Is gone
sold
not long after her death
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About T H Savaht
The Owls of Oslo
The Owls of Oslo
I cannot see
I hear them over the din of cars
and bells
and the drunken cacophony
of Saturday evening
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Warm Norwegian Wood
Winter used to begin in October and end very late in March … maybe. This year Christmas was without any snow, and no snow appeared remotely in the forecast. [Read More]
Angels from Everywhere
When I was 19, I was a razor. Intense, a zealot, and more than a little crazy. So many people told me the military was for me. [Read More]
Missing W.S. Merwin and Valhalla
We cannot All
Dine
Together
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Lunch with David
Thank you for the pain and the glory. For the angst and the fame.
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Tres Haiku
poems speak like otters
on their backs cracking clams
always opening
crows in a wheat field (for Vincent)
in Sun you are weeping dragging last bits of impasto Black across the sky beside you wheat goes on forever golden waves breaking breaking crows gather thick to one side Black like sudden tears they shudder then fly away you hang your head you do not watch them go
Mythos, Pathos, and a Lotus Flower
Baying in sylvan moonlight, intrepid eyes watch as harbingers of sound, spoken word dappled in periwinkle trust, parades flamboyantly, confidently, down horse cobbled streets. [Read More]
Three Stones and a Pipe
Words are shared in memory of Steve McLeod, beloved artist and gatherer. [Read More]