Hoyle Brannacht > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

Over life’th --dedicated, in all earnestness, to art or art’s complacent kitten: to Blakeneck, or stillness!— one wi..

We grow from an unraveling story, told with words from a silence agape, to be picked by children in the ripe light of day.

Tink of the poets and poems: small, protective sounds amid gristle. Each, furious, in a room of its own.

--Far— Anneka, --Far— England-from your grace, the gentlest cuff, opes’ndais my face tilts. --Far, basked— I t..

There is O hourglass follows me room to room --O, I say, for an would speak of glass and sand, (a mothering, sondering brand), O it is for no&..

Gesturous --hanged a rose from your dress— of intentions fine. And yet, to bring a pincin’death upon a rose --Spring unstress&rs..

O considerate love of men: a careful love, wending stem. Buckram men, --waffle down: layered cloth of doub’led sound— bu..

River is the story --raspid— of a thousand grasp’ed wrapped in garments of blue and gold: River breath --mist off stone—

How fine a solemn hand --shadow hushed and limpbird— crossed by the hand of another, twined.

I once loved a girl named Sestina. She told me, “I love Arnaut Daniel, not you.” Then, in the following order: “You I not lo..