http://slow.writerscafe.org/MonteChristo The original writings of author Avery Colt en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776107212 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Bathed,oiled, perfumed, King David isBy lovelymaidens attended and caressed,To see himcushioned on his royal couch,Who would knowthe warrior king he is,But only seehis eagle eye,And how itgleams when girls go by. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1313157/  Certain loves are like the BibleHalf in Greek and half in HebrewDifferent bases, different tonguesBut still the one continuum. These differences in who we areShould not offend your sense of formLove comes not upon us from the starsNot earned on eart.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299957/ Heave a leg overSleeping Jellyroll,Rising balleticOn a knee,Balancing awkward in the dark,Not to wake the easy dreamer. (In that moment seemsAn artful housebreaker’s escapeFollowed in stealthy naked steps,She’s alluring, still pursuing,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299956/ Like a bee buzzingIn my silver teapot,Or housefly struggling againstA windowpane,My aunt Clara had a stroke Last year,And now I visit her every day.Sometimes we play the alphabet game,ABCD question mark,Or I read to her and ask herThings,And she tries .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299954/ Jessie diedlast night at 102,Lyingpeacefully in her new reclining chair,I wish shehad lived longer to enjoy it there,Long graylocks combed along her face,Her stillstrong hands folded in grace,No morewaiting to go back home,No more worriesabout the fare. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299945/ Her rosebud mouth inviolate remainsWhere nothing tastes but pure or saysbut kindAnd naught’s allowed to sully itsfair fromSoft lips that kiss the profferedglass of wine. But my love’s hands are a cravingmatterHer other parts show love in everygu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299944/ Somewhere at thirty thousand feetMy husband sits secureIn his reclining chairAnd in my love. I think how little holds him there. So long as forward motionPulls him across the windHe flies. Having studied it onceHe knows how it works,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299942/ She telephones Asking if he knowsHow frightening it isTo be alone. Like a buildingScheduled for demolitionWhich at the lastCollapses inward,Resentment crumbles. AngerLike dust washed downDissolves in tears.Fountains sparkle.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299941/ What I miss most are the sausage andeggsWe used to fry up after.  The toast withOrange marmalade.  The pitch black coffee.The steady companionship when wecrossedThe limiting boundaries of ourdifferentGenders, and did that merely commonmostHuman thing two.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299940/ The ties of fourteen years’Association bind meTighter than a knot.I can’t deny that what Intrigues me most is howYou manage to prevailIn my affections.  NotOvert claims but Seeping tides of sentimentWhich flood my senses.After all this tim.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299939/ Whenthey were little playing in the schoolyard,Theboys would run around shouting and yelling,Littlegirls watching, overtly, covertly. Laterthe boys scarcely remembered, Girlson the other hand a long long time.Visionsof sugarplums etched in their minds... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299937/  Swinging round the newel post,To race up tall colonial stairs,And into the upstairs parlor where,Bright sunshine fills the summer air,Floating through colonial windows,From which I see bright yellowmeadow,And dark green of a distant wood,And on a single wi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1299936/ I am alwaysaware when James polishes his brass,Thoseslender metal messengers of death,Lined upbeside him on his army cot.Why do youpolish what no one else will see?Becausethey’re a source of pride to me.And whatabout conscience, Jim, I say? What.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1266918/ Late onesummer afternoon,Our farmerneighbor Howard Utter,Drove up toour gate in his red Ford truck,And cam einholding a leather collar.And lookingat me said to my dad,I’m sorry tosay your dog is dead,I found himin a ditch on the side of the road,Ju.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1266917/ The four horsemen of the apocolypsecome pounding down the home stretchthe last furlongHard to say who will win.I placed my betat the parimutual windowHard to say who will winBut I'm willing to wait. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1263436/  Today I left early.My mother was still sleeping,And due after that for kidneydialysis.I love her dearly but in the finalanalysis,There wasn’t very much more I coulddo.Leaving the room, taking the elevatordown,And out the pneumatic doors to theave.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250281/ On my last visit to see my father,I found him dressed in his cherry redrobe,And wearing his red ruby pinky ring.He looked very much at ease in theopen coffin,As though asleep at the beach or inhis contoured chair. What a pity I thought that this oldViking,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250280/  Oldmen love girls in the nursing home.Lookingwith flinty and alert eyes at the Beautiful Jamaican nursesWhotake such good care of them. MyGod, Brian said, if I had only known earlier, I’d be living down in Jamaicanow. Girlslove old me.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250279/ Themind flies free, Evenwhen the body is bound in bone and Sinew.  GreatJehovah soars across the Sistine Chapel ceiling, supported by angels; Iam transported here and there by the sweet homestaff. Observingmy fellow wheelchair addicts I see in ea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250277/ I make these little jokes Whenever the doctor pushes andpinchesTo raise us both aboveThe realities of my condition. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250275/ The Madonna of Kazan and infantJesus,In golden glow of their lovingintimacy,Remind me of certain photographs ofmy wife,And of our children, her kindlyaffection,And even earlier of another, mymother,All from a card in the museum shop atChristmas. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250274/  Clarissa makes a beeline,Whenever she sees me,She can’t talk and I don’t much,But when she enters the room or I do,And our eyes meet,She wheels across the room,And boards me pirate fashion,Wheelchair hub to hub. She’s perfectly.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250195/ My father would arouseFrom a bad dreamScreaming “Mama” “Mama”Who didn’t care muchFor loving anybody andCertainly not him.He would stumble into the Bathroom to wash his faceAnd back to the bedroomTo his wife’s soft voice,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250193/ Earlyin the morning, Myfather’s heavy tread down the stairs, Tounbar the front door, Therooster’s crow, our dog barking,Mymother cooking breakfast downstairs, Thearoma of bacon and new brewed coffee;  Andas an adult, Inmidtown Manh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250192/ Our childrenlike new saplings rise, Throughforests of their parents’ lives. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250186/ Mrs. H stills owns a houseOverlooking the bay,Even though she has been living hereevery day, For at least a dozen years. Her family keeps the house fresh andclean,And once or twice a month they wheelher up the street,And up the brick path for lunch.&nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1250185/ We are all from the one,And to the one shall return, We are all from home,And hope to return, We are all from war,And sad to say,Will go to war again, We are all from dust,And surely shall return. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1243187/ My sisterloved Egypt as only a young girl can,But Egypt ofthe Pharaohs!Nothing morerecent than Alexander,All arts andculture,Nothing todo with the masses. What aboutthe slaves, I asked her.The workerswho built the pyramids,The fellaheen,up to .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1233642/ Maryann Clifford and Ethel Frame,Who I don’t think were beautifulthen,But in their high school cheerleaderroutine,Short pleated skirts and high waistjacket, Satiny white, red, blue, and green, Jumped and tumbled for the football team,Showing their tight teen.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1233631/ The night myloving sister died,With herquick delight and clever smile,I never evencried.For smallerthings I wept with her.But partinghad no meaningIf I couldnot share with her. The night myloving sister died, I watchedthe ebbing of her vital t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1225465/  Afterthree martinis,IncoherentMary takes herself upstairs to bed at eight pm. Aftera while I follow,Andslipping in between the coversLienext to her recumbent form,Sleepinglike a log. Aftera while I feel her heavy armThrownac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1225454/ Write me a poem of the sea,My eldest son said to me,Of pirate ships and derring do,All upon the Spanish main,And when the grand Armada came,All of whom were slain. Make me a poem of the sea,My second son said to me,On winter storms and autumn gales,Th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1225453/ Myfather’s mind is escaping,Fromhis wheelchair he can see through the art room window,Abright yellow line of sand,Ablue-green line of open sea,Apowder blue sky,Thoughwhat they mean to him now I do not know.Hesits at the table with a red crayon,Fill.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1225451/  Sailboats in the harbor,Families on the strand,Young men playing volleyball,Girls upon the sand,Memories of summers past, Now that they are gone. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1218483/ HarryBehrens,Stoopingover on his two crutches,Lit the gasoven for the second time, Was blown,miraculously unhurt,Backwardthrough the screen door,And outonto the back porch. The gasstove,A mass ofgrease and soot and twisted metal,A.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1218471/ Outon the promenade,Of anold seaside hotel,A rowof white haired ladies,Lookvacantly out to sea, Overa jumble of rocks,Overthe seething sea,On asummer Sunday after noon,Vacantlyout to sea, Outon the promenade,Withnary a thoug.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/MonteChristo/1218466/