Restless truths
prowl the house
at all hours
leaving me signs–
dreams of golden
retrievers who can talk
and phone messages
from my mysterious girl
crying too hard to speak.
Restless truths
prowl the house
at all hours
leaving me signs–
dreams of golden
retrievers who can talk
and phone messages
from my mysterious girl
crying too hard to speak.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
