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Another old poem
This poem is an amalgam of a few people I was privileged to know during my formative years and just beyond. The hand in the photo — resting on oilcloth — belongs to a beloved friend (deceased), the last occupant of an old mill camp. The Stone What story in her face isn’t being told? Continue reading
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Thoughtlets. LVII. Travel.
Over the years, I’ve so often heard people dispense with the advice to travel the world to broaden one’s horizons. Open your mind, see how other people live, get out of your little bubble, they say. Usually with eyes half closed, as if their lids give weight to their words. But might these advisors be Continue reading
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Three Poems From An Old Stash
I wrote these unpublished poems about two decades ago. Where did the time go? Booting up my old computer felt like cracking open a time capsule. – Pam Lindsay The Scream Everybody ducked well, not ducked so much as cringed, squatted a little, not as sharp and shallow as a flinch, more like a startle, Continue reading
