Winter is always too cold
for those with bones too close to the skin
and blood too deep in the bone.
Steep me in the warm earth
deep as shoot and seed
feathered with owls calling
from tree to star and back again
for the restless spring.
Winter is always too cold
for those with bones too close to the skin
and blood too deep in the bone.
Steep me in the warm earth
deep as shoot and seed
feathered with owls calling
from tree to star and back again
for the restless spring.
"Words are all we have" Samuel Beckett.
sharing the stories of interconnection
Jottings of a Storyhound
Books & Bonsai
Just another blog of random thoughts.
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
lines that aim to be
And then I stop and sit and eat.
Diary of a Dublin Housewife
New Zealand
A wee anthology of dark yarns.
New site available: www.procrastinationcoach.net
Horror in Literature and Film
The musings of an aspiring writer
Appreciating Everyday Life
Des enquêtes à pas de loup pour apprendre sur-tout...
Poetry inspired by ethereal feelings, life events and personal philosophy.
Poetry, lyrics and other words...
Freelance Proofreader and Illustrator
Life after the Care Farm
*Poetry*Prose*Photography*
In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.
One Poet's Writing Practice
A bard among the living dead....
Poetry Publisher
galaxies in my eyes, the universe in my mind
Novelist, Prose Metrist, & Word Witch
(WRITER)