There was a piano in the parlor of my grandparent’s house.
Prose, Poetry, Song: three venerable envoys that carry words from our inner musings to the world outside.
The sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.
There once was a little girl, who wrote a little poem, about a moon that wasn’t there.
What are they? Where are they? Did any such beasts ever exist anywhere at any time?
He was a rake and a ramblin’ boy from the day he first put a paw into this world.
When Alice upbraided Humpty Dumpty on his misuse of a word he replied scornfully, “Words mean just what I choose them to mean – no more, no less”.
I look out the kitchen window. Mr. Cooper Hawk has landed on the railing of my deck.
The doctrine of the divine right of Kings was accepted as inviolable for nearly a thousand years.
There is an allure to the far away and unknown. A glamor that attaches to anything shrouded in mystery.
It’s an unfamiliar word that refers to something familiar to all of us – dreams