in some of the most hideous places
or the truth behind the blind faith.

I have not found it but the faith remains.
Madness is all it is,
until it becomes genius;
I have the sunset
and do not need the answer.

for Shannon



ONE POEM OF JOHN GREY
_______________________________________


On the Way To

Warm summer night,
I’m driving,
you’re rocking back
and forth on the seat
beside me
like a sensual pendulum
measuring the moments
until we make love.
I want bells to ring,
gongs to pound
out the pleasure
of the hour
stroke by blissful stroke
but instead my foot
sinks down into
the accelerator
and speed wraps tight
around it.



TWO POEMS OF RON RYAN
_______________________________________


Misty Kisses

Windswept beaches sweet as sugar
Fluorescent flowers full of flavor
Sand dollars and castles floating and forgotten
Footprints fade and chase a memory
A gull disagrees with a dangerous breeze
Her beautiful face kissed by the mist

Windswept beaches sweet as sugar
A gull turns and glides
Above shallow spring tides
Footprints disappear
As she runs and hides


Images of You

The poems of a stream
Caught up in a creek
Wet words that play hide and seek

The songs of a bird
Sung by a child
Innocent imitations of the wild

The portrait of your face
Captured in the artist’s brush
Blossoms blue into a quiet hush

The dreams of an artist
Coming to life
Virtuous vows of a faithful wife

My sweet surrender in vivid blue images of you



TWO POEMS OF VINCE FITZPATRICK
_______________________________________


Late March

The iron door of the north is
closing,
The south’s advancing warmth
touches my face;
Wakes the sleeping soil
and stirs all living things;
Then, one morning in my back
garden,
An overnight burst of yellow crocus,
like found gold.


In Wilkes-Barre, PA

Telephone poles of wood
A mile long street
Straggling up hill
As slack-jawed Dads
Walk homeward afore
Five o’clock shadow of
Front yard fence posts,
The small town feel of things
Limping on—
Night darkness lurks on
The hem of the hill,
Climbs up and overtakes
Lamp lit windows
Where the street curves off
Under the lip
Of dinner.



THREE POEMS OF G.A. SCHEINOHA
_______________________________________


An Ounce Overdue

She looks for a man the size of a postage stamp, somebody she can lick anytime she wants. He'll be a man as small as grandpop, who'd cut and run, flee the room whenever grandma's ire swelled too huge, threatened to swallow, suffocate, obliterate this potato farmer, same as the first shoots up out of the neatly furrowed hills might be trampled by a careless bootsole in early spring.

He'd be a man she could contain, slip through the letter slot, pigeon hole into most any spot, fit into the tightest confines. Mr. Right might live and breathe just outside her apartment window, so she searches for him every morning, peers dilligently throughout the day. The shadows on the birch lined streets never part as sight of an effervescent angel, fallen from heaven or cast down for that instant of darkness which passes through him now and again, never truly dangerous but nearly always appears so. Inwardly, she peels like the papery bark on those pale trunks.

Unfortunately for her, a guy she can handle not with a whip and a chair, a knowing wink, a suppressed snarl, some body, a pulsating, throbbing, thrusting, truly alive body, not a cadaver on the slab, a frozen featured, emotionless phizzog but one that won't require a fully armed and bared dominatrix, doesn't exist.

Not outside the autumn tinted panes of her tidy, two room, sleep on the sofa, eat and visit in the diminutive gas range to one side, cheap Goodwill butcher block topped table on loan from her parents at the other, too thinly sliced white bread efficiency imagination.

Too often, she runs to the window upon the sound of a shuffling step across the concrete from below and spies a visage tough as a two dollar steak, chewed insistently by a bovine jawed life. All that's available are these larger than taken in a solitary glimpse, dimensions beyond easy grasp, large as a 9 x 12 manila envelope heroes, fellows measured and found heavy in all the wrong ways.


Heat Seeker

Armed with the
warhead of truth,
she homed in
on his heart
silently.
Held off
a moment
longer, then
locked on target,
launched
herself
like some
misguided
missile, yet
fully aware
how they'll
detonate
on impact.


Lunar Pull

The moon beckons all tides; ebb tide, neap,
rip tide, high, low tide, stirs the waters that
lurk inside. Breakers crash on the boulders
of kidneys, liver. Ripples curl against the heart's
shoreline. Moonlight dapples fingers into the
current, urges all moisture; precipitation,
respiration, evaporation into global gulf streams
now drawn away, gravitated back towards this
brilliant pebble skimmed across the pond of night,
barren rock, liquid mother to us every one.



ONE POEM OF RUSSELL ROWLAND
_______________________________________


Mourning Doves

They have neither grief nor grievances,
just a tune that reminds us we gather
into barns without ripening our hopes.

We imagine they have sorrow now,
and He will see them again, and no one
take the joy from those pigeon breasts.

We even assume angels, whose pinions
hover, and whose portfolios we are,
when the sound of our grinding is stilled.

Your plumes are iridescent every day,
is all they actually have to sing.
Arise my love, my fair one, come away.



ONE POEM OF CATHY PORTER
_______________________________________


Burial

The ground sinks into the ground;
confiscated breath

The wicked watch from a distance,
as sacred rites fade
with forgiveness

Tightrope skills
are needed to walk
this path

The moon opens
a weary eye,
yawning in the face
of death



ONE POEM OF C. DAVID HAY
_______________________________________


Wings

Oh, to catch the winds of flight
And soar where eagles go,
To leave the woes of troubled souls
Behind me far below.
I’d listen to the song of birds
And sail in endless flight,
Then chase the sun through cloudy paths
And play with stars at night.

The boundless heavens for my home,
The breeze to lift me high,
To rise above my mortal bonds
And never have to die;
Knowing I had found the way
To trails where angels trod,
And when my wings could fly no more—
I’d take the hand of GOD!


Wind Song

I am the wind of many names
With boundless tales to tell.
I grace the clouds of Heaven’s realm
And fan the fires of Hell.

I am the breeze of ancient seas
Before life crawled ashore;
I watched the rise and fall of beast

So many times before.
I am the primal wail of time
That weathers men and stone.
I’ve danced the sanctity of space
Where angel wings have flown.

I am the restless storm of change,
The gentle breath of dawn;
I’ve howled from time eternal
And I’ll blow when you are gone.

I am the wind of war and peace
That honors right now wrong.
I am the mystic voice of God-
Come listen to my song.



TWO POEMS OF DAVE CHURCH
_______________________________________


Any or More of the Following

A poem can be a cup of tea
With honey and the juice of lemon,
A glass of sour milk,
One potato chip,
Smooth whiskey,
Flat beer,
Baloney on white bread—
No mustard,
A bowl of cereal and sardines,
A cherry on top of whipped cream,
A teardrop…


Not So Sweet at Seventeen

When I knock on her door
She’s always busy.
When I ask how she’s doing,
She says she’s doing
Fine
And walks away.
I asked her only yesterday
Why she looked so sad.
She said it was the face she was born with.
My jokes don’t make her laugh anymore—
Either do my mistakes.
When I offer advice,
She frowns and sighs—
Tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about.
I wonder about that sometimes.

Brief bio:
Dave Church
sixty years old.
drives cab.
no degrees.
no awards.



ONE POEM OF MURRAY KAUFMAN
_______________________________________


Is the Universe Pointless?

Is the universe pointless? If it had a point—what would it be?
An over-arching idea, to remind us that maybe, the point is for
us to give it a point? The universe is a paradox in its many shapes
and forms. Sometimes, I imagine it as a spiral curving endlessly in
the space it creates; other times, like anti-gravity, it mates with its
opposite—a universe existing in another dimension, where havoc
and chaos create circles of unity in dissension.

In my mind’s eye, it is light as a feather; I can spin it on one finger,
but I shall not linger, but spin it into a new dimension and search
for the two words that embrace the whole: love and authenticity,
and leave the rest in the pointless void, where questions die in the
asking, but in this new dimension, life is basking, and searching for
meaning, and giving the point a point, where it becomes full of the
illumination of things that matter, a universe, alas, unknowable,
but there, and so rare, perhaps, in its infinity, imbued with a
universal, soulful divinity, beyond our comprehension, but this I
know: it won’t work it it’s passive; this universe, in a new
dimension, in what I can only describe as futuristic fashion,
opening itself in all its blazing glory—and what a sight!—to what
we bring: vibrant life, lived at the speed of light, and with passion.



TWO POEMS OF JAMES ARTHUR ANDERSON
_______________________________________


Nightsongs

Late at
night I listen
to the echoes of the
world vibrate through the corners of
my mind.


To My Lady of Shallot

I see you watching from your window
My Lady of Shallot
As you cast your sweet, sweet magic spell
Upon your Lancelot.

You have a lovely face, my dear,
And a kind and loving heart.
Your spell has found and bound me,
Though I be no Lancelot.

Your loyal knight and true has come
To take you from your pain.
I am no hero—just a man—
But I love you just the same.

I cannot slay the dragon
Or kill your evil foe.
But I will hold you and protect you
Everywhere I go.

I will love you with sweet passion
I will love you soft and slow.
I will always give you comfort
In every way I know.

And when you cross the river
Ride proud upon your steed.
I will be beside you
To meet your every need.



ONE POEM OF COREY COOK
_______________________________________


A Final Visit with the Family Dog, for Riley

He waits at the window,
smeared with slobber

and whines, the door
opens and he wails,

wags that tail-less rump,
you collapse to your

knees, try to pet
a squirming torso, his rough

tongue rolls out, tries to lap
up your laughs, you then

lie down on the oriental rug,
he does the same, the two

of you facing, his head
rests on your right palm,

his paws perch on your shoulders,
you bury your face

in black, that dusty place,
that dry place you came

so far to be blinded by
and must now embrace.



ONE POEM OF KARLA UNGUREAN
_______________________________________


Manic

A little manic she is,
Riding high on something she has yet to reveal,
Weeping uncontrollably upon its discovery.
Her azure eyes watch in the mirror with horror
As she screams her lungs out 'til they bleed.
She lost herself amid the fury
And the pain of the people she used to despise.
She begs God to shut up so she can
Listen to
Herself for a change.
She's erratic and unmanageable,
Child- like in her wonderment
And the pain she feels instinctively.



ONE POEM OF WENDY PARENT
_______________________________________


Mirror Image

The gentle touch of someone’s hand
lightly caresses my sensitive skin.
I can't see them before the shadow
a fleeting passing of varied sin.
I wonder about the faceless being
whose hand I feel upon my skin
a dark countenance hiding down
blocking my view but to only see
a mirror image of my inner me.
I move my hand up and down
and feel the pulse inside my wrist.
I am a woman, beautiful and supple
I am the self, the being, the love.
Feel my sway, my beauty unfold
like a flower in the summer rain
mirror image of woman restored.
I feel the nerves along my fingertips
caresses you shall never bind
beautiful me, always, beautiful woman


The Rose Queen

I sit upon my throne of thorns
looking down upon my kingdom,
and the sight beheld
was a bushel of roses
bright, beautiful and red.

The butterfly that landed
upon my subjects
gazed back at me with glowing eyes
and bowed it's head in acknowledgment
and proceeded to carry on with it's work.

The sun moved in the sky
to watch over me and my kingdom
it's golden light warming my buds
and my subjects leaning toward the light
and the sighs heard around the world.

I am the Rose Queen
I am the food of life
I am the one who nourishes
I am the one who flourishes
my subjects benefit from my knowledge
and I benefit from them.

The sun disappears
and the clouds float in
and the rain begins to fall
showering my subjects
and I feel them shake with delight.

Dewy moisture coats my buds
glistening drops fall to the ground
and the earth grows damp
and we drink it up
with unquenchable thirst.

The thirst of life began
so many months ago
from a cutting of me
to the growth of them
and here I am and here we are.
For I am the Rose Queen



TWO POEMS OF RAY SUCCRE
_______________________________________


Ultralisse

Ten years puts rent everywhere;
you build a logic, sell to buy,
fidget with yourself
until it won’t happen anymore.
So you caress the sheets, give sign of the cross,
and yawn, shouting to hail taxis
and sane gardens of sad footprints called faces to the pane,
shouting the window to
dilate open and closed.
Then, the line shortens and you walk to the counter, pushing coughs
through teeth, making hacks atop the tongue,
and you state, buy, then walk
to the table, to the chair,
to the years of logic,
one
thin
lease.


Civility and Creature Parts

My father once remarked:
“This man on the ferry boat
hadn’t wronged me,
and I didn’t know him,
yet still, I felt a manic urge
to shove him over the rail.”
Having come from a highway
of blood and minds, is my kind
ever so distant removed
as to set aside a strike
when a word won’t do?
When civility has bored
the creature parts?

Old men know
violence is longed for.
Old men know
what blood means.

These men setting aside
their bites and kicks,
the hoarse shouting,
with age, is illusory:
a violent urging
slow creeps through,
and I and my father
have been saving
all of ours.



ONE POEM OF ELLEN FUCHS
_______________________________________


The Last Goodbye

She waited till spring,
Mother’s Day to be exact,
Leaving as the morning light
Replaced the shadows of evening,
Half covering her face
Translucent as parchment.
We waited all night,
On hard chairs,
Dozing off,
Waking to hear her breath
Escape like a deflated balloon.
Not the goodbye we expected,
But the best I love you
Left to give.



ONE POEM OF MELANIE MONTEREY
_______________________________________


Cradling



I believe that all we each want is to be held,
And to be told we are worthy and safe.
To be assured that what we feel inside counts,
And that outside is only the world
In all its glory, big lights, and fast tracks,
In its loudness at ballgames and races with potato sacks,
Of food bought and sold, and of markets bankrupt and fortuned.
While, all we each dream is to be the baby shown above
As it sleeps and is quiet, murmurs and is loved.
Soon the baby will be grown, raised proud and true,
By parents, by neighbor, by God, and by you.
When this happens, remember the cradling,
And the joy you once got from showing him
What life is, and what it is not.



ONE POEM OF SIMON PERCHIK
_______________________________________


This Winter Will Be Different

This winter will be different, the kettle
is copper and the sun for the first time
splashing, knocks

as if it remembers how water
led through in darkness, amazed
the pipe is so thin and the well

huge --this winter the spout
will coil, pull the sun
to its side and the floor

is shaking too --this time the light
will not turn away and the water
dark red, learning to see underwater

under foothills and icy streams --this winter
you will ask how much like an arc
and the tea whiter, whiter.



ONE POEM OF JON WESICK
_______________________________________


Soul Travel

After I fall asleep
women share their beds with me.
Each night I nestle a different body
curved, thin, a rainbow of hues.
Gone, the frantic hunger for contact.
Yet memories of my favorites linger
like the outdoors’ scent after a day in the woods.
Candlelit rooms, caring faces,
welcoming bodies the covers pulled aside,
open conversations no pressure to impress.
The women’s names slip like soap bubbles
through the iron gate of memory.
I wander blind alleys and dead ends
in search of them to no use
then climb an unfamiliar stairway
to an apartment door and a waiting stranger.



As soon as a thing reaches perfection, discard it and move on.



This do I promise:
Even if my name is never
known, I vow to write.
Even if my beauty is never
shown, I vow to enlighten.
Even if my picture is never
taken, I vow to smile.
Even if my charisma is never
celebrated, I vow to beguile.


I AM MELANIE MONTEREY EYTH
WWW.DANCEOFMYHANDS.COM