john_silver

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryThe Disciple john_silver214 years 9 months ago
StoryJesus mentality alonso071114 years 10 months ago
StoryInsomnia Luly Whisper214 years 10 months ago
StoryLightning Hairy Dan214 years 10 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Theatre john_silver415 years 7 months ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: The Wisdom of the Old john_silver415 years 12 months ago
StoryWhose Ark? jennifer716 years 1 week ago
StoryFriday Sonnet: Silver john_silver416 years 1 week ago
StoryWel I know now... sonic_tonic116 years 1 week ago
StoryTuesday Sonnet: Merits john_silver316 years 1 week ago
StoryThirty Odd Years Myndstorm616 years 3 months ago
StoryFitzrovia in These Times poetjude416 years 3 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Coda john_silver316 years 3 months ago
StoryPinhole Photographer (for Justin) jennifer516 years 4 months ago
StorySnails on the Floor of Heaven jennifer216 years 4 months ago
StoryFriday Sonnet: Enumeration john_silver316 years 4 months ago
StorySplit. indigogold616 years 4 months ago
StoryMonday Sonnet: Sanctis john_silver316 years 4 months ago
StoryBefore I say I Love You MistakenMagic816 years 4 months ago
StoryHow to Fall hadley116 years 4 months ago
StoryThe Red Rose of Palookaville (re-edited) ralph416 years 4 months ago
StoryThe Red Rose of Palookaville ralph216 years 4 months ago

My stories

Cherry

Thursday Sonnet: About Milkshakes

Let’s sum it up; I’m in a break-room, work Begins again in twenty, in which time I barely find the space (or wits) to rhyme, And I am asked to conjure from the murk

Pandora

O Pandora, we have lost, There can be no golden chest, The immortals don’t know best And we know less than them at most. And we will never be remembered, We will never be forgotten

Thursday Sonnet: Paris

Paris, Paris, I have not come to light Or spin you, I’ve not come to sing la Senne, My throat seeks no refreshment from your night And I’m not asking where to go or when.

Spirituality

They slide away, the days of yore, From wood to ash, from ash to flame Like pages turning in the frame Of an old book, and then no more. Look: in this question of our hour,

Tuesday Sonnet: Huzzah!

Scared of me? You bet! I've seen your tragic Castles and the holes beneath your cuirass. Paint me stupid – I am full of magic, Bright like stuff of dreams, as warm and true as

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