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Freelance writer, poet, musician, singer, song-writer. Susan interviewed on KUNR 88. Wednesday, July 11, 2007. Susan interviewed on KUNR 88. Susan will also read a few of her poems during the broadcast. Sunday, May 27, 2007.
An online journal of imaginative verse and prose dedicated to the magical, the ethereal, the supernatural, the dark, the absurd, and the unknown. Tuesday, October 31, 2006. Sunday, February 26, 2006. Late in the year, farmers weave haystacks tight;. Then when a globe moon drifts up seas of night,. No one of menace speaks,.
THREE POEMS by Elizabeth I. Mid afternoon mist and coal haze lull me. In the ballroom, Edward and Tammy Rhodes. Sit in solitary splendor at the mahogany bar. Aged dolly proportions, platinum-haired Tammy. Might float from her lavender. Drooping from one too many. He pays her no attention as diamond-.
Friday, January 06, 2006. When you waltz through a door,. All your wet eyes look for. Is the other way out. And the best, biggest earth. To scorch under your bare running feet. One bolt at a time,.
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This website is the official online home of the. Orginally founded by Greg Dana - aka Grego - in. Configuration, performing at a number of Renaissance. Faires and other events in the area. You can find pictures, links to other sites of interest,. Our schedule of events showing where we perform and. To stay up-to-date on Danse Macabre activites, join our mailing list.
Tu pure, o Principessa,. Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,. Il nome mio nessun saprà! No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,. Quando la luce splenderà! Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio. Il nome suo nessun saprà. E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir, morir! Dilegua, o notte! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room,. Watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope.
LATE BLOOMERS a Poem by Steven Kilpatrick. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave. That rises, lurks and stumbles like the rose. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave. Drowned among rust shoveled waves. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave.
You cannot hear their bones rattle when they walk. You cannot see their darkness when they talk. Coffee will not satisfy them. Where they feed is desolation. The Stick Man probed the edge of her mind. It was a delicious crispy cookie, fresh from the oven. Could the dingy surroundings reflect the spirit of their owner? .