by Ron Koertge
Poets can’t wait to bury their fathers Mine wanted no part of that. I thought he meant later, I dialed his cell. The reception “What am I supposed to tell Mom?” “You’re the writer,” he replied. |
by Ron Koertge
Poets can’t wait to bury their fathers Mine wanted no part of that. I thought he meant later, I dialed his cell. The reception “What am I supposed to tell Mom?” “You’re the writer,” he replied. |
seeking sublime surrender
“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." --Chaucer
Verba volant, scripta manent !
In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.
Audrey Dawn
Creative Nonfiction & Poetry
by Kelly L
THE DRIVELLINGS OF TWATTERSLEY FROMAGE