http://slow.writerscafe.org/sojourner47 The original writings of author Sojourner en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776033861 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 This is one of a collection of poems I wrote for, and about, my mother. She died in 1998 at the age of 89, fully alert, just worn out. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/289359/ My nephew, a contemporary in age, was killed in a car accident when I was a teenager. It was the first time I really faced death up close. It was also the first, and only time, I experienced some form of telepathic communication. I knew the instant the wr http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/289354/ Shred of clothwashed softcolor running to colorbarbed wire casualtysnagged-flag markerstrumming two o'clock wind whipping top fence strand to A Majorwhen buckshot thunder rocketedacross green fuzz of leavesgrey-striped humpsone hump eruptingseeds  followingyoung sum.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/289352/ Blue-green daysprinkled down, pressedby Thursday's temper-tantrum weather. Breezes,new as Adam's first breath,squeak acrossleaves, grass, calf faces,strewing winsome whispers. Dry heat of weeks past sucked up moisture,left watering holes with crackededges, like chap.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/289347/ Intro to possible short story, never completed. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/288972/ There is noword for her that stands seperate,he-she, he-her, man-woman,male-female.In the beginningit takes two.According to rough vernacular,he plows and plants,she is earth-mother. However, he is but an instant. Then, it is her secret within,to kindle and cupf.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/288939/ The progression of a boomer, techno-less poet. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/288932/ One of the poems included in my chapbook "Right Hand Lane," a collection of work on rural life. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/288915/ Dr. Welch was my professor for Creative Writing. I would gladly sit at his feet for every class he could teach. He is a widely published Nebraska poet with wind sensabilities, wings and heart. He is also my friend, for which I am humbly grateful. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/288911/ Bardish playingpipes callingfar down behindthe windtwining---weaving misttendrils in wildhair---blowing---flowingoff the seadown craggy gray granite mountain slinding---catching---slippingbetween mosses and iviesinto rolling riversinto rilling streamsinto ancient war.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/sojourner47/288906/