narrative
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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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Saturday Morning Pam-Toons. Truth sets you free?
TRUTH. IT’S TRUE. TELL THE TRUTH. I’M TELLING THE TRUTH. YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH. YOU CAN HAVE THE TRUTH WHEN YOU PRY IT OUT OF MY COLD, DEAD HANDS. TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE. THE TRUTH AS I SEE IT. TRUE FOR YOU, BUT NOT FOR ME. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. BE Continue reading
