http://slow.writerscafe.org/spades379 The original writings of author James Ci en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776078138 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15   They were once women,born pure as white petals in June,untouched flowers, until they were hewn,but now they sit and watch and wait,on the corner, under the moon. They were once men,proud mother's sons sent out to fight,firing Uncle's guns into the night,but now.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738317/   What makes a man handsome?Not his stoic austere,his grays of yester-year,stoney eyes' stare sincere,nor lack of all that's fear.It's his pridethat he keepswhen what was lost was dear. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738316/ Oh- What words but were wimbling whimsys, wierd and weak.But why wouldst I want of words when knowing what they reak?Would I be wiser to whisper my waning thought,or wield words wildly and quite white hot?I think not. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738315/ Wake up-a train screams out in the distance,like some dying old world god. An old-world god,red-eyed and peelingout of the earth like an orange,a womb,a tomb. An old-world god,bearded and bulging,cries his birth-pains on his deathbed.A god,a sod. Get .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738313/ On this side of the river, the left behind boy with the pack of black dogs watchesas the grey winged eagles gather to guage out the eyes of the guiltless sisterswho severed themselves from one another, like post-siamese twins. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738310/ The simple, smooth faced silent girl stood on the bridge underneath the trees, her ruddy muddy hair tangled and woman's body clumsily clung to the bones that ambled from one end of the forest bridge to the other so she could cast off the leaves because it was not where they belonged, for the groun.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738308/ Like the tree that blossoms by the first of April      (The fool,      with limbs wide open      when struck by a cold snap      and washed of all it's white      .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738306/ The Church Street Traffic Island Homeless Paper Lady Sexless sentinel,standing on streets sidewalk servingus our daily breadwith a double dose of dowdinessthat only divinesyour determination to earnan earnest (non)living,albeit the taxman's bitter bite,quite like aknife.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738304/ Your tongue is the tasteof a bitter-berry burned into the banks of my mouth.Sweet painthat isn't realized until after you've left,like a splinter in hiding,waiting to be touched,so it might scream out"I am here!" http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738302/ Cyclical White Trash Boogie #9 ... boy who would be anyone,anyone but his father's son,and so he took his father's gunso he could put end to all the funof being seventeen,and she wept, his teenage queen,who simply couldn't gleanhope for their babe she was to ween,a child w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/spades379/738301/