john_silver

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryThe Disciple john_silver215 years 9 months ago
StoryJesus mentality alonso071115 years 10 months ago
StoryInsomnia Luly Whisper215 years 10 months ago
StoryLightning Hairy Dan215 years 10 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Theatre john_silver416 years 8 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: The Wisdom of the Old john_silver417 years 6 days ago
StoryWhose Ark? jennifer717 years 2 weeks ago
StoryFriday Sonnet: Silver john_silver417 years 2 weeks ago
StoryWel I know now... sonic_tonic117 years 2 weeks ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Merits john_silver317 years 3 weeks ago
StoryThirty Odd Years Myndstorm617 years 4 months ago
StoryFitzrovia in These Times poetjude417 years 4 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Coda john_silver317 years 4 months ago
StoryPinhole Photographer (for Justin) jennifer517 years 4 months ago
StorySnails on the Floor of Heaven jennifer217 years 4 months ago
StoryFriday Sonnet: Enumeration john_silver317 years 4 months ago
StorySplit. indigogold617 years 4 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Sanctis john_silver317 years 4 months ago
StoryBefore I say I Love You MistakenMagic817 years 4 months ago
StoryHow to Fall hadley117 years 5 months ago
StoryThe Red Rose of Palookaville (re-edited) ralph417 years 5 months ago
StoryThe Red Rose of Palookaville ralph217 years 5 months ago

My stories

Tarot

The train is riding, rocking gently While it takes me to Bordeaux. Outside, the grasses slowly grow Beneath the mute age of each bent tree. The swelter’s melting into glue

Eagle

The storm is past. Perhaps it was Too brief. The cloud that belts the forehead Of the eagle by the shore, said To be bird of Zeus, has Become an urn of sleep; it pours

Dove

You before all others I Am loving with the silence of The secret hands which hold the dove. My bells stand still before the sky; I draw a single letter in The gravel on your path of choice:

Saturday Sonnet: Meditation

It’s true, I am a mess in certain ways, Unstable in my tides of joy and grief, But I am satisfied in the belief I own the grain to feed the mill of days.

Iphigenia

I want to know whose war it is That I have fought without a bruise, Without a sound, without the news Of where the breach or the defeat is, I want to hear the name, the cause

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