From the parsonage steps,
the minister’s sweet wife waves,
calls out across the street
to tell me what she thinks of you.
He is a jewel, she says.
However, exactly what kind of
jewel you might be
we agree,
neither of us
can clarify
From the parsonage steps,
the minister’s sweet wife waves,
calls out across the street
to tell me what she thinks of you.
He is a jewel, she says.
However, exactly what kind of
jewel you might be
we agree,
neither of us
can clarify
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
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
