http://slow.writerscafe.org/Howlin%27%20Walsh The original writings of author Hoyle Brannacht en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776278011 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15  In a room, upon presentation of my hand for introduction,I found, looking down or up on, it to be absent andmy strength unwhollyoffered.            --as the wrist is a socket,        &nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/335597/  You broke it!You broke it!You broke it!Anenjambment.You broke it!You broke it!You broke it! http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/334320/ A man said to the universe:“Sir, I exist!” http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/332758/     --magnified: the smallesse of morning;               darkness tears off-mooring, and hair    breaks on shore of sheet—I stir towake to “What is towrite in adversary?”Swe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/332752/  Took in the mirror’d static--O! to dash againstwater grasping edge’s frail-content:a face so sad, enjoyed, and gonein movement onward—at morning’s song, which rises to people squaresand draws, imbalanced, reflectionsstunned… “Give.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/320112/ The passage of air,through which                --in quietude—I move as a Peck(sendowed with size):                --among specks,&n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/315863/  Human hands:moving ever about…the source of their creation. Withing the holds of batterhands                --where earthen dust doth catchare overfell’n folds of land,   &.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/314685/        The study of words and insects, so closely sounding the bells one after the other, brings into conflict throngs of well-wishers --meaning one but saying the brother. However, this!, where words may fly and insects speak…a chanceling humor, a tweenknuck p.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/310387/ There are no typos. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/310118/  (Folds over a city)whilst below rock I’n senseless under,compelled to remark.Folds over a city                 --dress on a wounded heel— http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/303146/  Over life’th                --dedicated,                in all earnestness,         &.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/302297/  We grow from an unraveling story,told with words from a silence agape,to be picked by childrenin the ripe light of day. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/279560/  Tink of the poets and poems: small, protective sounds amid gristle.  Each,furious,in a room of its own. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/279551/                  --Far—Anneka,                --Far—England-from your grace,the gentlest cuff,opes’ndais my face .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/277284/  There is O hourglass follows me room to room                --O, I say, for an would speak of glass and sand,                (a mothering,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/275553/  Gesturous            --hanged a rose from your dress—of intentions fine. And yet,to bring a pincin’death upon a rose            --Spring unstress’d—.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/259446/  O consideratelove of men:a careful love, wending stem.Buckram men,            --waffle down:            layered cloth            of doub’le.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/256262/  River is the story            --raspid—of a thousand grasp’edwrapped in garments of blue and gold:River breath --mist off stone— http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/254037/  How fine a solemn hand            --shadow hushed and limpbird—crossed by the hand of another,twined. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/249879/  I once loved a girl named Sestina.She told me, “I love Arnaut Daniel, not you.” Then, in the following order:“You I not love Daniel, Arnaut.”“Arnaut you Daniel, I love not.”“Not Arnaut love you I Daniel.”“Daniel, not I Arnau.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/249082/ I had a dream within a dream within a dream. I was a Dust Bowl farmer in the third, a farmer in the third, hi-ho the derry-o, a farmer in the third, but in the second I “awoke” to drifts of snow high as my second story window. I sat upright in bed, marveling at and then gravely consideri.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/249081/  I have fallen asleep, I have been asleep. I have been sleep, bsleep. And fallen bsleep, ommm…in the arms of the caudillo's favorite woman, beneath a willow at high noon, atop my horse, and in death. God touches my shoulder and whispers, “Awake, child, you are in heaven!” a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/249077/  My preference is the name of a poem writ measured in a notepressed flat at the bottom of a box. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/248820/  In whose mind leaps recognition?            --shaking like legs            on a dock hem—Is it yours?, my Pop,or the order of mine?,my pop.    &.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/248819/ Once, --unaware—ouncely shared in cannikins,the prophetit lay rare.But drabbed shunts opentut,the prophetehporp is tare. Perse’d weeds in wheat,planted by false hands,            --waxen brands—soft to the tou.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/246995/  Our walls bear the faces of a simple people, their chin and browborders impelled forth by time. They travel secret winds, coupling under cover of darkness, swelling the human number until it is round. Some begin slowly, as pocks. Others quickly –children of great cataclysms. All grow. .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/246993/  Beroughed of comfort,            --framed by the nook of a woody cross—but made to laugh long and loudat the depth of a feelingwith so indifferent a reflection,I realized the mountain is God winking.Bless. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/234831/  Yonder,her:            --around which men come—bearer of beauty or wearer of mask?            --endless and onless— http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/234823/  Once,            --in some mad pain—it was an old tire’s absencekilled my brother. In the twisted eyes of our youthwe found everything.On the day he died        &nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/233651/              There is a woman crying in the hallway. I shed a dream, some airy drip of sleep and reason, and come to it: soft, punctuated by rattling fists on wood. I listen, unable to tell the direction from which the noise drifts. Ris.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232423/  Flies, ripe as raisins, lighted upon the neat piles of dog s**t, of which there were several. One, healthy and solid, and the last, still fresh, poor and runny. The dog, a terrier, lay in the corner of the living room across a cleft pillow, its stuffing hunched two-side, leaving the middle b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232421/  “My wish for America is that it jettisons its self-delusions and admits to selfishness,” said the professor, “if only for my health.” He laughed. A stolid hat of fiftyish, the rigid brim of more compelling colleagues, he bent his back into a ‘C’ from which.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232420/  A necklace, lain at the bottom of a drawer,            --evermore held to nothing—ever neckless. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232419/  Wintersmelt of standing waterand rivulets atwiner.            --patchwork path of shlupper’s quarter—The steppardeeskippard and I:            the shiner.Theyroo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232418/  O beauty!And a plum-tipped finger… Point me directions past. Slightly stuck,abled somewhat,I commend the subtle shaft. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232417/             She opened the door. I lay in bed, holding to my chin the coverlet. She came to me softly, followed by a dark shape I did not recognize as Father till the moon fell across it, separating black from black. “Mom.” She set.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232415/  In my eyes of dying there is a well-traveled light. It is the displaced light of a darkening sky: sticks in the hands of children, spears in the hands of men. The children carve forms. The men carve wounds. Across my eyes like soft, giving pools tremble tenuous circles. Kept are different ti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232413/  Two women havedrank, sitting side beside, discussed themselves. The elder, in town for the New Year, was the sister of the younger, the younger besiding to be the sitter of the elder by virtue of her nearness. “O, sitter, I’m going to cry,” said the elder. “But why?&r.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232411/  Northernrow is subject to city planning. Southland is an individualistic affair. Regardless, they're all scared slightly yellow of each other. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232409/ Omnce lay a pot,lined within:the dead pit and skinof a shepherd's only plum. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232408/  “Leaves apart and down trah ain --- ohwup again!”the flippint glarss of child’s joy sang. O’er leaves, in piles dead,artlessly bagg’d to broughn on curbsas boils to nag the grief of trees--- barket squares with noiseless eaves ---rung .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232407/  It has been written on disparate pages the years over: the association of men and books inevitably breeds mooks. These are good at neither, and care little for both. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232406/  II Lady Lucia of meyendful face,how is it you cleave the mist?Of meyendful show you move towards Godwith stopper’s hand,a gated wrist. OO Saint Lucia of chastened holls,attributed two caves.You forsake suites,the suitor’s heat:ignorant of weig.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232403/  His smile betrays reason, teeth one and many, the solace of time in trying.Back: wet.Speech: staggered.I beseech hands that turn white cloth into debt.Most pregnant with loss, the collection comes, birthing an inward tongue.I commune with small spirits. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232401/  Since my arrival in town I have been spoken to twice, by a cook at the dining hall, the wear of her pale face stark in the flulight: Whilst she dished me steak and boiled potatoes I thought, white is surely the heaviest color. White bears a whistling absence indicative of war. Where once sto.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232400/  “Havenish” dominates my thoughts these days forewake…is the sea not in a state of constant motion, preparing itself for man and fish?, the latter a friend and the former the roof by which the latter may reach great, detailed heights against its gill? The boat approaches at.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232399/  Saint Francis was a pusher, reprimanded strongly, for laying hands on children and staining their clothes. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232398/  In this world warship avoweled and unavoweled theists, selling their wares from the deckhands of commatose gods. As these two grow apart and cold (their words hums, punctuated by pants), reaching the limits of their tensility, they will snap back together in this world warship avoweled and u.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232395/  It was upon collapse of the coal mind one May that the thinking man, under great duress, tributed. He surrendered himself to the barest breadth and oldest of borders, the reptilian absolute. Pulled from the wreck, this flatsam reptile was given a ruthless bedding, yet could never speak of wh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232394/  Bound hands breasted,he stands nude:measuring milks in the River.          --- His form belies the dais of winter,               steppe and rued ---Ain wound upon th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Howlin%27-Walsh/232393/