There once was a young woman named Bega. She lived in England in a time before us, when the land stretched onwards for miles like a slow breath and the hills rolled quietly and the sea whispered its lullabies. She lived with her father amid tumbling hills and rumbling streams, where mountains touched the sky and valleys sank low.
The warm air of the Aegean is a blanket wrapped around you. Life moves slowly and without any cares. Days stretch long like a yawn and nights are still and quiet. Here, in Greece, the heat of the day weighs your bones and makes your limbs heavy, pulling rest and sleep in to you naturally and peacefully. The ocean withdraws and then pushes forward to the land again and again like deep and dense breaths.
The Glebe House in Clapham, London ,is an old Georgian coaching house that stands where the old manor house of Clapham once was. This building is now a home, a B&B, a location for filming, classes and salons, and so much more.
It was a return trip, a bucket list type of thing. My memories had faded of this city, home of a favorite author, full of amazing architecture and wonderful food. A steamboat sung and paddled on the Mississippi, memories of the riverbank quickly replaced… Continue Reading “Naw’leans Revisited”
It is a place of dreams. It is a place of rolling hills and slow moving water, a sunken pocket of land where deer roam the open spaces and osprey soar the empty skies. The sky here travels high and wide like a long breath.
Not the holiday destination but Halldór Laxness the snow-wrapped mental angst of Erlendur the misty procession of longboats off Akureyi the past, the past, always present in the now that never seems to get noticed. How many people have passed this storefront window carrying… Continue Reading “Late One Icelandic Afternoon”
They had a routine, and that was something to hold onto. Every morning began the same. She couldn’t remember exactly what the night and the day had been like before they made this child, but she knew they had been less full, less anchored.
She could have made a different choice—Her blood parts, that is, her bone parts, parts
With complicated names, syllables hugging–Packages of sound on the siding of language.
whalesong’s bow displacement weight longing ©2019 by Ron Scully Ron Scully is a professionally retired bookseller.His first two chapbooks,Listening for 13 Blackbirds, and Darlington Braves will be published in the spring 2019. He has given up on being the Yale Younger Poet and Wimbledon,… Continue Reading “WHALESONG”
Wow! I can’t even express how excited I was to see the many wonderful submissions we received this month. Thank you so much to everyone who submitted! Our winner this month through much thought and consideration is Elizabeth Spencer Spragins’ Tanka. Take a look below and remember to check back in for our next edition of #Wonderfold!