Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Poetry Today: Trends & Traditions 5

Edited & Reviews by Anthony Servante

Welcome back, friends of the written word. We have four wordsmiths with us today to share their poetry, and I am here to share my analysis of the work. My critiques are for entertainment purposes only, and no metaphors were injured in the writing of this column.

Let’s discuss the premise before looking at the words. It is an axiom in academic writing that poetry must speak for itself. A writer cannot interpret meaning for the reader, giving insight to his own words as if they required his presence to clarify the work’s intents. The poem must stand up to the scrutiny of the reader alone. All poetry, artwork and links belong to the respective authors and are used here on a one-time basis only. Thank you. 

With this axiom in mind, we proceed to our poetry for today; we have works by
Michael H. Hanson, Mark McLaughlin, William Cook, and song lyrics by Charles Aznavour.

Michael H. Hanson


Michael H. Hanson, the son of a U.S. Army Sergeant and a Nurse, was born in Potsdam, NY, amidst the icy climes of New York State's Northcountry. He spent the first ten years of his life as an Army Brat, one of five, living in such disparate locales as: Taipei, Taiwan; Munich, Germany; Camp Drum, NY; and Fort Huachuca, AZ, before finally settling down in his mother's home town of Massena, NY. He began writing his first poems and short stories at the age of 15. He graduated from Massena Central High School and spent a short stint in the U.S. Air Force. Michael went on to become a Film Production major at Syracuse University, and graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree from the Newhouse School of Public Communications in 1989.
Michael created, and co-wrote, the first two books in the Sha'Daa shared-world anthology series (Sha'Daa: Tales of The Apocalypse" and "Sha'Daa: Last Call" both published by Altered Dimensions Press). He also has two collections of poetry in print ("Autumn Blush" published by YaYe Books and "Jubilant Whispers" published by Diminuendo Press). In the upcoming year Michael will not only be overseeing the writing of two new Sha'Daa anthologies, but his short story "The Register" has been accepted for publication in the 2011 anthology LAWYERS IN HELL, for Janet E. Morris's recently resurrected Heroes in Hell (HIH) shared-world anthology series. Michael is currently writing more stories for future HIH volumes.
Michael is also the Founder of the international writers club, THE FICTIONEERS, a non-profit organization created in 2007 to encourage the writing of sci fi, fantasy, and horror, and the creative interaction of fledgling writers with more experienced professionals. The Fictioneers is loosely modeled after those fun children's clubs of mid-20th Century radio fame (Captain Midnight, Little Orphan Annie, etc.).
Michael is a Staff Editor at The Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers. He currently lives in New Jersey where he spends his free time spinning introspective verse, and tales of the fantastic, in his small but cozy garden apartment.

Author Links:

Poem #1:

by Michael H. Hanson

Three nights beyond the Autumn boon
amid the leaf forsaken trees
a rising moon will bleed the rune
and harbinger All Hallow's Eve.

Oh mothers hold your children close
and fathers fall upon your knees
to pray that hosts of monster ghosts
will pass you by All Hallow's Eve.

Then keep the hearth a blazing pyre
for witches fly at night you see
and chimney fires appear too dire
for entry on All Hallow's Eve.

Prepare the scarecrow oh so vile
and jack-o-lantern jubilee
then light the smile that scares awhile
your sentinals All Hallow's Eve.

And finally the offering
of caramel and honeyed sweets
the bribe for things that nighttime brings
placating ghouls All Hallow's Eve.

At last the very night is still
and all are home and safe asleep
bright candles fill each windowsill
protecting you All Hallow's Eve.


All Hallow’s Eve has two purposes: 1. to remind us of Halloween’s roots, and 2. to celebrate the Holy Day of its fans. We see the latter in the playful rhyme scheme that tosses in a false beat with the assonance in the second and third lines (namely, the false rhymes with “Eve”). The former we see in the traditional elements associated with the “rune” and “harbinger” (as opposed to the happy expectations of candies and parties) which are addressed in the later stanzas. A poem that can be enjoyed by both adults and children, this is the perfect way for your blog host to welcome the Haunted Hallow Day.

Poem #2

by Michael H. Hanson

She floats beside a chastened tree
astir upon the cusp of night
to bathe in summer's fading breeze
and dress 'neath sweetened amber light.
She walks upon this twilight land
where rising sun meets falling star
a timeless tryst older than man
a naked dance of ancient charms.
Until she spies the boundary
of cold denial held at bay
and roughly shorn of golden sleep
she wakes to bear another day.

And bravely unrepentant screams
demand the truths of all her dreams.


I’m a big fan of Mike’s modern day sonnets: three stanzas and a couplet housing a dark theme, usually “love lost” in Shakespeare’s day, but minus the love in the case here with Autumn Woman. Traditionally, the sonnet form utilizes the iambic pentameter lines, but Mike avoids the stoic structure to allow an unpredictable prose to mix with surprising rhymes and internal assonance (a favorite device of the author in his poetry). The “ee” in “breeze” and “tree” could easily have rhymed by adding an “s” to trees, but Mike offers up his first surprise, building to the lack of rhyme or assonance with “boundary” and “sleep”. But then we have the big denouement with the couplet that rhymes “dreams” and “screams”, thus providing the reader with a satisfying conclusion.

The theme here is also dark as it discusses a woman caught in the season of death, autumn. Summer “fades” and winter is “held at bay”, and thus she is trapped in the “twilight land/where rising sun meets falling star”. But is it all a dream? It would appear so if it were not for the “truth” behind the dream that she so desperately seeks to learn, but perhaps never will, “scream” all she may. Sometimes the answers we seek are right before us, not in the past or the future, but of the dream itself. Very haunting indeed.

Mark Mclaughlin


I’m author Mark McLaughlin. My most recent books are BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM, REVENGE OF THE TWO-HEADED POETRY MONSTER (with Michael McCarty), BEACH BLANKET ZOMBIE, PARTNERS IN SLIME (with Michael McCarty), and MONSTER BEHIND THE WHEEL (with Michael McCarty).
My fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in more than 1,000 magazines, newspapers, websites, and anthologies, including GALAXY, FANGORIA, LIVING DEAD 2, THE BEST OF ALL FLESH, WRITER’S DIGEST, CEMETERY DANCE, MIDNIGHT PREMIERE, DARK ARTS, and two volumes each of THE BEST OF HORRORFIND and THE YEAR’S BEST HORROR STORIES (DAW Books).
In addition to some of the books mentioned above, collections of my fiction include MOTIVATIONAL SHRIEKER, SLIME AFTER SLIME, PICKMAN’S MOTEL, RAISING DEMONS FOR FUN AND PROFIT, and AT THE FOOTHILLS OF FRENZY (with coauthors Shane Ryan Staley and Brian Knight).
With regular collaborator Michael McCarty, I have written MONSTER BEHIND THE WHEEL (our latest horror novel), PARTNERS IN SLIME (our latest collaborative story collection, packed with monsters), ALL THINGS DARK & HIDEOUS, PROFESSOR LaGUNGO’S CLASSROOM OF DOOM, and more.
I am the coauthor, with Rain Graves and David Niall Wilson, of THE GOSSAMER EYE, which won the 2002 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Poetry.
I write a blog on cinematic horror called BMovieMonster.com. And, I am also a marketing and public relations specialist, writing articles for business journals, newspapers, trade publications and websites.

Author Links:

You can also find out more about me via these links:

Bram Stoker Award-winning author Mark McLaughlin and Bram Stoker Award Finalist Michael McCarty are the co-authors of REVENGE OF THE TWO-HEADED POETRY MONSTER, which features 100 horror & dark fantasy poems. http://www.amazon.com/Revenge-Two-Headed-Monster-Michael-McCarty/dp/0989461602

Poem #1

by Mark McLaughlin
(previously appeared in Space & Time Magazine)

And she stared into my eyes and talked about
her dead Belgian grandma as we drank ink-black
coffee at our favorite table, the one by the window,
over a cider bottle crammed with violets. Outside,
catalpa blossoms fell like angels.

And I talked, and she stared with her dead
grandma's angel eyes, as we drank Belgian cider
in our favorite catalpa tree, the one crammed
with coffee-black blossoms. Inside the window,
violets fell like ink bottles.

And her grandma crammed dead cider blossoms
in a Belgian bottle, as we drank black ink and
talked about coffee trees and catalpa tables.
I stared into her violet windows, those angel eyes,
my favorite eyes, and in I fell.


Always Falling by Mark McLaughlin uses what I call a Cervantian Circle, a device common to Miguel de Cervantes (Don Quixote). The beginning and the ending of the work mirror each other until one cannot tell which is the start and which the finale. Here a couple sits at a table in a cafĂ©, discussing a dead parent, drinking coffee, and enjoying the view from the decorated window. But as each stanza develops, the nouns rotate with the verbs and adjectives until the normal scene becomes a surreal painting by Dali or Bruegel. This deconstruction of the norm incorporates the same language in each stanza but to different effect, a transmutation of thought via sentence structure. It’s like when we repeat a word over and again, it stops sounding like it has meaning and merely becomes a sound, though we still recognize the word. Similarly, McLaughlin plays our poetic sentiment against us, repeating the words in each stanza till we are no longer in the poem but in a foreign and frightening place that we can only return to by rereading the poem, and then the nightmare begins again. Beyond clever. It is very psychologically subversive in its poetic logic.

Poem #2

by Mark McLaughlin
(First appeared in THE YELLOW BAT REVIEW)

Lizzie Borden took an axe
and gave her mother forty whacks.
When that happy task was done,
she gave her daddy forty-one.
After she had killed those two,
she thought up more fun things to do.
She took a shiny butcher-knife
and stabbed her brother and his wife.
Then she bought a weather vane
and stuck it in her granny's brain.
Lizzie grabbed a welding torch
and fried her grandpa on the porch.
Soon she found a monkey wrench
and whacked a cousin who spoke French.
Next she seized a rusty drill
and gave her nephew quite a thrill.
At this point, Lizzie made the jump from rhyme to free verse.
She went on a killing spree
that lasted for seven years,
slicing and dicing and torturing
everyone who was related to her,
even by marriage. She wanted
to uproot her entire family tree,
shred it to bits and toss what was left
on the compost heap of eternity.
Eventually she stole a time machine,
went back to prehistoric days
and shot the smelly, monkey-like creature
that was her earliest humanoid
ancestor. Monkey Borden perished
and wild-eyed Lizzie, grinning
like a murderous Cheshire cat,


McLaughlin continues his subversive take on Poetic Modernism with THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF LIZZIE BORDEN. I hope I don’t have to remind readers of the teenaged girl who murdered her parents with an axe. Children have been reciting the sick rhyme since the days of the actual event. Here Mark leads us into the days of our childhood by reworking the Borden rhyme with a Mother Goose style rhyme scheme to bring nostalgic memories to bear on our adult sentiments. And it is very off-putting but attractive reading, until Lizzie drills her nephew to death—not a part of the original event. And here the poem subverts the expectations of readers. It turns to prose, and in its prose, becomes a slasher story, not unlike Jason, Freddy, or Michael. But more than that. She commandeers a time machine and murders the “monkey” that will evolve into humanity. With a nod to Alice in Wonderland, our slasher Lizzie has decimated mankind. This sentiment is not uncommon in Mother Goose rhymes (“London Bridge is falling down” echoes the Black Plague, after all), but Mark uses a real event as a nursery rhyme and leads us to an inevitable apocalypse without the cushion of the rhyme scheme. I’d like to say he employs parabasis, but that would mean the audience is in on the ruse. In that case there would be no subversion. If anything, parabasis is a “Cheshire Cat” here, and we readers are the brunt of its malicious grin.

William Cook


I live in Wellington - the small wind-blown capital city of New Zealand. I have been writing weird stories ever since I was a kid. My first published works were poems in various literary journals in NZ and a few in the States. Back in 1996 I published a collection of verse titled 'Journey: The Search for Something' and had the occasional poem and short story published online, but nothing really of note until 2010 when Lee Pletzers from Triskaideka Books accepted my story 'The Devil Inside' for the 2010 Masters of Horror Anthology. I have always loved the Horror genre and dark literature, so this really inspired me to write what I loved rather than what I thought other people wanted to read and it has finally started to pay off. The thing I love about the Horror/Thriller genres is that a good story will get your pulse racing and your heart thumping. I feel it is the best medium to create a world where the reader feels alive because they are experiencing fear of some sort. Sounds sadistic I know, but I personally find that no other genre gives me the thrills I seek when I immerse myself in a fictional world. I have since had quite a few Horror shorts published in various anthologies.
My novel 'Blood Related,' was re-released by Black Bed Sheet Books Halloween 2012. Writing it was a labor of love and took me roughly six years to write and it wasn't until I changed day-jobs that I had the time to bring it all together as my debut novel. The novel is about a disturbed young man called Caleb Cunningham, whose violent father is a suspected serial killer and mother, an insane alcoholic. After his father's suicide, Cunningham's disturbing fantasy-life becomes reality, as he begins his killing spree in earnest. His identical twin brother Charlie is released from an asylum and all hell is about to break loose, when the brothers combine their deviant talents. Blood Related is a serial-killer/crime novel told in a first-person narrative style from the killer's (Caleb's) point-of-view.
I have been privileged to have authors I look up to, give me feedback on Blood Related. People like Jonathan Nasaw, Guy N Smith, Laird Barron, Mark Edward Hall, John Paul Allen, and Nicholas Grabowsky, have all been kind enough to read and review my work - something I would never have believed possible until now. If readers would like more information on 'Blood Related', including bibliographical and background information on the extensive research and reading done while creating the novel, please visit: http://bloodrelated.wordpress.com/
My current WIP is a sequel to 'Blood Related,' tentatively titled 'Blood Trail' and should be available by the end of 2013 or early 2014. This work deals more with the character of Detective Ray Truman, as he struggles with his own demons and his obsessive pursuit of Caleb Cunningham, the main character in 'Blood Related'. I am also working on my (untitled) serialized novel, the first book titled 'Creep' is available now on Amazon.
You can check out William Cook's writing here: http://williamcookwriter.com/ and his Macabre Art and design here: http://bloodsoakedgraphics.tumblr.com/.
William Cook bids you well and hopes you enjoy his macabre offerings and that they may whet your appetite for more in the future.
Debut novel: 'Blood Related,' published by Angelic Knight Press December 2011.
'Blood Related' re-release by Black Bed Sheet Books, Halloween 2012, sequel 'Blood Trail' - Mid 2013 release.
Short Fiction:
Devil Inside: 2012, King Billy Publications
Creep: 2013, King Billy Publications
The Last Stand of the Laughing Man: King Billy Publications
Poetry Collections:
Moment of Freedom: 2012, King Billy Publications
Temper of the Tide: 2012, King Billy Publications
Short fiction published in the following anthologies:
Masters of Horror Anthology, 2010 - Triskaideka Books
Putrid Poetry & Sickening Sketches 2011 - Collaboration of the Dead
Sketchbook of the Dead: 2012, Deaf Mute Comics
Dark Light Anthology: 2012, MARLvision Publications
Writings on the Wall Anthology: 2012, Seven Archons
I'll Never Go Away VII: 2013, Rainstorm Press
Songs For the Raven: 2013, James Ward Kirk Publishing
Serial Killers Iterum: 2013, James Ward Kirk Publishing
Serial Killers Tres Tria: 2013, James Ward Kirk Publishing
Read Us Or Die: 2013, Black Bed Sheet Books
Member of the Horror Writers Association, Australian Horror Writers Association & the Horror Blogger Alliance

Author Links:

Follow William on Twitter - @williamcook666

Poem #1
Lest We Forget
By William Cook 

We forgot the death-white burden
that lay curled explodingly
on the flat line between here and there

we forgot the gaping pit
of atmosphere that singed the soil
and us that burnt it there above

we forgot the airborne tumours
of ignorance and time that swells
beyond our grasping paws of greed

we forgot the twisting paths
of molecules denied of science
and therefore from our perception

we forgot our mortality
in the feast of fire and flood
as we wash our hands with famine
swill it down with cups of blood

and we forgot that which we taught
to all the objects of our need
that all that grows beyond its use
holds no measure we shall heed

from alpha to omega
we have joined our ends to end
we have bridged between the islands
drained all wells to poisoned sand

we forgot our search for new air
is subconscious flight for fear that
courage is the vice of dumb pride
that shakes and billows rage
in every new-found virgin sphere

and we forgot what it was we once loved
and whose back-yard we played and when
the string in the labyrinth would snap
and disappear in burning cloud of dissolving day

and finally we just simply forgot, because we could not remember
because we could not forget.


William Cook's poem, Lest We Forget, is a reminder to remember the things in life we choose to forget. But rather than give us a laundry list of events to consider, we get a sequence of metaphors at once recognizable but vague enough to work at a subliminal level. Consider the “death-white burden” that lays “explodingly” on a flat line. Subconsciously we think of an electrocardiogram as “death” and “flatline” (sic) parallel one another, except that it “explodes”, implying a spike, or a labored life, the “burden” mentioned in the line. Furthermore, besides forgetting “life”, we forgot about the ozone that we “burnt” a hole in, allowing ultraviolet light to pour through and “singe” the “soil” (earth). Although the metaphor is not vague, it advances the concept of our (mankind’s) ignorance, our choosing to progress (verb) even as progress (noun) depletes the future. The metaphors culminate with our choice to ignore this depletion and its resultant effects (“poisoned sand”, “dissolving day”, etc). Because William does not send this eco-nightmare message via a flyer or protest march, but rather via poetry, it manages to crawl under our skin and fester, like an ignored infection that threatens to swell to a boil. Cook does not let us off easy. He holds up a mirror to man’s amoral treatment of the future. It is no mistake that we, dear readers, are in the reflection. 

Poem #2

Asylum - From the Asylum
By William Cook

Judgment engaged - time’s slave
slips whispers over the shoulder.
Love is the only one to never lie
those branding, burning words
that make the heart grumble
with the cold hands of the stranger’s dominion
presenting polarised arcs, of disparate monologue . . .

What the fuck . . . ?

The long day has only just begun 
and still each evening winds it down.
Still the clock keeps cutting quarters
always gathering doubles,
for the Ark.

For the what . . . ?

Limbs as arrows, chains, and beds 
supported the weighted chest with grief
and sometimes joy. Between
the islands we traverse . . .

Sounds like thighs . . .!

The vessel soaks the sun with journey
as we shed our Winter’s skin - floods
seem far away right now, yet still
the ever eye rings sight. Palladiums
of secrets - carried on caress
of hurried breeze. Kingdoms
of neighbours dissent, are all
of the same suburb on that plane!   

Airplane . . . ?

The same beaches where we bathed
and gave away dead skin, now hold
invisible sacrificial rites - they were always
there, when we were. Still tumbling
birds of prey and pride wrestle
with serpents, under luminous boughs.
and we travel - turns and tides
between these magnets. Eternite

I’m feelin’ pulled both ways . . . !

sides, by side. The age of memory
sweeps shores and provides
such force - behind the oars.
The whip crack that attempts to tame
- tumultuous pump, that billows.
Sucking only air sometimes, like
this warm Etesian air. A cyclone gathers
waves, where earth and sky appear.

That means we’re all gonna die, right . . . ?

But more than that, which sinks beyond
- a secular line of sight and silver
crests the Sun’s slow decline. Dawn’s
ships will still run aground. Raising night.

Raising Cain . . .!

Back on land and back in pain
the movement can seem slow.
The raging current murmurs deep
and only serves to show . . .

The best way down, is to drown . . .

When the eye marries time to the heart’s
blind pull and the blood muscles, bones
of fingers. So cruel – to chaste and touch
with searing fire. They leave the trace
of journey’s charted scars
and the only soothing grace, it seems
- is the dam-burst flood,
of love’s lost dreams. Swimming
in that place between. Where
islands float and birds and serpents
silent scream - Esoteric psalms. At the Night

Or am I awake . . .?


Asylum - From the Asylum by William Cook deals with biblical promises hidden in half-truths and mythos, an unreachable ken that seems real only in dreams. The problem is: we wake up. The poem begins with “Judgment”, basically where the Bible (with a capital B) ends. Thus the world has ended, The Rapture has passed, The Horn of Gabriel has sounded, The Leviathan has risen, and The AntiChrist is about. It is time to those remaining on our good Earth to be sent to Heaven or Hell. “Love” (for God, for fellow Man?) will be our only truth, and that’s the scary part: Did I choose the right path for this love? Doubles (or couples) are being selected for the Ark, a symbol for those who will be saved (and always between stanzas, in italics, are the reminders that doubt may still be relevant), that this judgment is not real (after the mention of the “doubles for the Ark”, a disembodied voice asks, “For the what …?”). “Birds of prey” (sky) and serpents (earth), evils emerging from all directions, Heaven (God judging) and Hell (Satan creating doubt), create a religious tug-of-war: “I’m feelin’ pulled both ways …!” When doubt dissipates and faith begins to take hold, the “Esoteric psalms”, that is, confuses the nature of faith found in the bible (small “b”), for it is just a book; only with faith can we capitalize the “B”, but how do we acquire faith when doubt makes more sense? The answer becomes clear when it is too late: “At the Night” (capital “N”), and even then, Satan can still win if you believe the Day of Judgment is all a dream (“Or am I awake . . .?”). William Cook grapples with faith and doubt and refuses to offer easy comforts for his readers. And should you, dear readers, be inclined to choose a side, Cook will be there to “pull you both ways.”  

 Charles Aznavour

Song of the Month:
Lyrics as Poetry:

By Charles Aznavour. Interpreted by Roy Clark.

Seems the love I've known has always been
The most destructive kind
Yes, that's why now I feel so old
Before my time.

Yesterday when I was young
The taste of life was sweet as rain upon my tongue.
I teased at life as if it were a foolish game,
The way the evening breeze may tease a candle flame.
The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned
I'd always built to last on weak and shifting sand.
I lived by night and shunned the naked light of the day
And only now I see how the years ran away.

Yesterday when I was young
So many happy songs were waiting to be sung,
So many wild pleasures lay in store for me
And so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see.
I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out,
I never stopped to think what life was all about
And every conversation I can now recall
Concerned itself with me and nothing else at all.

--- Instrumental ---

Yesterday the moon was blue
And every crazy day brought something new to do.
I used my magic age as if it were a wand
And never saw the waste and emptiness beyond.
The game of love I played with arrogance and pride
And every flame I lit too quickly, quickly died.
The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away
And only I am left on stage to end the play.

There are so many songs in me that won't be sung,
I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue.
The time has come for me to pay for
Yesterday when I was young...


What I love about Yesterday When I Was Young are its lyrics. I first heard the Roy Clark version as a teen. Even then the words cut deep within my psyche. Every ten years or so, the song takes on new meaning and cuts all the deeper, but each time with less sting. I've imposed the song upon my students and have asked them to write an essay on how they will avoid the trappings of getting old, the trappings that youth itself builds. I've had some wonderful observations, but ultimately, the kids are giving me what I want to hear, the right answers as it were, as if there were correct answers to avoid the slow death by a million days and nights. It broke my heart that Mickey Mantle asked Roy Clark to play the song at his funereal. Even the legendary baseball player couldn't avoid youth's cruel joke. That's what makes the song so special.

As poetry, the song has a Cervantian Circularity. That would be the metaphor for the cruelty of facing life through rose colored glasses. There is irony in the opening lines. The "love" the author refers to is egotism, self-love, love of agelessness, the illusion that returns to mock us in our agedness. In youth, "the taste of life is sweet upon [his] tongue"; later "bitter tears" fall upon his tongue. The flame of life is teased by youth: drinking (especially with Mickey Mantle), drugs, partying, avoiding medical and dental check-ups. They are little things in youth, things one can do tomorrow."I used my magic age as if it were a wand/And never saw the waste and emptiness beyond." The curse of the carpe diem poetry; live for today, "it is better to burn out than fade away", and "I hope I die before I get old". There were too many of those songs and not enough of these songs. Problem is, they are just words, and time passes the words until they are like dust and cobwebs covering our lives. Then one day we look in the mirror and the damage is done; some things are reversible, others no. If only. You hollar warnings, but the music and party is too loud. The curse comes full circle: "The time has come for me to pay for/Yesterday when I was young." This is not a song for old men to regret their youth, nor is it a warning to youngsters to take heed. It is a lyrical piece of timelessness and beauty that masks the ugliness of life. For the curse is covetous, and one does live forever. 

Yesterday When I Was Young
Interpreted by Roy Clark

Thank you, readers, for joining us again for our poetry offerings. Until next time, read some poetry. Or better yet, write some. 

1 comment:

  1. Lovely reviews as always. You have such a way with words yourself. I enjoyed the poetry immensely and I recall that Roy Clark song clearly. It had been years since I listened to it so it was nice to hear it once again. :)