All day he’d been working like a locomotive, I mean he was painting, the brush strokes coming like clockwork. Then he called home. And that was that. That was all she wrote. He shook like a leaf. He started smoking…
All day he’d been working like a locomotive, I mean he was painting, the brush strokes coming like clockwork. Then he called home. And that was that. That was all she wrote. He shook like a leaf. He started smoking…
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Sleeping in the Forest I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed, nothing between…
Originally posted on Charleston Through an Artist's eye:
We have not even to risk the adventure alone/ for the heroes of all time have gone before us /The labyrinth is thoroughly known/ We have only to follow the thread…
Poet Mary Oliver’s new book of poems, ‘A Thousand Mornings.’ Written by Ray Waddle For The Tennessean When poet Mary Oliver comes out with a new book, I stop and take a look, not only because her poems are often…
For Earth Day. It fills you with the soft essence of vanished flowers, it becomes a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow from the honey pot over the table and out the door and over the ground, and…
Charleston Through an Artist's eye 