tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60626375570050212822024-11-01T06:34:51.366-04:00Moonshine, Mayhem, and MagicA place for writing and exploring the arts and gardening.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-17879149704497904752017-02-22T19:47:00.003-05:002021-09-06T16:54:37.253-04:00Phantom of the Opera: Through the Eyes of Children
When my two children were young, my husband would often leave for 3-month deployments aboard a nuclear submarine. During his absence, my children and I enjoyed the live theater, symphonies, and ballet. We read poetry, books, and attended museums. We planted flowers and had sleep-overs.
When their father and I separated, my children and I moved here and there, eventually landing near my sister Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-74383808566885041502016-05-22T15:49:00.002-04:002021-09-06T16:52:46.986-04:00A Day With Brody
After Brody jumps in the back
seat, over the console and arm rest, and onto the front seat, I settle in behind
the wheel of my car, an SUV, new enough that it shouldn’t be used for gallivanting
through the countryside, down dirt roads, into the woods with low-hanging limbs
and brush growing over dirt paths, but it’s the only vehicle I have on this
particular day. It will have to do. I adjust Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-84500434826878731482015-02-17T13:20:00.002-05:002021-09-06T16:52:16.857-04:00Scars of a Poetry Journal
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-23527708637822919872014-05-17T11:47:00.002-04:002021-09-06T16:55:14.009-04:00Jolene's Baptism (This is one in a series of Jolene and Granny Barnes stories, best described as dark southern humor. It's what I write when I need a glass of wine.)
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-39617296303119093672012-11-26T09:40:00.001-05:002018-07-09T09:58:34.240-04:00Brackish
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-12279772850943313452012-08-08T00:17:00.003-04:002018-07-09T09:59:06.584-04:00Fireflies
Ask me about my childhood, and I will tell you to walk to the edge of the woods with a choir of crickets chirping from every direction, your feet bare and tough, a hot, humid breeze breathing through your hair. Stand there, still and silent, and watch the dance of ten thousand fireflies blinking on and off in the darkness. Inhale the scent of cured tobacco, freshly plowed southern soilUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-59200390797610395232012-07-24T13:33:00.002-04:002018-07-09T09:59:38.523-04:00Flycatcher: A Celebration of Words
Rosemary Royston
Last week, my husband and I drove to Atlanta to attend the one-year celebration of Flycatcher: A Journal of Native Imagination. It takes a lot to get me out of the house these days. I feel safe in the cocoon of my home office, surrounded by a thousand books and found treasures: rocks, driftwood, marbles, and arrowheads. So you may wonder why I Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062637557005021282.post-78811244290322187292012-01-12T09:39:00.002-05:002018-07-09T10:00:04.007-04:00Flycatcher: Where Nothing Dies Long
I took this photo while at Red Earth Farm, home of Janisse Ray and Raven Waters. It's a beautiful, old crepe myrtle, dressed in Spanish Moss.
Last night, I sat down to read the first issue of Flycatcher: A Journal of Native Imagination. With a glass of red wine beside me, I read the issue from beginning to end, something I seldom do. I’m the person who flips Unknownnoreply@blogger.com