Just as her poetry can prove dark, Graye has a black thumb...and can’t keep plants alive. But, ever the dreamer, she meanders in her heart, penning petals on page, hoping to create a meadow. She is thrilled and grateful to have works published at both The Rye Whiskey Review and The Abyss
We're the Ezine dedicated to all things barroom. We are slightly off what others consider the norm and always the last to close the bar. If you prefer the local dive bar to the glitz of some overpriced club then you're our kind of people. So welcome grab a drink and enjoy.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
It Is What It Is By John Greiner
I’m on my deathbed writing the end of the earth while the usual all and sundry are off to work. Some genius is talking about Rashomon and it...
-
lemonade hair dead and deflated thin like a bleached ghost; mascara rings fat as a star pitcher’s eyeblack; she cracked her broken finger ba...
-
Once he spoke the indirect speech of men, as if making bar bets after third drinks that become sincere, become angry, mean. Just his half jo...
-
Diamond hair Bathe in bourbon and butter You are my Sunday prayer You are everything You are all You are life Rita S. Spalding has had poem...
No comments:
Post a Comment