Sounds like a dumb question, but how do you draw, sketch anything? First it’s knowing where on the page to…
I used to write poetry while my mom bowled. The voices and banging, clashing, and crashing of weighted balls striking…
Bird of Flight The flow of our unseen The mysteries held within unending being of time beyond The paths of…
The Lamb William Blake (1757 – 1827) Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee…
by me
I’m picky. I cannot write properly unless my pen is perfect, unless it flows evenly and is comfortable in my…
Don’t leave me alone in the silence It’s too loud Demands too much What secrets I have cannot hide …
The Tiger William Blake (1757 – 1827) TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand…
Yup, by me