http://slow.writerscafe.org/poetchick The original writings of author Shara Faskowitz en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776002428 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Let's talk about anger. Your anger. Mine. Does it really matter whose? Our angerswells oceans, roils themwith discontent.Is anger a state of disease? Do you think about that? Do you count the times you win? Is that happinessfor you? Or is it restlessness?I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/299247/ This is my special timefor sadness, ripe summerwhen trees toss their hairlike casual schoolgirls, but standotherwise still for decades.Can trees hear the promiseof wind, a cool unseen assurancefor feckless flowers, for fruitfull on the vine? Oh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/288508/ The point was swans.There were long folds bendingunderneath an implicationof wings never with consciousthought of flight, but therewere creases, triangulationsand a return to the page. A sketch was triedto suggest downy feathers,soft submission to paddlecompanionably side .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/275869/ I sail into midnightin a gown of cobwebs, in firefly earrings.I wear no shoes. I skim barefootthrough spirits. I float abovezombie louts, those Calibans,those mooncalves who wonderand stumble. I float alonetrailing serenity in a dusty blue wake.I sing thin hymns to the night.It swa.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/260892/ This poem was written for a contest about Emily Dickinson http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/259785/ I.At the bottom of the firstthe game was barely audibleover my headphones. Twelve stringsmeasured the afternoon.It was a musical muse. The last thingon my mind was unkindness daddy,but leaving was inevitable. Somebody had to strike outor hit foul. The game progressedfor th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/259015/ Lady sends me when she's fine and mellowand Mr. Five by Five tells me the news.I slip my hips, I wiggle like I'm jello.That ain't no jive alive my friend, that's blues. Heard it told the blues is just a bad dreamthat creeps into your bones when times is bad.Weepin' willows ain't t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/258713/ World of our fathers.Second Avenue stories. Delancey Street.Rivington railroad flat with murky secretstossed down the airshaft.The wash that fluttered brick to bricklike damp trapped birds undauntedby shouts across sills or the mayhembelow of ragmen and pickle sellers. Grandmo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/258712/ Weary tenor man, oh why must you blowso mean to me, baby? Why do you liltwhisper hollow but insistent as thoughevery star tumbles from the sky, spiltin measures coaxed so sweetly from the bell?Your breath to my soul, harmony in blueswhen your spirit wraps me in a spellof pain and .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/258016/ After I loved you I became so tinyI was microscopic. I could not be seen.I was so quiet I could not be heard.I was invisible. You walked past me.I was a ghost. You walked through me. You left me on the hall table. You forgotI was there. I looked at the wall for years.It was smoo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/257416/ Piano rolls through strideand boogie, bop and dissonance,flatted fifths, the vaporsof a world gone Jazz. At the Philharmonic it was blackand white in rhythm, a Beanand Mulligan stew. Flathat catsand hi hats. Four four and minor keys, tenor moans and gutbucketvamps, a .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/253781/ America, and I'm not agreeingwith you but remember whenwe were young, and I could stilljump high enough to catchlightning bugs in a jar without coughing? You looked so beautiful thenin the gloaming, the way you woreyour trees half unbuttoned. It was noaccident when your leaves.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/251082/ This poem is a variation of a Glosa, a Spanish poetic form that begins with a quote (sometimes, but not always, by another writer) and weaves it into the text of the poem. In a formal Glosa this is done according to specific rules and usually involves rhy http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/248391/ Halfway across the universean aging star explodesin a previously unknowngalaxy. I wonder was it Liz? Fay? TimothyLeary is already exploded.It was bright enoughto be seen with nakedeyes. Did you spot the burst?Do you remember when she first explodedon the screen wi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/239177/ Something about Sunday. The moment crosses over.2:00 PM last time I lookedAt the clock noon still watched From the blind but the qualityOf light is syrupy, thicker.I eat this heavy-lidded moment.The dead live again. AnyoneEven old Lester as he never wasBut as I imagine him may sp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/238894/ I had your old party dress. Pink and girlyfrilled, belled above my scabby knees.Mama put a bow in my hair, combed meto a satin lie. I put my bike away. I leftmy skates by the cellar door. May 28th,was it Memorial Day? You had hips before me, and big girls walk proudin .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/236298/ She stands before him, eyes castdown in sleeveless dress,long arms bare-skinned. Tender fleshclose enough for him to breatheher fragrant hair smooth and fresh. Her eyes cast down. Essence of a lemon grove, Palermowarm and green notes fadeinto a white-washed se.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/235224/ If you listen to the windyou'll hear whispers,the grind of roller skates, a flap of sheets on the line, a careless singsong of girlswill vanish in one creakof a screen door. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/233441/ It was an ocean of bluewith siren foam that carried me from a broken home.  It was a ribbon of black, a narrow path that wound loamy deep by the soft, dark grass. It was the freedom of sky that made me a cloud. I chased the Sun fo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/233436/ IThey crowd close, surroundthe barn. Sometimes branches embracethe air. Sometimes they loom, point at me. IIThey are in my purview. I watchwith a distracted eye. IIIThe sky backdrop passes. Wintergray. Cornflower blue Spring. Smokedrifts autumn over green.&nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/232313/ It's a windchime afternoon. My small town's songechoes in trees, in the distant whoosh of traffic,in the crow caw meant for no woman's earsbut spoken nonetheless as I wait here, watchinga flag answer gusts in some stranger's backyard allegiance. Not mine. I pledge nei.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/231560/ The 2nd Door is closed.The stage is empty. Nogut-bucket blues will wake the dead. No piano shoes, nored skirts aflare, no scrapeof the brush, no clink or shout, no rush, no black ties to carenor thigh to shy from share. No oneis aware where ghosts don't lean in.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/230929/ F**k the peoplewith the long poems. Poetswho pull words from the windout of the whirl of sutra-geniusto paint them on pages like silkkisses skin. F**k them!Their deep meaning, their nuance, f**ktheir metaphors and alliterations.Their syndoche similes can goto hell in a handbasket a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/228999/ The red mists of anger have cleared.I try to remember kindnessas easily as those sour morningsthat followed nights spentin soundless recrimination, dayswhen the air boiled with shouts. I couldtrack time by the tears on my face. Five o'clock is when we fight, chewon our bittern.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/227565/ See my hand?Some days it looks three timestoo big to ever linger on the wire fence,hide from Mrs. Kurtz' growling dogor press its palm against the squaresand wonder at the pattern. Diamondslined my skin, gold pieces weightedin my mouth tasted of copper,iron leavings in the dirt.&nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/227231/ Quan Shih Yin is jadepink she is carved smooth planesand the curve of passing smile. She iscool in the palm of my hand. Her eyes reveal nothing. She has no attachment. She iswarm when she rests in the valleyagainst my skin. She has no attachmentto time or space, just a quiet sto.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/227201/ Start car. Drive.Get caught in traffic jam.Stop. Go. Stop. Go.                       Do not look at traffic psychos.Do not scream road rage.Roll up windows. Lock doors.S.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/poetchick/227176/