The Wingchair Traveller

I ask this of you right now Maybe the sun is not there for the peddlers The jacks of tirades The artisans of peppers ...

I dream of houses.   Whenever I remember a dream, it is almost always about a house, or sometimes snakes or rats, but that is a different ...

Season`s Greetings by Susan E. Harris-Gamard As the earthy night stretches deep and black And the clangy sound of engines and...

Hands of Clay Labyrinthine hollows swirling freely through unformed clay Slithering, slipping , moving down And tos...

And I Hear A swaying above. The dank black form of the musty chandelier Gives off its empty, flickering brilliance. ...

photo credit: billphelps.com I am back.  What else does one write after being away from their poor, neglected  blog for almost 6 months...

The party pad is holding things together well. Richard sees me and screams, “The sculptor is here! Woot woot!”  He calls me “the sculptor” e...