http://slow.writerscafe.org/Synchro The original writings of author Dean en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775990572 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 humor http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1973745/ Words of tendernesswere passion-filledacross a thousand miles between themas the heat inflamed their senses.Almost as a reflex they reached downto touch themselves and knewthat distance disappeared as magic--knew delight as liquid formedbetween her thighs and from his own,a sentinel alert.Caught up .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1954318/       Not a seeker, I, but as a visitor      may choose the pathway which the      light reveals, and watch as all       my questions disappear as though      they never were... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1928311/ Each man walks upon a groundwhere self-interred, the stormsand toys he entertained will notaccommodate the heaven he thoughtmight lurk behind the gray horizonfar away.  Not so.Closer is his tomb.  Now every manis his own channel to the pathbeneath his feet.  Eachexcites the tremors in.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1914531/                   Disappointment EvolvedHe read history, and wanted to change it,joined it, and changed nothing.And then he dreamed he took command.The skies might open,doubt would disappear,a silent score could si.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1850585/ He read history, and wanted to change it,joined it, and changed nothing.And then he dreamed he took command.The skies might open,doubt would disappear,a silent score could sing.Technology, however, never could compete;there was no measurement to lay the bounds,  no need to charter aidfor that w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1850234/              Wings of the Morning　Departure on my mind, earth to fallaway,I see the moving light pass into historyand know that now does not just happen,I may plunge into the heights, create an act of will a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1845497/ With every now we cite the faithful muse,the one we know is never there, but just as certainly our patroness,our lover for all time, our aged spritedrifting silently along the screaming frontand those of us who write, will never let her go. I'll climb the tower of my ignorance.I'll praise the c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1823819/ My fantasy was trespass--into territory of another's headbut of dubious gain, the honorpure and academic, wisdom's hideawayto be disclosed and nude of dressfor no man's deviance is his alone.It is enough to glister there--cold tremors, fluffy heavensreflect empty rewards, and reaching forthproduces .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1823492/ There is you.There is I.We have never met,nor have we ever heard of usuntil this moment when togetheryou and I created something ponderous never born of God,or any time at all.It is the words involving us,the ones I write, the very onesyou read that reach your mindand flutter there, seeking shelters.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1818387/ Here lies the peace you seek,always in loss, always remembering,a jog in time,a partial feeling that intensifiesupon reflection; there's avirgin editor to build upon a towerof despair and hopelessness.There its shining crown takes innuances--riches of a treasuresetin paradox--choice gains in heartac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1818054/ Your poetry is dark, Mark Strand.I want to emulate it as I hateeach line.  I want to cast it out,then hold it to my breastas the defeated one who knowsI could have said it firsthad I retreated into selfhood,placing honesty in all effronteryand drawing forth the manwho dips into the souland find.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1806449/ History is our targetand its offerings are all we bearfor there alone rides wisdom,there alone is gain; the vanquished are the vanquishers this night,  all gain is loss this night, and irony prevails. We are the lost;for all we care, we cannot recreate.We are the invaders, we the odd onestrembl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1805607/ You caught me, didn't you?Indulging in a vacuous realityI'll never understand, nor truly knowfor it is merely locus of a bold phenomenon we call synaptic in a brain,but for the mystery of sense,we cannot prove is there.But it works, doesn't it?Any old reality will do;my preference is the momentthat .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1799807/ All right, I admit it.It's hopeless, and I have no shame.Fact is that I may say what ever I wish,listen back without a reddened countenance,shed all compunction, even modestyif my accoutrement begins to interfere.Yes, I am smitten; the hours disappearwhen we are face to face.I'm lavish when the pass.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1798574/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1795610/ I thought of emotion. I thought of desire.What of that, you say?Plan as we may for what is to come,it does not exist, has not, will not.And there is the only significanceas it rolls like thunder down forever.Less than the void, there is no returning. There is only now. Yes, there are the solemn.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1792075/ Meditation Out LoudThere, on the crux of discovery.Not within the self, the light emerges.Particles flash, form waves, and then display that which appears as wisdom on the way.They hover over me.  They heal. They destroy.They live to be.I think of what becomes and how we see.Away, away it gathe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1788450/ The other day on my evening strollI thought of the many timeswe are the victims of misapprehension.In my reverie I met a man who stopped mesuddenly, and posed a question--at leastI thought I did, or might have;I'm not quite sure. Perhapshe wasn't there at all.  If so,how might it be?  Were.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1785885/          Canticle to the WindThis is the place I build my world.A funny little god, fussing about the raw materialand without a clue about completion.Beside the insistent calm, questions.Beside answering, wonderment.It is well; answers will not do.It is out of.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1784097/ Robert Frost says somethingMark Strand says somethingPsychiatrists probe for somethingPhilosophers wonder about somethingPriests excavate the somethingCovering the soulThe stain, the wonder, the hidden gemThe name, the illusion, the forever godand in its thrall, the wakebound nightthat stills the la.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1769966/ Desire is my boarding pass.Each destination looms withnew experience brought about withjust the entering of heads--New worlds revolve before the conscious eyesof thought emerging all around me;could I then turn away?  Floral-scented breezesfrom another's mindfulness will fall upon my cheek, and.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1766682/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1750866/ There comes the moment when the minddrops to its knees in silent wonderment,and there may ride the morning outbeyond the breath, out where intentionyields to quests the soul has never seen.Someone saw them.  He dared to penetrate the veil and let me knowmy journey was not done, nor wasthe day h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1750865/ Strange--the journey set upon,for I have never traveledseeking just to close in finallyon home.  I would see it only as an inference laid bare as I would strip away each incidentthat stained it, cover it withphysicality, expose it tothe mothering of earth and skyand finally betray it with adeat.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1729239/ Some kind of graphic immortalityto grace my sight each timean old photo appears, and he is stillto give me all he is that instant.I may study him, and unconcernedabout excess, may send him on.His gift is wondrous, total,as his spirit flies to realmsI do not wish to understand--they are his own, but .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1718371/ I think about the momentsas they hover, make contact, disappearas if forever might prove to be negotiable; there wasexchange, not so?  Somethingabout recall discerns a somewherewith receptacles--perhaps for visionaries,but they do not die.Between the arms of possibilityare found the glint of ho.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1713961/ They call it shuffling of the mindwhen other eyes are turned;Other visions call upon the history that is their very own, allowing usto see, to share, to grow.Onrushing Earthwill ride the tides of time disclosing newer cries of childhood; hearts will sing again their Kyrieswhile brotherhood is unrele.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1702964/ I shall try to take you along,though as an observer, you will beunable to continue to the end.There will be silence--of course.Soon, words will no longer serve.Try to yield, to emptinessTangent touches tangentThoughts give overmeaning is gonethere is...here      ~ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1702479/ The Parting       Something about sadness persists you know,tearing us apart, unheralded, ironicand we cannot leave it there alone.Carried to the grave and home againits wounded heart beats strong, enticingly and aching valiantly for the je ne sais pas quoi of more.Ther.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1701302/ Where systems of belief determinewho will ride the coat tails of ouraugust chieftains into Washington,I shudder just a little.  Thosewho succeed may not depend on sympathetic creeds, or even readof some divine manipulation coming forthto arbitrate their fame.No, it is strife that brings reward... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1692776/ It was just a drop of morning lightthat fell upon a surface of my room--I won't remember it tomorrow, thoughI found its shape a bit unusualand while seated, leaned to the sideto take a second look.  Curious it isthat just the combination of the sunand shadow from my window was enoughto filter t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1691065/ He shocks me.  Only a day or so agoI'm sure I didn't look like that.I try to part the few thin strandsof hair up top, the patriarchs before mesaw on their own sluggish heads not long ago--I was not so sure that Iwould always wish them peaceful rest;it wasn't my idea!But I have joined them now; .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1689893/ Of all the fragmentary thoughtsthat ride along with us-- amoment's tingle to the spine,then fly away as any brighter onewill scatter them like bowling pins,there is a carefully concocted visionthat I have when I can seethat I am not alone, that someonealso reaches forth his fingersjust to touch, to .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1687274/ I think of all those flashing, fleeting imagesthat many of us see, unheralded andundesired; I think they arethose "flickerings of presence" poetRobert Gibb must have also known...and yet not these alone.For I remember too, the messagesrevealed to me from hands beyondthe grave.  I have seen them.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1678463/ I know--wrong from the start,for who might dare to seek, to sharea summary of paradise revealedfrom just a breath of the divinewhatever that might be.It has to do with silence--readiness to listen asa cup of graciousness is pouredsomewhere beyond the world we know,beyond all time and space.  Ea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1677599/ Now in conversation with myself,and in love with the adventures of the mind,I'm free to argue about them.Feelings are more precise now; they do not mislead.Totally gratuitous of course, they take the leadand we must stand in awe. Oh?  You defend them?Of course.  What kind of Alter Ego.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1671965/ The hours of the insistent thought,of waiting war, of turmoil in dilemmagather up their own black shadowsat the waning of the night.There are no tolling bells for them,for brighter moments make us men.Then it is we may discover thatwe are alive, autonomous, aware.It shakes us, hurts us just a bit..... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1668385/ Just we, inflamed by luststill pine with hungry heartsfor something we may neverunderstand, we beneath the fontof purest grace, led by hopethat God may be defined.And what is this...not God?And where?There is the wondering...The soul is the only place to look.But then, you won't geta definitive guid.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1664702/ It lies beneath the interredspirit of a man, whendeath is close at hand.I sense it manifest withinthat restive, intermitent sparkthat had seemed to be no more,now deterring my eternal rest.But I have a selling job to do.No longer may I tender forthmy charms and hope it is enough;  a stroll upon.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1653983/ It is right to find ourselvesin wonderment before the gloriesof the earth, before every valleyof the sky disclosing lush rewardto jaded sight; it is silent grace.It is even more  right to wonderat the life we are given in everyconscious moment now disclosed to us.It cedes a second breathto bind.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1647009/ It gave more mileage than it promised with that first delight; I could not let it go, for there implicit in its first appearance was a cautious pathway for a newborn light that crept (though with a stunning flash) upon my morning reverie with chills of joy--yet centuries of mystery. From where did i.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1641346/ It is a nagging subject,this quest within the mindto reach beyond the self tothat great universal churningof the truth-- unfolding rays of lightwe may not quite depend upon, yetpraise.  It does not go away.One may be thankful. Truthhas a way of coming back.Another self, autonomous, may thenstep.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1638953/ It was just a few millennia agowe stepped past the fire in front of the caveand set upon the building of a tongue--noun to verb to adjective, each an answerfor awhile until we knew that there was more.Then when we could communicate, and think,new options were there to dazzle us:That which makes&nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1629697/ We knew it was coming, didn't we--and thought it was similar to dying,still think so,  but didn't realizeit was so stretched out.That dying seems to be taking a while,and I wonder what that means. The only trouble is it's up to me, and I don't like it very much.Treading water just now, seems ra.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1622174/ I am History!Moulded of the Earth and the stars,of the temporal silence of a tear,    as Jesus of Narareth,    Albert Einstein,    Martin Luther King, or    a dust particle in a ray of sunlight,I threw off the shackles of inferiority.In a m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1603888/ After a momentwhen something becomeswhat it has always beenand creation comes flying inas natural as breath--now that shakes the earthfor me!It takes an afternoonof wondering to ease that away.Anything will do to set it off:an old fencepost,silent as they come,brings its own memories inand it's a go.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1553157/ There is.........somethingunrelated to time or space. It has no color, weight orform--nothing of substanceand yet always problematic. Neither here nor gone away;function and refusal never       coexist.Yet something essential ispresent; knowing senses it.It is nothing?&.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1536201/ We are given in totality,surfing the waves in merrimentsimply planning for more.Up and over the top we goand it is then the vortices appear.If we could care less, we would,for we are young and carequite readily... Ah but the vortex, you say?It sees to depend uponthe place you make for negatives.Sinc.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1517000/ If there were a tomb to hold my thoughts alonewhere only those who seek it, meditate,guffaws would echo on the heavenly green;ideas will not live beyond their youthunless they catch the glint of steel beneaththe torch of battle.  Solet now be the arena for my wars,my intellect, my flooding hear.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Synchro/1508234/