reckless

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Forum topicNick Griffin alan_benefit3618 years 3 months ago
Forum topicThe New Scarlet Letter? archergirl4918 years 5 months ago
Forum topic"The Constant Gardener pepsoid1018 years 7 months ago
Forum topicIan Huntley. styx5618 years 7 months ago
Forum topicmy beautiful bad boy by reckless Juliet OC618 years 8 months ago
Forum topicIsrael buys 2 nuclear capable submarines. styx1818 years 8 months ago
Forum topicGlad to see the back of them! poetjude3118 years 8 months ago
Forum topicThe Great "Do Kids Get It Too Easy These Days? Debate pepsoid4418 years 8 months ago
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Forum topicLebanon. styx1418 years 8 months ago
Forum topicClimate change span9718 years 8 months ago
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Forum topicCudo Cudo's "I am surprised we can take what we want from the world" galfreda718 years 9 months ago
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Forum topicAre Writers Special People? Jack Cade1418 years 9 months ago
Forum topicWays to make you boring admin job bearable¦ pepsoid1418 years 9 months ago
Forum topicIs Labour Buggered? styx3918 years 9 months ago
Forum topicAntidote to the scary Israel/Lebanon stuff pepsoid6118 years 9 months ago
Forum topicEverybody In The Free World Should Be Forced To Watch This Programme mississippi6718 years 9 months ago
Forum topicSeen any good films lately? pepsoid3418 years 9 months ago
Forum topicFavorite Book! mikepyro1618 years 10 months ago
Forum topicIambs and Trochees Jack Cade718 years 10 months ago
Forum topicGUTTED Juliet OC818 years 10 months ago
Forum topicIng-er-land tcook3318 years 10 months ago
Forum topicOwen. richardw518 years 10 months ago

My stories

Cherry

Persepolis

Persepolis We live alone in the high mountains, where time ends, at least it seems so. This is the landscape of dreams, this is the firmament of delights. It was lost, once it was lost: and if I came this way again

Mazandaran

Mazandaran Our dreams are in the mountain tops, where the blue sky, Pure, preserves them; canopies our minds with longing. Here, on the stone path, hallowed by history, holy, The shepherdess still walks in Mazandaran, by

Tehran

Tehran The wind blows cold from Mount Damavand, the blue peak aged with memory, white with the chill of autumn, whispers welcome to the dear ravaged heart, bringing rest. Brings me caresses, a voice that still would speak

Dies Irae

Dies Irae Fuego, they said, nothing more, and then the fire, high on the hills. I could see it, and feel the warm wind over the water carrying cries, my village brightly lit. Running, they were all running, I could hear

Her Life

A sonnet for Edna St. Vincent Millay, an individualist and maverick. She died alone at 58, sitting at the bottom of her stairs. I wrote this following the format of one of her own sonnets. Her Life

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