http://slow.writerscafe.org/Henry%20Daube The original writings of author Henry Daube en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775984158 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 old poem http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/528612/ That guitar I've yet to playLays in a corner of my messy room.A spider resides insideIts wooden belly I suspect.-Old dusty webs whereThe music should be. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/528595/ .you were stubborn like usand touched with a bit of the poet'smadness   .    yes?and we all agreedthough not a poet but rather a museof sorts ***** museof apathique madness .  yes?and we all agreeda delirium sans vieAnd I loved you for itand still do  .   &nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/528591/ Well, are you still living there?In that sad place you've built out of sorrow?You know you gave me a key And I promised I'd visit sometime tomorrow.But tomorrow never came for me,And now I'm sorry that I ever met you. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/528587/ Hurry nowhurryHurry up nowit's lovehurryhurry up pleasewe can't waittoo longit's the timeof loveandthe timeof itin this worldhurry uppleasehurry up nowcomeit won't be long http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526795/ The orange glow of the setting sun burned dimly on the horizon. Hecould see the tired eyes of the farmers gazing homeward as theyfinished up their day's work. Young farmhands, no less fatigued, seemedlively as they brought their labor to an end and welcomed in the dusk,thought of nothing els.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526791/ slatington- / 1/6/10 http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526790/ A cry from within.The MoonWoundedBy the wind's dagger.And the antsQuietly drowningIn the flower's water. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526665/ ...I churned out a poem using the sweet pulp of an old letter...to a certain Thibault http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526663/ Her shadow follows the moon.My laughter enters every inch of her sadness.She weeps, and says "I am not who I want to be."We kiss.Her sorrow has turned to honey on my lips.It seems it has no use for words."Everyone is hollow...in a place they say is dead...And I don't hate you anymore",She says. Wear.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526659/ *No offense, ladies. Daube's all for the Fems. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/526658/ to a girl http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521188/ Ants will devourOur hearts,Our soulsWill be rolled upLike scrollsInside the skullsOf dead horsemen.And Adonis willWeep,Naked and alone,WoundedIn the fields of loveFor all time. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521187/ an apple in my handa blue rose in your hairyour lips pressed against my lipsthe late evening’s tranquil skyand you asleep in my armsbreathing prettywarmth of your breathagainst my chestin your bed reposedclothes strewn across the carpetwindow opened to the night aircurtains swaying in a cool b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521186/ i triedto patch the broken pieces of a picture,but myhands trembled a bit too much, nervousit seems,and the blue-jay in its cage doesn't sing,nor hasit any reason to do so. perhapsmatthew'sletter sits unopened by the paperson thetable. and suddenly, in retrosp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521181/ Shewasn't beautiful. She had an oddly shaped face. Her pants fit her a bit tootight and she hardly ever seemed comfortable in her blue hospital shoes. She'dspend hours by the large window at the end of the main hall, staring at thetree tops, or the sky perhaps, in a cross-armed stanc.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521179/ a young woman with freckled cheeks and dream-worn eyes; a pretty prostitute:- a damned gamine. she prepares my heroin, carefully injects a dose of it into my vein*...a sudden, indolent bliss...and a kiss and smile just before my eyes close and she says: “ .... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521178/ don't mean to seem vulgar http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521177/ eliot ex.and him"what's wrong?" with me... :and me i say:i have tasted the penny flavorof bootless schemeshave confided to my carethe dreadful secrets of miseryi have walked through city streetsa yellow lilac in my hairand followed, i confessconfused and unawarehave recited dismal pomesin cemeteries.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521155/ to a miss who i hope won't mind my finding her beautiful a detriment to friendship. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521140/ I was wrestling with words beneath the bright skull of the moon, dreaming of springs and flowering gardens wherein lovers meet - a romance in kind, warm with wine moonlit our bodies sigh - clicheically ...my sadness held me closer embraced by its cold , unloving arms I lit a cigarette and held this .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/521133/ and after a sour vodka nightand a frightful close of lightin a mind I've had of winteron the very eve of mea cold nearly comfortingmind at the very brinkof autumn's termclose to the close of life'sself bolt and dam" know what I mean, ma gamine?"and the blood all bluestill visible throughmadameall th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Henry-Daube/519717/