http://slow.writerscafe.org/HelenWarner The original writings of author Helen Warner en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776214057 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Sisters, I prick myfinger to remember-sometimes-Insecurity adornsherself in ornaments of deception.Skeletons of the white washed shiverbehind chic baublesand trinkets.Some stride down vogue streetplucking feathers from birds in passing.Pluck, “Did you see her hair?&.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171457/ Sara, we met at thewhite elephant sale-sleeping saint of the musty church basement, hidden beneath thebrick-a-brack.Crackling pages,  for years subdued insilent coma,once opened became mysoul’s reflection.I bound your wordsaround my wrists.Ate your .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171455/ My head is playing the flu symphony-ring-ring, wheeze and throbble.Three days now.Plans and errands disappear into the steady mist of Vicks- spraying effervescent into the atmosphere.I am a vision of the pale, Pre Raphaelite maidenstretched solemnly on her death bed of .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171454/ Looking out across the tainted ground,I see the widespread masses of blushing bloodcolored leaves, now mottled with the restingof various autumn hues. Riding on gusts of wind,once again they call me out as if on a dare.I sourly answer back with the rake in my hand. Passed through generations, from h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171453/ fold upon foldmeditation and measure a crease here, another there ceremonial acts in  deliberate              precision  releasing crinkles ofa crumpled mind junk and.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171452/ Mistakes and memories arestuck in repeat.I’m tired of the sound of themrattling about in rusty cans-sharp like ice against my teeth.In these thingspoets are the most human.A vital fury compels me to seek out rocks, trees, rushing water and soundsof the pure things-where.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171447/ “We poets in our youth begin in gladness; but thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.” ~William Wordsworth http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171443/  The aged dogwood trees in the yard scrape bitter bones as if seeking sanctuary,swaying in the lonely wind crest chills of January.The spyglass moon cracks open yesterdays scars- the ones from that time and the time before,falling out of order to the groun.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/HelenWarner/1171441/