http://slow.writerscafe.org/Cristina-Monica The original writings of author Cristina Moldoveanu en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776008512 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 a poem about filliation, spirituality and the difference between man and woman http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1888723/ some of my latest creations of this kind, called photohaiku or haiga http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1552289/ a sketch about the hereafter http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1415524/ a poem about love itself http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1356776/ a poem reminiscing childhood http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1337102/ homage to my grandpa, gone 2 years ago http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1335835/ A fantasy nightmare, not exactly horror, more of a poetical prose or journal http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1335770/ A poem about writing a poem http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1335491/ a poem about my dad, who left this world eight years ago http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1334455/ a poem about a lost love http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1334336/ a short essay, my own impressions or conclusions http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1179892/ A true story. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1167122/ I am the prodigal son’s sister manywinters I waited by the fireplace to wearmother’s bride shoes  withoutdisclosing locked secrets I turnedwild I beartwo moon quarters between my orbits two firbranches between my shoulders their.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1136952/  love like a good joke about death is born when a little girl hangs cherries on her ears and her grandma feels a spasm in her heart  it hardly lights up like the fire from memories but some tobacco remains in the old cigar box that no one ever clea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1136631/  Elsa entered the yellow room in the back of the house. For thefirst time in her life she was alone there in winter. Firstshe looked around and saw her own body, dressed inblack, in the mirror, trembling of cold and because the lightbulb was about to fail. She opened her bag, to.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1136553/ the young girl cries she met a man once in a while arranged her hair for him that’s all she ever did  the old woman looks at her  heavy in her armchair cleaning rearranging her spectacles answering first to her then to the audience the .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1135962/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1135956/ So manydreams in Veniceblurred,Stars showing gondolas their way.With sparkless eyes, a lonesome birdMourns quietly his love gone stray.A lonely girl with shaggy hairWalks all alone in St. Mark's Square.Her memories dance under vaultsAlong a gondolier's sad waltz... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1135929/ Like a heart under a stone,Amber burning on a pyre,Like the scent drilling to bone,On a painful brilliant fire, Like a walking on a wing,Rustles waking up our ears,Dreams forgotten every spring,The beginning of all fears, Like a truth.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1135927/ She liked white roses in a vase,Visiting art shops after school,He liked sci-fi, boxing, sport cars,Swimming each Monday in the pool.            They metone day while it was raining,Shoppingfor hats on the main street.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1135925/ a religious poem http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1087395/ those days the sun flew like corn flour freshly ground at the mill’s race even in winter it was yellow  when I pressed it down with my thumb as if it were an unfastened button on my chest  I cut my way hardly with a club through the tall weed f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1087348/ maybe the years are to blame the agewhen withered women keep telling her she isstill young  she hasa kitchen and a pantry stuffed with spices awardrobe with lavender and soap between bed sheets even amanicure case for rainy days in herhouse the flow.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1086020/ I lost a lifetime walking always on the road'smiddlebetween the two waysfollowing the line drawn withwhite paintwith a straight back and aforward lookas if I were carrying a basket onmy headwith a sleeping bird in it maybe it would have been b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1077982/ in a lonely woman’s world eachcrack in the walls is a twingeamong the ribs theneighbors’ footsteps weigh onher chest when she breathes if rats teemin the basement coldshivers climb her back  elsewherea mother breastfeeds and a child cr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1074462/ look closer at memy eyes open under eyelids when you fall asleep the earth has bitten from me until I became a half moon on the sky between your teeth  I was born when you tasted the old vineyard’s grapes I was alive in all places where you forgot y.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1057763/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1055419/ Right before sunset when lights are swimming like copper-colored fish near the water’s surface a bitter desire for freedom used to heat me up.  I  ran in thewheelchair with my hardened hands instead of soles, keeping my life directly in my palms, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1048659/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1045041/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1044806/ It was snowing too insistently, snowflakes almost as big as the eye, over nostrils, over half-open lips, over the white lace shawl from my grandmother, exactly when I was not supposed to wear it. I had the profile of a porcelain statue like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshn.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1042333/ on the corridor without light every proprietor has his door behind which he repairs floors walls windows he sharpens blunt knives chops food for dogs parsley leaves for soup  have you seen somehow nobody I’m asking the closed doors with the back sti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1038882/ the horse drawn wagon with a wooden heart climbs slowly without border planks the old man drives his horse at the walk as if he were counting in his mind  each tree has a heart young ones answer with a faint voice the poll of the axe strikes to test them someti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1038456/  i still fear heavy furnitureparticularly that made of black polished rotten wood ... i wouldn’t visitanymore museums or antiquity houses even if they had no mirrors a sad song fora blue heart grows between me and the round burnt clay ... i don’t admireanymore clavichord.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1037562/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1036424/ I lay on the narrow bed with my mouth open a mosquito bites my tongue just when I was dreaming to speak  something about the last war or the long lasting peace without borders pointing with the machine-gun to the insect fallen in a moon’s crater &nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1034905/ a commercial street in a city http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1034776/ a poem about poverty http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1034590/ each night I’m running througha nightmare transgressing intopink and purple sincespringtime until fall  from mylost body driftingin the labyrinth betweensuns myviscera are good enough only forthe sacrificial knife predictinga futur.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1033676/ in  a world linedwith tiles of mirrors I was crying my eyes out in my shard together with the walls between which the sun runs back and forth from yesterday towards tomorrow  hanging the frames upon thoughts nails stuck in the blind walls I couldn&rsqu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1030968/ I had known a man for whom women were like strings a knot instead of head a knot instead of belly sometimes confused between one and the other tightening the knots faster unwinding them minutely until the thread was soft and straight passing it between his fingers .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1030908/ I powder myself in the mirror dressed in Pierrot clothes my skullcap over ears and eyes  it has been snowing so much that I can’t choose between black and white waiting for the spring to embrace tightly a young birch to take along with me the trees’.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1029372/     - grabby man,why do you have such empty eyes?    - it is nottrue child       look deep andyou will see       crystal fishbeneath the well’s gravel       .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1027810/ I forgot where I hid the peach color morning gown moth-eaten in its pockets only a child I didn’t know  that clothes are still dust  even when they are stainless  the little toe of my right foot breaks out through a hole in the sock it doe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1027252/ free form haiga (haiku plus image) http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1021043/ senryu http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1016794/ the old men left the young hearts boundaries stones broke out from their roots like a dry bread split on the knees  the dough didn’t raise anymore under the hand stitched towel brick dust is sifted slowlyon a spider’s nest in the b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1016473/ my opinion about the act of writing or reading poetry http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1014708/ One sentence poem. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1013691/ a bird is resting beyond the road it’s snowing for centuries over her wings bird’s claws are piercing the ground new scales begin to grow thicker I’m afraid to look in the mirror there’s no one left to tell my troubles to  some walls are l.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Cristina-Monica/1012714/