The Resin Blood

Your fingertips, held at pursed lips,
Rest poised for a moment of action
That you might strike a sickle deep
Into the vast heart of darkness

Read More »

The Gift of Self

Hark; do you hear the crickets’ rhapsody, over night’s silent surrender?
Or the north wind’s weary murmur,
Enchanting the tender buds and saplings
Of nature’s sacred grove

Read More »

The Weary Traveller

There was once a weary traveller
Who settled himself by the sea,
To tell the fleeting waves and sky
How burdened his heart had been:

Read More »

A warmly welcoming, ever-expanding index of personal daily ruminations, quotes, recipes, poems & photography. About the author »

Select a Category

Recently

Contact me
Subscribe to the feed

Personal Blogs Blog Directory