http://slow.writerscafe.org/CaseyTruax The original writings of author Casey Truax en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775930534 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Then we who cheered for the apocalypseReturn, as planets stagger from alignment,Back to work. So we make our roundsAnd cradle our heads upon our palms;We run our circles through the worldThat trace the ways our fathers erred.We dream, and yet the sky never fallsAnd the rising sun defies augury.No tr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2818019/ There is something in the winding of a roadThat makes you wonder, even in the calm,If you could or should have lived another way.This one goes through a farmAnd to a bridge that spans a brook.My nebulous and pleasant thoughts are metWith honeysuckle blooming by the bankAnd my heart with intimate gra.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2816550/ A tribute to Emily Dickinson. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2799029/ What I read is scandalous, my boy,For it says that pugs are hobgoblinsWith big bug eyes and wrinkly little faces,And it says their pudgy bodiesAre like potatoes baking in the sunAnd that they look like old men.I will say the pattern of their facesReminds me of the pansy,And they have dark spots upon.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2789653/ No one waits upon this mailbox anymore.See this patch of grass, this gravel roadThat leads to nowhere.A tall yellow house once stood here,And like every part of this land I sawAgain and again, I thought that it belonged to me.Down the road the grapevines conquerThe fallen cinderblocks.This was a bar.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2788930/ The clinic stood at the top of a mountain Where each more distant row of peaksWas a paler shade of blue. On the wallThe icon of the spine was carved in stoneAnd flanked with laurel leaves.The chiropractor probed the tender skinBelow the jaw. His fingers climbed The dimples of the vertebrae.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2787234/ IRailroad spikes on the windowsill Corrode with the dead cicada.It was there he watched in mourningAs the Bush House burned to the ground.That night he stole across the river,Past the fences and the signs,And when he reached the ruined lotHe spirited a pair of bricksFor remembrance:One for hims.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2783502/ Given we must live by starlightWe should expect our sun is yellow,And liquid water must be flowingOn the surface of our planet.Given that the earth must rotateThe sun is low on the horizonAnd the light is soft and golden.The way she sits beside the riverReminds him of a pose in painting,But she only.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/CaseyTruax/2783500/