Salvatore Buttaci > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

bald-faced-hornet nests like giant paper spitballs loom dark oak-tree moons #

sharp slivers of wood driven under my fingernails you will talk you will give us what we need to know boiling beads of water burn holes in..

in his wheelchair seat by the window opaquely thick-paned and barred the outside world is safe from him not that there are passersby who gawk ..

tears you shed in your pain my fingers touch like holy water from the eyes of a saint who in death shields from sorrow those of us who be..

bombs will drop as long as leaders refuse to consider ways of avoiding bloodshed, a senseless problem solver, when what might better do t..

in the empty house books on dusty shelves recite their poems to the walls and closed door enunciating in mimicry poets long gone to rest it ..

in the empty house books on dusty shelves recite their poems to the walls and closed door enunciating in mimicry poets long gone to rest it ..

if I could I'd take Dickens and Dostoevsky Coleridge and Dante Shakespeare and Bacon Rosetti and Sandburg shovel them out of their graveyar..

hiding in the wine cellar she presses her grapes against the clear glass that offers proof it can help her forget the toasts of years so distant..

winter in the wings autumn soon enough will don its heavy coat rehearse down-the-back shivers and tremblings strut through nature with a venge..