Maybe it was the work. To get milk down the street. Maybe it was the exposure. They swore it was safe. On Navy ships, valiant,. Maybe it was the agent orange. Uncle Sam admits now, oops. Maybe it was the 40 years of nicotine. The 20 years of whiskey. To function, to forget. Both fought, both defeated.

Nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands. OR SCREAM IN ALL CAPS. Or if you need a prompt you can check out one of the past prompts, like the Shadorma. The bar is open just for you.

Bright lights, eternal inspirations. Posted by Eva Von Pelt. So honored to be included with this wonderful collection of poets. Thank you, Yelena! Posted by Eva Von Pelt. The star of my night. Of coffee, and dust, and rust, and dirt;.

Forgotten Stones of an Altar Boy. A Hint of Strange, a Novel Prelude.

Inspired by change, challenge and creativity. I wonder what the bird sees when he sees the sun rise. As he calls across the meadow and the forest far and wide. Does he see what I see with my wizened hazel eyes? Yes, I wonder what the bird sees when he sees the sun rise.

This journal is a collection in pictures and words of my emotional experience of self-discovery through my relationship with nature. Love More in your email.

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