Shara Faskowitz > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

It's a windchime afternoon. My small town's song echoes in trees, in the distant whoosh of traffic, in the crow caw meant for no woman's ears butsp..

The 2nd Door is closed. The stage is empty. No gut-bucket blues will wake the dead. No piano shoes, no red skirts aflare, no scrape of the brus..

F**k the people with the long poems. Poets who pull words from the wind out of the whirl of sutra-genius to paint them on pages like silk kisses ..

The red mists of anger have cleared. I try to remember kindness as easily as those sour mornings that followed nights spent in soundless recrimina..

See my hand? Some days it looks three times too big to ever linger on the wire fence, hide from Mrs. Kurtz' growling dog or press its palm against..

Quan Shih Yin is jade pink she is carved smooth planes and the curve of passing smile. She is cool in the palm of my hand. Her eyes reveal nothi..

Start car. Drive. Get caught in traffic jam. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Do not look at traffic psychos. Do not scream road rage. Roll up windows. Lock..