http://slow.writerscafe.org/LindsayRose The original writings of author LR Young en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775981030 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 fooling around with long forms and prosey-ness. Trying to find my voice again. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/600904/ I have no fiction to spellno hacksaw that severs nailsfrom the crown of thrones,the education of rosebushesor thorns, piercing palmswhen seeking to collect blossomsor the leather-fawned hills,that freckle-frosted, liein pale decay; I saw themwhen driving home, on my wayto put a c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/510416/ I write to the still voice, the one I can unravel, knitting yarn, rings in trees or onions -- the cyclical beat-beat, the wind in my hair,as when I was young, barefoot and pedaling until entropy broke wide-eyed,the fear and the living coursing coexistent in one tiny body, I spyt.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/498947/ There are trees at the edgeof the perceived desert, savannahs(another word for mirage or heaven), a neverfaltered fallen place, fractured,an older but simpler birthing, right-side-upin earth to start with, forthcomingupon something shocking, bright(I see the trees of men) an oasis of.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/498812/ So here it is, from the beginningbarely evening & the drawing dark pulls shades across still & snowy hill-lands; the mountains are blue simple stones from here, on the edge, the knife befallingthe swift grain field eastlingsand foothills, giant's belliescoaxing persian food far fromthe l.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/497168/ Icarus never saw the edge of the world,a deep peaking crevasse, echoinginto chambers, the holy vesselof the physical heart, askingthe question of ages year after year(who am I?) never really listeningor deciphering the answer. There was a boy who was bornto be watcher, a listenera .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/492911/ I feel the spiral of time, the vortexwhere hands meet fists meets feetthe whole of the body & the wholeof the night, coalescing like ebbingthe seal webs between toesif  only I was a better swimmer, the budof translucent potential, my whole fatelaid smartly out, flutter, thrumm.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/488303/ TS Eliot wrote how april was the cruelest month, a sanction of rain on dry earth, a thirsting growth. I am only a small collection of other letters, I would never live up to his holy shanti om shadows & expectations, but the sarcophagus in the king's chamber, lies ready for90 degre.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/484349/ There was a moment yesterday after sitting in the Indian Restaurant (wherethe owner's are Nepalese), after drinking my two cups of milky-sweet chai, gazingout the windows above the parking lot, learning how rhythm was so essential, how breathingmakes sculptures and words,how much my .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/484345/ maybe I could have marked the extra hour, wound down the yearcarved another coil into the rock, the last glance, the last boom of old intentionsburied under the great green hills, sleepingdemolished like giants, who light on their toes, waltzes, scores hop-scotch, smashing open dreamin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/483112/ held in one place, secure balancinga thousand stories about myself,my Scheherazade, wearing masks of words. how many ways are thereto spell forgiving? each momentit seeps like small cross stitchesor cinching button holes, ifI ever knew my great grandmotherthe great granddaughter of c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/478806/ we have had many suddenly seeded dandelions,sent down for wintering, remarkable happeningsto us (birthing into manifest destinies) yet I am the same, never born and never dying, never sighing too deeply or sleeping too long, waiting for the light to change,the air to bite back, in its se.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/475385/ I didn't know sadness had a hungera well that pulled at sinew, the tallowof my one light burning slowly out,suffocated by opacities, desiresfor pureness, aching to be celluloid, or cellulose,I can't remember, not even half of it;how my ancestors, arching pigmentson rocks walls, magic.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/467603/ Sorting through faith is worse than losing socks in the laundry.the whirlpool gods often demand argyle sacrifices; yet I am mismatched:saints and karmas, riddle-mysteries, songs and foreign mystical prostrations. How long does it do any good to fight the holy onesthat bless you in th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/467113/ I used to know a lot about light. I couldkeep count the circles it would run abouttugging on shadows to draw them longacross the hillsides. Sleeping stonesstanding sentinel upright. in the west countrythere are stories of the smaller gaulish sidhe, who make you drop your toast, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/466506/ yesterday was the last fight, I feltits warmth glaze over the gold grassesthe sloping into deep ravine valleyswet sashes, clinging to their auburn tressesuntil fully withering, bent headed, as if for the guillotine, they waited & crowded meekly about the pine-needle-threadedwaiting.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/466449/ A year ago, I learned about Milton's obsessionwith light. Not only from radiant spheresabove but, whole wisdom of this framedpicture, this snapshot of time, mine ownheart hung up next to the sons of menlining the wall, scoured over with pin scratches, thumbnail-sketches of paradise, writ.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/464270/ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Colter http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/464264/ playing with high language. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/462233/ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_of_Assisi http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/461241/ One branch of the maple has turned; here I was looking out the window, washingmy hair, wondering if that pale merely maybechartreuse leafing was causedby a burnished summer, a singed bloom,the sun here too hot for Canadian transplantsbut the cocoon was all of Augustand before h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/457044/ I feel the tug of old habits, coarseness and jealousies, stories and testing-outs, to feel out the boundaries of my current space, how far can I lean? before toppling pell-mell down hills, into moorish gardens;beneath the risingof all my golden portentsfighting for sunlight.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/456559/ for this useful body I am grateful,for my joy and my solitude, my laughter, the torrents of music and bells, peals of good fortune orsilence and nourishment rising out of a purely aesthetic symbiosis, the biology of gifts and un-make-believable moments.Like Emerson walking and gazing.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/456557/ שנה טובה http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/456458/ I have a knife for bread,for grass golden butterfor sheep and their whey,to drink in, to wrap up in woolsolar systems like an image,a cerebral effervescence,a carbonated mineral springingcorrespondence betweensurvival and swimming,living and singinga song for honeybees.The pi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/455987/ I couldn't afford the sleeperso curled up, like foxesor sheep, the Latin hunter in wool, I lied across two train trackstoo dreamy from rocking,barely a buck or a cute lipfor the trip, no coffee, no cheap monte cristo hack here, too ready to be home soon, the motion hurtling thr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/455618/ I can't convince myself that I do not feel, that the winds and the granite, willows, marmot tracks, or the sparrowdo not alight in my breath. my beating coal-tried energeticsnow tired, these stilled mistakes. I am my own death, over and overthe cells of my life-filled inebriation.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/455540/ The blackbirds and crowsline up in murders, on the telephone wires, suspendedover pastures and prairies;how the storms rise up from our lipsthe histories of making memoriesinto tragic lovers' quarrels, makingnight into morning just by staying upto watching the witching hours roll.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/453578/ There is no more shape to you than there is reason, a burst of light, in the pitof it, like when the almond firsttakes root, the shooting upin the metaphysicalserpent-spine and that plotof earth in your backyard. the ladderin the orchard. I will harvest from their bare limbsmy ow.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/453573/ I realize how wrong it truly wasto stand in the other direction,to shirk your protectionand your glow. The baskinggaze of your hottest color,the fire-center blue of yourwishing pools. The eyesof a soulful and serious sky.I once meant to write a storyabout a girl who wantedto be.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/453570/ there are days without forestsbut I wouldn't want them. I need the calligraphiesthat write me into being,into the explanation behind it,the vermillion and the ochre sap the capillaries and the reality:the heart is not a pump.It breaks over distanceslike morning eggs inthe skill.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/447421/ Elul is the month of preparation for Rosh Hashanah & Yom Kippur In Aramaic it means �search.� It can be expanded as an acronym for "Ani L'dodi V'dodi Li" which reads: "I am to my Beloved and my Beloved is to me." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/445645/ I see with mine eyea light at the inner crossroads,the chords of karma are delicatefine enough to tangle into knots:and it begins between the brows.Now, Arjuna draws his arrowa lamp or a lamb at the organ and the songthat heart-shaped chamberstill at rest, sleeping waiting for .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/444511/ If I let you take me in, if I unlatch and lift the barto unmake the protection of the ingress in my small house, you will swallow me up, like the wolf (I hear your red howling at the keyhole to my chaste and locked doors). Hallowing my light as it reflects off the window panes,like a mystical appari.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/443328/ Iif I am remiss, then I amremiss; so shoot me. there's no coincidence that you decidedto come. the broken chair still leftin splintered shafts on the back porch,screened in, it was never meantto keep out the weather,but you were never any sort of intruder, to begin with;I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/443245/ I can't imagine losing you again, outgrown like a buck sloughs off the velvet from his spring tines.I am not so melancholy as my words depictbut when I go looking for a means to describe the depthyou reach within me, I must push past my sorrow & disappointments, years and years .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/443020/ bittersweet mouths, vines or biologiesit burrows or drowns,It prophesizes for me but with a needle & thread I could heart-stitch the bridge,the overlap in close whispering, harvesting the wind from the mast, a fickleness, a gasping, a mourning at your absence;I have no wor.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/442002/ I am always surprisedby the mouth feel and flavor of honey. I always think it will taste more like you, and less like bees. the pollen that dusts off the brow, the low-down consequence of loving perfectly, like thistles,an imperfect blossoming. Itrespass through the open mark.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/440988/ I may feel a quiet bit of timid, a sour bitter bite of sweet stainingon hearts, on lips, openlike berries, where the clasp of their branch sat, thedivet of a mouthon body avenues, around hips above bone, ground into earthly expressions, you raiseyour voice but kindly pronounce al.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/439862/ There is a place I haveseen, betweenwaking and sleeping;you are not just aviaryor some giant cat, you arehunter and prey, both.fielding sling shots anddiving for pressed apoliticalsparrows; the white sage isfemale, it flowers underthe weight and affection ofmuch good scorching,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/438693/ there was a moment now a decade ago, one summer in Paris, on the only hill in a sacred heart above Montmartre. It was Sunday and the choir was singing. I never had a religion of my own. I reveled in that absence, sometimesthe smallest things movemountains. Glaciers makerivers a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/438449/ a rabbi said the messiahsits just outside,at the gates into the city, waiting not for the pious, or thesinners needing redemptionbut for men of truth. There was a great treethat was struck into our nervoussystems, like filament in a light bulb. Flick the right switchand we li.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/438432/ Dear M_ sh _there were nights, most nights milked and honeyed I would run, headlong into sleep knowing I would find you there: waiting, resting, curling into my next morning, on that mountain, on that hill, angels and guardians and joshuas, softening like sand under the footpri.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/437854/ there is a certain blessing to forgetfulness, the way it can, like those paper presses,confess a years worth of flowersinto bookcases, notes and translucent kisses. I uncap the ink and let it write its runes across my winter skin, see - it's summer still but I can smell the chang.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/436129/ I felt it before it even loosenedthe strings that kept the feelingtaut, confined bythe breath in your lungs, the absence of your exhalepunctures me, fills me withexpectations, the eye of that boneneedle, I can resist just about everything over the phone, over distance, but thinki.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/436062/ you're like fire and water, you burn me up, up only to soothe my marrow, the serpentine coiling of my own effervescence, the ricochet of light on light. one more moment will pass and thenall the dark yugas will fall away beneath us.Wherever you land in the flesh and awake,evoking a s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/434814/ before I enter I remove my shoes; maybe it's a holy place, and maybe it's purely for comfort so that when I come to stand at an angle in the sand likea lightning rod, knowing I'm asking for it, I can feel the earth between my toes in certain gritty intimacies. Toeing the line bet.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/433692/ It's like seeing the sky when both the moon and the sun are visible and you know it's day; you know. you do. you know that this is the reality, and yet:  the moon, which burns suddenly and so much hotter than its mother star, grabs you and your cylindrical, crystalline atten.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/432996/ Some nights the river floods, its brackish bank mixing the mud with the first oceanic minerals,the spiral of grit, galaxies atthe grindstone between the toes, I know it's only passing throughlike a hitchhiker, drunk for the night or high on the fumes of incandescent illuminating star.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/431583/ om guru deva. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/LindsayRose/430732/