http://slow.writerscafe.org/eiliswren The original writings of author Eilis en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775925767 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Between all matter there are spaces. In those spaces there is a kind of emptiness filled with the wind-bone of history. Everything has presence, feeling. Every thing that has passed leaves a mark not unlike bruises, blooming on a covered thigh. I don’t have to show you, no. But if you do not s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126517/ Granite breaks the ground. Open me and you’ll find stone, also, sparkling between the rungs of my ribs. The empty spaces hunger to be filled and there is no criteria for filling. I sweep dead leaves from the emerging granite heads dotting the edges of the eroding path and stand a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126515/ And Christ flew like a heron to his death in spring. The rough-hewn lines of crucifixion pressing a forever silhouette into the sky. And Judas hanged in the vastness of desert-mind. Was it guilt or grief or loneliness or spite that drove him past the province of doves and into th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126513/ At the end of the day I tell myself there is nothing to remember. The flower buds fall over broken stones in the same way my insides do - the pebble-feel of being broken apart while still put-together. When every day (I tell myself) is the same, it is maybe better to skip.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126390/ Robert Frost wished to reassure his readers that his poem was not a suicide poem. He could not conceive of the mind that took the leap to tell boys and girls the lonely winter carriage driver was truly on a final journey and had merely paused to write a note. In all that blackness .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126388/ The night is impactedteeth of vampire. The monsterunlucky enough to be bornwith a cluster of caninessprouting from gums like weeds.He hovers over me at oddhours. His breath is new graves, he invites me under. He smileshypnotic and the moon is the spotlight on his waveringha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126385/ The curtain of night falls downso slow that you would think it would be silent. But the mind misunderstands memory and plays back only what it wantsme to forget. As evening swallowsbirds in its dark throat, the birdsrefuse to be quiet. The birdsare a series of ballads to afternoo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126383/ Where do I begin. The world was born in the keel of a bird. The drowned land swallowing all things. Seedlingsgrew taller - than the long bodies of trees - their stems swelling -their leaves becoming wings - their wings reaching the sun -the sun turning the leaves to bone. The boo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126381/ The tiny downy woodpecker winds around the living pineand bows and bows and bowsover the bark like a monk at daily prayer. I would swearhis beak is for listening for beatlike a stethoscope leaning into hear the heart. What is ithe is searching for, wending around the thin t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126378/ Pinecone acorn bluebird puddle full of frogs. Kingletred hawk first tiny bloomsof blue flower even beforethe freeze is over. Snow will be coming soon. It returnsand returns as an Arctic rabbitdashing across the landscape. It does not settle even now. The man wants me to share my .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126373/ Birds in their restlessness love rainlove the way rain carries earth around earth and keepseverything returning. The water I take into my body was perhapsonce rain. Perhaps oncetouched you. Somewhere somehowthe touch of all things touching us all. I was not made to be rain.The .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126372/ Now the whole world had one language and a common speech. �"Genesis 11:1Laddering up to total emptinessyou find weight beyond all volumeof ocean. You find the lonely souls of saints trying to remember the impulse that led them to tryto fly. They tell you�"sain.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3126370/ The night you died, I dreamt you were a fox. I laid like a shadowin my bed - the flowerson the bedspread stinking of life. I never knew before then that shadows could smell things not living. That foxes could unfold the groundand move over the leylinesof human hearts. They sa.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125606/ Genus: mind, mind /second to bear trap - the softlight of the moon ebbs like wave as the cloudsspill over the night. Watch the flaking-iron teeth of mindopen with invitation. Mindwants to have youin. And let you feel the bluntsting of feral thought close around your limbic.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125604/ Mind is: puzzle. Answeron the crossword (1) down - I wish to be? The departure of muteswans. I wish to transmuteheart to absence of weight, and saltof life to absence of dark mind. Sometimes I say this out loud and the sky betweenmy ears becomes pilgrimage,the sky between my ea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125601/ Thumb, root of eye, teethlike mountains tumbling to the ground. My body is a garden of parts in disarray. Weedburdened, vine-tangled, root drying up as it crawls over ground. And rockof crumbling mind. The mineralsof which sediment are said to make what feeds on them grow stronge.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125597/ If Lady Macbeth believed the witches was it her belief that made the earth she thought she wanted true. How does the mind make the leap from wild thought to belief in dark things beyond vision. The hills swim with bloodeven as I walk them and I feel the bloodof earth squish below my fe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125596/ Open door - emptiness - abandoned shed in the middle of a dust and crushed leaf-blanket field. The darkness seepsout the door and over the ground. Even the inanimate holds itself with forceover the forever things of earth. So where ismy shadow. And the robinstrying to plant themselves .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125591/ If body is the entire universein reverse - born whole but made to grow to broken - the apocalypsehappens inside you. The thickvine of feeling a means to end. Endthe goal of all things. Andthe way that trees are deadbut continue standing - this I suppose is signal. Each lifea ti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125590/ The vulnerable sitby windows watching the ant-life of humans paintitself across the ground. Here is the unbreakable glassof fear when fearis the glue that holds youback from the cave of dirty world. Hear the laughter rise like the highhonks of geese. Squeezingthemselves togethe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3125589/ won't pretend to understand the development of this archaeology, the repertoire of bones that I stack on the table before me. All the people that I dive for are missing. Yet, I lunge toward the sunken armada, a ghost since so some days ago, a ghost since before the radio that would h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124163/ Call me a tide pool. I carry a sky's worth of watery memory cells in the shallow hollows of my body, but you cannot see them. They swim like search parties of plankton seeking something smaller than their budding fins to eat. It is late, and I have spent a great barrier reef full.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124162/ Coming in peacedoes not always nullify the war. When entering the temple, Yeshua was overcomewith the need to bring balance to the accounts of his Father. This is not the city of gold,no, this the city of suffering. Here, where we are madeto walk sandal.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124161/ 1. Wild plum are blooming, baby wren scratches the ground - scene through a window 2. Brush piled on dead grass - a once-tree drops dark seed and repopulates 3. What I wouldn’t give for a boat - casting shadow on undimmed water 4. I forget yellow in winter, but spring.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124160/ After Dennis O’Driscoll http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124158/ The black bear is hidden between Osage and oak. Vines like the spines of skinless snakes catch on branches to hem her in. It is October, only just autumn, and the leaves aren't ready -yet to let go. Like dappled raspberries, they catch in the light corners of wandering .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124157/ white dog    white trees    white sky. the city is preparing for snow and on the roadway --white as the peaks of Switzerland (half flattened and left there in some kind of human ceremony to acquiescing our own ending) the dog b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124156/ My father, u-shaped hole in Redwood, hails from California. From a corner of the forest which chooses to remain unsaid. I've seen the photo where he loosens his roots from the hill and leaves the inner body of the tree hollow. Like a black hole leading to heaven kno.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3124155/ I dream of those doddering speckled horses, the saddle bag bellies scraping upswept heads of wild oat and caterpillar grasses. I dream of those crooked willows, gravedigging, unimpeded, buried-spring seeking. Willing the crush of anything in the rootwake. I dream of those parable.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123691/ The night is a collection of torches extinguished and breathing smoke. The night is a collection of creakings; a Mephistophelean smile parting dark curtains. A silver extension of hand; five fingers caressing dead-steel as the moon makes love to the exploding kingdom of stars. Th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123690/ With bamboo pole sloping off his shoulder, my father carried the day ahead of me through raffia grass. Homeric swagger, cool marble torso leaning left, and a mobile of fish swatting at his knee. And the eel, pulled from the think brown lake by his mother, hovered just above his feet. Headless as nar.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123689/ I have plenty to sayabout the way the worldabandons usto tame ourselves. We are notwolves but streets http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123688/ Let us talk about your Jesus yearand how you never thought you would reach it. The warm white moon of July and tiny cradle of second hand motherhood. There are things you don’t know will change you - you have already done them - but turn around and see yourself standing beh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123617/ Trauma is a doorway to every age. In the dark there is no notion of color. Only our eyes googling like marbles over the floor. We disappear like marbles googling over the floor, hiding our bodies in the smallness of things whose smallness makes them suitable to exist. We are: rot.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123616/ Look how beautiful we were thenthe slick-gold vessels of our bodiesslowly tarnishing in silence and our unawareness of how quickly it would all come. The bullhorn power of your fingers pointing outward and the way I always tried to hide a smile when it grew inside me. When I was .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123615/ I long for the empty breath of buried rue, the ghostly bones of the rosebush I tended like a premature child until it dwarfed the derelictbasketball hoop - just a totem nowof child laugh-memories - of summers so far gone they can only be imagined as sentence-bones in a body of stor.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123614/ The broken fingernail of the moon dips toward the grass above our heads - if you flip it to the negative imageyou will see the closing eye of someone who you would really liketo be listening as you speak. The truth is, you will never find a way to make themlisten - rapt l.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123613/ The truth is I stopped eating and hidmy food under the bed. There were old sandwiches and molding cheeseand crumpled paper towels full of bites I spit out before they could traveldown that hollow corridor from my mouthto the center of my body. That hollow corridor that rests near the v.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123604/ Shelter from the unknown is not available , is a discipline in physics, a cruel formula I have taught myself, the strum of syllables over the jelly of my bones. In the helix of language I learned to bow at the feet of a clover patch of invisible gods. Voices without faces are not.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123601/ Interspersed among robins, the singlegrackle struts as a means to hide. I guessthis is what he means by imitating the posture of robins - as they make pocksin ground that make the unpracticed eyebelieve deer have ravaged the ground. Theydid, after all, eat the hearts of sweet potato .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123600/ Sky like bluebird. There is nothingabove, nothing, not even the seepof cloud-hint - only sky like bluebird. Sometimes, I’ve heard, everything seems simple. If the sky is cleardoesn’t that speak, somehow, topossibility. One note is kind of likeharmony, right. The way all.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123599/ That dream is not a dream. Motheryou are the monster. Hair the swayof tar pool and skin like powderof the dead. Your teeth are pebbles sharpened to hammer the heart, whatis it you eat when asleep to make youless like Lugosi stalking the living realm of dead, dead, real/ trees cover the.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123598/ Night and the puzzleof all the things rolls over. Owlswake early and yawn seeing there is no moon. Owlsappear from nowhere as the moon does. Curdlingtheir voices, their wingsmaking no sound. Hear the night coming on - a setof claws on the prowl. A lady saysthese birds are not t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123597/ I must go down past the hillsto the ossuary. The bones of birdsdust the ground and I cannot hear a sound. My ears were stolen from a dream. My earsbecame hot airballoons and set to flying. Wishing to be birds. The screams of birds, some say, can be beautiful. The xylophone lung.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123596/ Night me into the morningwhere I can see the woodpecker puncturing darkness with his beakof empty sky. His breast the midpointof moonrise glowing as it shoots across the upturned basket of morning. Night me into morning, where the wakingwalk the streets to gather mossand forget t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123595/ Time has wept on his thigh. Marked
the future with disorder. In a close-up
of David’s hand, his body’s white marble appears hollow. Holed
by the indelicate hours that have left
him behind. The feminine curve
of his fingers speaks to histor.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123323/ There the trees waved, wind fingering through them,Adolescent hair of their leaves thick with life and the promiseOf a burgeoning spring. This is the leaf hand. FlippingItself again and again as the wind twists the tiny wristsOf the living limbs. Have you ever heard it saidThat a p.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123321/ The gloaming eaves are touched with the slump of sunlight. The dark-kazoo drone of crow songdusks the last light left to see. A bird rows over the roof burying light then feathering out,growing into a group of one hundred more. And who knewthese cave-colored birds gathered in mobs like.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123320/ Here is the bust of the dead man, pupil-less, white as bleached paper - some might even call it flawless, but, look here, marbling still shows through. It’s like the blue veins of aging can not be hiddeneven by the sculptor, so what does this mean. Look, when you take away the multic.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123318/ After Robert Duncan http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/eiliswren/3123317/