john_silver

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryThe Disciple john_silver215 years 3 months ago
StoryJesus mentality alonso071115 years 4 months ago
StoryInsomnia Luly Whisper215 years 4 months ago
StoryLightning Hairy Dan215 years 4 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Theatre john_silver416 years 2 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: The Wisdom of the Old john_silver416 years 6 months ago
StoryWhose Ark? jennifer716 years 6 months ago
StoryFriday Sonnet: Silver john_silver416 years 6 months ago
StoryWel I know now... sonic_tonic116 years 6 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Merits john_silver316 years 6 months ago
StoryThirty Odd Years Myndstorm616 years 10 months ago
StoryFitzrovia in These Times poetjude416 years 10 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Coda john_silver316 years 10 months ago
StoryPinhole Photographer (for Justin) jennifer516 years 10 months ago
StorySnails on the Floor of Heaven jennifer216 years 10 months ago
StoryFriday Sonnet: Enumeration john_silver316 years 10 months ago
StorySplit. indigogold616 years 10 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Sanctis john_silver316 years 10 months ago
StoryBefore I say I Love You MistakenMagic816 years 10 months ago
StoryHow to Fall hadley116 years 11 months ago
StoryThe Red Rose of Palookaville (re-edited) ralph416 years 11 months ago
StoryThe Red Rose of Palookaville ralph216 years 11 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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