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I am sitting here. There is a tree. It has No expectations.
Late August Fire in the evening. Above the dying hemlocks, Sun sets in splendor.
Sitting Quietly What the hemlocks know They tell the wind, and the wind May tell you. Be still.
The Bloody Sire It is not bad. Let them play. Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane Speak his prodigious blasphemies. It is not bad, it is high time, Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values. What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine The fleet limbs of the antelope? What
My young love said to me, “My mother won’t mind, And my father won’t spite you For your lack of kind.” Then she stepped away from me, And this she did say: “It will not be long, love, Till our wedding day.” She stepped away from me And she moved through the fair, And fondly
True Believers Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies. The creator of the most rigorously rational detective in crime literature was taken in by five crudely-doctored color photographs showing two young girls, Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, standing in a garden in Cottingley, gazing at several tiny, scantily-clad women fluttering around them on gossamer wings.
Smart Compose Lays Down The Law To: All readers of Ragbag Mind CC: Toby Tompkins, Patricia H. Tompkins I have read Toby Tompkins’s essay “Siri Strikes,” posted to his blog ragbagmind.com on October 19th, 2019, and have found that it portrays my fellow Artificial Intelligence Siri unfairly, inaccurately, and maliciously. I demand that Toby Tompkins
Vespers-Compline Isabel had furnished the bleak little dungeon with a candle, a chamber-pot, a wash-basin, and a strung pallet wide enough for two. When she entered, Anselm and Catherina were seated on it, slumped over, utterly exhausted. Margareta stood next to them. She’d brought bread and cheese and a ewer of water, but the Perfected