http://slow.writerscafe.org/supabaraccuda The original writings of author Solomon en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776013858 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 It’s the light " the way it shines through the windows and coats the walls.  It’s the wooden floors " worthy of tears, we forgot how the wood were once trees with roots and tendrils and virgins.  It’s the other bodies around the room" white, ivory, burgundy, brown, with t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/972115/ I left Tobago on a gypsy boat:  six womenand a barrel full of wine; rock-ginger and a man with blue eye. The sun made us thirst.We threw our dresses into the sea. The man captivated me with his pallid face,soft, like a monjito soaked in gasolinetrapped inside the woven fingers of a gi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/965540/ I won’t cry when I wrap his hornsin brown paper bags and bury him belowwith his mother and her gypsies, painted by the blood of the Year of the Boar,the year the juniper flashed her wings andI found him hung from some swallow branch above the barn, dangling from some shallowsnake who cursed th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/963034/ The color of an iris flecked with blackwings of a hummingbird, ruby throatedopium firebird, hanging by a long black twineripped from the seem of a hound's. Collarbones ratting in therafters above the stableswrapped in red prom dresses,where your mother prayedto the stars, that ni.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/962577/ He stood above his prized white-tail deer duct-taped to the table in the shed, with a cig burning out the corner of his mouth, behind our house on Duck Lake Dam. I stood by his side, silent, under a bundle of old coon pelts.    “F**k, its cold.” I grabbed my elbows. “Whe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/962105/ this is a vignette and beginning to a story I am writing about a black teenage girl who will forever be stuck in poverty. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/959685/ Slip down into the low bed of flowersoutside Mrs. Slatterly’s window,on the corner of Dunn and Dam.Listen to that black widow cryas shards of glass pierce her wax lips, as her hips move slowlyfrom right to left. Please, let the hornets bore in your noseas if they were returni.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/951390/ Anathema, brother, for leaving her corpse in the sand,flecked with sea salt and Atlantic City kisses. Now I’ll have to hear her when the wind blows,and it will remind me of the time when I could still flywith my wooden wings over Roanoke Sound. How I miss those days with the ocean below. But I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/951178/ Don’t fall down in Puget Sound because the trees won't hear youwith all their closed ears.The sky does not wait to mirror the salmonfor her heart she will always ransom regardless of reverence. Buffalo don’t need our haunting dreamsto realize they were born forgott.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/950925/ When I was young and covered in waterI walked through the woods and had no fearwithout a mother or psalm or little tongue.Old men wore cotton and would peel my fruitwith their teeth when papa was missing.But then on Good Friday, the people wore whiteand the negroes wore black.Ledbette.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/949948/ What did it sound like when the bullet flew at the speed of sound through the early morningand landed upon the lamb’s head?What did it smell like as you tried to wash the bloodfrom the grass, as the wolves cried down the pines?What did it taste like when you ate with us that night at our table.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/947759/ Lost under this desert sea,take my smoke crippled words.Realign your novelties,sew them to the feet of birds. Guide them to the calm abyss,where little boys would never see.Widowed mother’s hearts will acheto the spirit of an herbal tea. Remember me when time unfolds;remember me when.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/947750/ Copper frosted swan sleeps on your lips,flutters in the cold alpine wind, rustlingthrough whitewash leaves of virgin cedar bough.Your feathers flutter like a red vibrant heartat its melting point of spring, when the flowers bloom;I kissed your lips then and the snow was kind.Now coul.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/947515/ They flew above the mango treeslike a school of fish in the skyand as they did my father left us in a dark coatwith his boat and the last word I heard. No, he said, and threw his coffee into the dirtground by the sound of fleeting sands and storms.My mom slammed the door and awoke her chil.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/947511/ Shefeared his saltwater kissand the way his spine curved leftlike a train headed Westwhere even good women couldn’t say noto the blue eyes of the old menand the quick tongues of the young,   and as the bruises upon his neckspoke into her in tongue,her orchard bega.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/947508/ There will come the time when your bones turn blackin the fire of the ages all covered in dust,and your heart will leave your skin in a flurry of roseswhose ears will grace the many faces of God.Time itself will cease to exist thenwhen you find yourself riding an airplane headed nowherewhen your min.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/946573/ The sky is sometimes there when I wake up alone in the city,and it tastes sweet on my skin,like her lungs would on my lips: sweet like the pomegranates we pickedfrom the etched fable tree in the bayou,sweet like the gold buttermilk skin of those freshwater cods we unearthedfrom.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/946571/ TheMan Made of Pigeons collected penniesand named each one after the names of his loves: Elma, Amelia, Esther, Lamentations, Moses, Abraham, Roosevelt,Velveteen, Black Beauty, Hurt, Moore, Most, Jewel, Alamo. On green lights, he’d sing. On yellow light, he would sleep. On red he wo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/946567/ Somewhere beyond these auburn hills of a million sunning flowers, there’s a place that I once loved among the green side. Pour milk into my burning lungsto sooth a swollen heart,to fix what might have broke,on the wayside. A ship left with all my pretty flowersto somew.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/supabaraccuda/946564/