drepoetry blogspot.com

Thisismes Poetry

Only a man in a silly red sheet. View my complete profile. I Long for Misplaced Childhood. Epiphany of the Creative Morgue. Words to Love on Her Apparent Nature. Reflections While Waiting in the Snow. Journeys of the Writer. Thursday, March 12, 2009. No snowflakes fell upon the ground. They still engulfed the sky,. And skirt the mountains all around. That clothed the wisping trails of Mist,. That clung the sleeping grass;. With gentle, threading lines, her fist. Crept to the cottage glass. Rings no more .

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LINKS TO WEB SITE

Sam Steph Judah and Aidan

Wednesday, August 18, 2010. They grow fast! I lean towards that last statement. Sunday, December 20, 2009.

The Written Works of Thisisme

Thursday, March 12, 2009. For lack of anything better at the moment, I added a poem written in autumn last year. Sunday, February 15, 2009. The Pessimist is fresh out of the oven. For those of you that are interested in getting a preliminary copy, please write me at beauchamp. Sunday, December 21, 2008.

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Thisismes Poetry

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Only a man in a silly red sheet. View my complete profile. I Long for Misplaced Childhood. Epiphany of the Creative Morgue. Words to Love on Her Apparent Nature. Reflections While Waiting in the Snow. Journeys of the Writer. Thursday, March 12, 2009. No snowflakes fell upon the ground. They still engulfed the sky,. And skirt the mountains all around. That clothed the wisping trails of Mist,. That clung the sleeping grass;. With gentle, threading lines, her fist. Crept to the cottage glass. Rings no more .

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This web page drepoetry.blogspot.com states the following, "Only a man in a silly red sheet." We saw that the webpage said " I Long for Misplaced Childhood." It also said " Epiphany of the Creative Morgue. Words to Love on Her Apparent Nature. Reflections While Waiting in the Snow. Thursday, March 12, 2009. No snowflakes fell upon the ground. They still engulfed the sky,. And skirt the mountains all around. That clothed the wisping trails of Mist,. That clung the sleeping grass;. With gentle, threading lines, her fist. Crept to the cottage glass."

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