http://slow.writerscafe.org/Mortiii The original writings of author Verser en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776002393 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Perception is all. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1156434/ Crows call sky to pinesAmong the assembled dead--A cacophony of stones http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1120671/ you pulled me most of the way home by the ear when I would not stay in line you were a safety patrol leader and had an arm band like the nazis wore and once you shut my fingers in the door when I would not let you close it but you played beethoven o.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1113523/ It's not where you are, it's whom you are with. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1110982/ Here lies the accurst.Here lies the divine.To know bad verse,Read between the lines. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1108672/ In their bathing suits atthe poolTable, she scratched whenher poolStick butt hit the heavypointed glass ash-Tray. It fell one point downinto her bareFoot and bounced out leavinga flesh hole. He could nearly see through.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1106729/ Graced.18466 yrs 4 days  small stonein the shadowof Mother and Father were you runningtoward the gatewith your birthdaygift in handa ribbon was your hairgolden in sunlight.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1105418/ He descends to bed in parts, windblown weary,And dreams of daybreak coffee with the sea,At dawn his aching legs take him thereWhere the winter waves wash the ice air.His eyes are fulvous and his back spine-curledAs he joys uplid at the lightening world.But even so, with mug-warm hands apartTo embrac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1104167/ there's a hole in my bellywhere the need isneed to write a poemthe muse is a woman for surela belle dame sans mercipromises with a word or phraselike a phone prank or empty knockshe does not visit insteadshe teases with a tap-and-run and never stays anymorethat was her just nowhuh http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1104153/ She sails rock to rock on the unsteady wall,Barefoot and sure-winged like a butterfly.Her dark, careless hair wind-trails herIn the crimson light of the evening sun.She rides unbound an infinite airBetween the earth's open hearthAnd the yawning sea, each whisperingIts siren claim on her as its own. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Mortiii/1104149/