• Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Introduction
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Chapter 10
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: family

on / that / day

11 Monday Nov 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2019, 6*, arms, bread, breeze, brows, cake, chickens, Darmstadt, dog, ears, elderflower, family, feet, friends, happening, harps, Jon, Krishna, marriage, people, pine-cones, salad, Sara, serviettes, sunlight, trees

                                on
                                that
                                                day

                when the breeze was high in the trees and the sunlight
                occasional across pebble paviours

                when the harps cried ‘hallelujah!’
                and the puppy’s brows drew ears to attention of
                                chickens!

                when the cake was spread before the salad as only Krishna would have liked                
                and families multiplied like fanned serviettes

                and friends came together like classmates
                and peoples’ feet jumped one way, their arms waving the other,

                Jon and Sara pulled the bread and divined pinecones and elderflowers
                when things really had
                                come together beautifully

 

Jon and Sara married a couple of weeks earlier, but we celebrated later all together

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

breeze wormhole: at Kreukenhof
dog wormhole: 10/22 by William Carlos Williams
family wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
feet wormhole: waiting to be heard
Jon wormhole: early // Minoan & Mycenaean Exhibitions in the British Museum – diptych
people wormhole: boiled spangle with soft centre
trees wormhole: travel // when I die

 

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The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano

06 Sunday Oct 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements

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age, childhood, family, history, house, London, Michael J Redford, music, piano, reading, singing, sound, the Boats of Vallisneria, time, tone, walnut, World War

An Old Piano

It will not last much longer now, thought I as I gazed at our old piano standing proudly under a reproduction of ‘The Haywain’. Yes, despite its age it is still a proud instrument, even if it has lost one or two accoutrements such as the candle-sticks that were once hinged to the front panels and the tiny mother of pearl centre of a marquetry flower. Even so, it still stands firm and erect, defiant in its appearance of time. Of course it has been well looked after having been under constant attack from polish and duster and tuned with religious regularity ever since it came into our home.

The old walnut upright was bought for £6 just before the Second World War and although I was four or five years old at the time, I cannot recall its arrival in our midst. I can remember many things down to the age of three, but this piano for some reason had crept into my life so unobtrusively that it may well have been part of the family for generations. Mother had the ability to read music as easily as I can read a book, it was therefore a natural development that both my brother and I should undergo tuition. My brother was the first to sit scowling in concentration beside the music teacher every Thursday night, and I followed suit a couple of years later. Soon little hands were struggling stodgily through ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’ and ‘Minuet in G’, which was a great step forward from the time when my only contribution to the world of music came from putting the cat upon the keyboard.

One evening a year or so ago, while I was browsing through the keyboard discovery new chords and chord sequences, I hurled myself into an impressive arpeggio up the scale and finally landed on top E flat with a dull and toneless plunk. This had a most deflationary effect and I sat back in shocked silence. After composing myself, I explored the dark, humming interior of the piano and discovered a broken string that had coiled itself tightly around its neighbour in a final fit of frenzy, having succumbed at last to the continued battering of a felt-tipped hammer. Since then, the strings have been breaking at the rate of approximately one every three months. The pitch has dropped so much it cannot be brought up again, the tome has taken on a peculiar twang that is somewhat reminiscent of an Indian sitar and when the loud pedal condescends to operate (more often than not it seizes up completely), it does so in creaking protest which somehow doesn’t quite fit in with ‘La Mer’ or a nocturne in E minor.

It cannot last much longer now. This morning I lifted the lid softly and peeped in and saw that it needed re-felting, and in one dark corner was a tiny but ominous mound of sawdust. I do not know the age of our piano for it came into our possession second hand, therefore it may not be as old in years as I imagine. But even if it isn’t old in years, it is certainly old in use, for it has been played upon almost every single day for the past twenty five years. I will not, therefore, feel ashamed should a silent tear fall when that sad day of parting eventually arrives.

I have often toyed with the idea of keeping it even when every note has hammered its last, and retiring our faithful friend to the front room. But pianos are large instruments and I shall undoubtedly want another and there is certainly not enough room for more than one piano in this house. How is it that one can become so attached to an old piece of furniture? It is of course the associations and memories that bind them to us tighter than any cord, and what sort of memories can a piano bring but happy ones. Memories of distant family gatherings when no one thought of the inevitable days of parting to come; birthday parties that were once looked forward to; carols at Christmas. The piano on such occasions was the centre of all things, chairs, settees and stools were turned to face it and the congregation gathered around the walnut alter.

I remember the family gatherings twenty five years ago that brightened the dark, oppressive evenings of war. I hear father playing his banjo-uke and mother at the piano singing ‘Arm in Arm Together’ and reviving the then old songs ‘Chorus Gentlemen – Just Once More’ and ‘Shipmates O’ Mine. The strings of this old piano have vibrated to ‘Cornsilk’, through a feeble attempt at Rachmaninoff’s second to ‘Oo Bop Shebam’. During the war when this old instrument lived with us in London, the ceiling fell on it more than once and bombs showered it with glass from the windows. And yet it played on. It has been a wonderful friend but, like every member of the family, it has played its part and must soon leave us.

I feel kindly towards a house that has a piano for then a house becomes a home, but without a piano a house has an emptiness about it, to me it is incomplete. I know that this certainly holds true for my house, and each time I play upon its creaking frame, the increasing tenderness with which my fingers touch the keys must surely expose my feelings towards a dear friend who will very soon be gone.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

childhood wormhole: Batman: Oddysey
family wormhole: Sheffield Park Gardens
history wormhole: looking for the right exit
house & London wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
music wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later
piano wormhole: weight of high sash windows – poewieview #33
reading wormhole: breakfast
sound & time wormhole: riders of the night

 

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Sheffield Park Gardens

16 Friday Feb 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2016, 9*, air, black, blue, bluebells, branches, Buddha, Carol, children, contemplation, copper beech, creation, daffodil, dandelions, discovery, duck, eyebrow, face, family, fields, flag, future, garden, gem, girls, glance, green, hair, Have, humanity, India, kalpa, lake, land, life, limbs, living, mauve, May, name, passing, petals, plants, pollen, primrose, promise, rhododendron, seeing, serendipity, settlement, shade, Sheffield Park Gardens, sitting, society, stone-chat, talking to myself, transluscency, tribe, voices, walking, water, yellow

                Sheffield Park Gardens

                we walked
                upright
                across wide fields

                in scattered groups,
                family and tribe,
                private longing

                under shaded
                brim for a land
                of silk and money

                8th May 2016, with

                only childrens’ voices
                we walked into
                the garden

                dispersing to
                our hides to make our own
                discoveries

                by happenstance
                and peripheral glance
                held cold and fresh

                before name:
                that stone-chat
                that makes the

                copper beech
                transluscent;
                the cool stretch of branch

                yet to bud
                before the haze
                of dusty pollen;

                what to make
                of the solitary dandelion –
                butter yellow life –

                amid
                fain clusters of primrose; and
                there in the shade,

                mauve-bells and
                daffodil stalks make in-
                visible a steely blue;

                bluebells
                like raised eyebrows, relaxèd
                to see a future;

adult voices pass, now, talking ways of life; young girls practise handstands and routines in the fields;                

                let’s sit by the lake awhile:
                where a duck’s
                head

                sits
                just out the shade of exotic plants
                (let’s say, from India)

                the water lapping
                anywhere (let’s say, oh,
                 two thousand

                 five hundred
                 years ago), tucked
                immaculate

                black
                letting nothing out
                but the feint

                of blue
                or green that will form a gem
                in kalpas

                of contemplation;
                across the water a willow rests
                like a flag

                (girl’s hair
                 recovers from each upswing from each
                 hand-stand);

                turning home
                Carol stooped
                to smell the rhododendron flower

                “oh, …”

                pushed her face
                into the petals with lust
                was it

                because I’d
                said the branches
                were an orgy of slippy limbs

                or was it just me
                making things up
                as we walked along?

 

I know, I know, it’s mid February, and the poem was written and set in a May; it’s not seasonally right, but this was the next in line to be printed: them’s the chops …

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

air wormhole: Batgirl –
black & blue & Carol & passing wormhole: travelling // arrival
branches & voices wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
Buddha wormhole: om muni muni maha muniye soha
family wormhole: out
garden wormhole: slightly / uphill
green wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Working
hair wormhole: two profiles
Have wormhole: Coleton Fishacre
life wormhole: sweet chestnut
living wormhole: ‘still …’
mauve wormhole: snapshots about Totnes
seeing wormhole: glide
sitting wormhole: amid
society wormhole: green and / luminant / to behold
talking to myself wormhole: ‘God, who am I …?’
walking wormhole: loss
water wormhole: without any buffet at all
yellow wormhole: greedy

 

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out

20 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2015, 3*, Ashdown Forest, blue, Carol, children, family, father, gorse, home, kitchen, pine, shoes, walking

                                in
                from a different walk
                down an alley of gorse by the blue pine on the forest

                                through
                the front door step
                out of shoes hang coat need wee need to eat feel spacey

                                while
                Carol tells the adult kids
                I’ve come over all queer sniggers in the kitchen

                                there
                where I left them
                opened awkward toes bent up and bits of dried mud

                                the
                father’s shoes of
                thirty year’s family as if they had always never been out

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Ashdown Forest wormhole: in the Java ‘n’ Jazz
blue & walking wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
Carol wormhole: at table 21 in the garden centre thinking to / replicate Hughes’ exercise for Plath about / the Yew Tree
family wormhole: all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs
father wormhole: Mark & Jon at the coffee shop IV: right angles
kitchen wormhole: good going into / that gentle night
pine wormhole: Cocktails in 1951

 

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all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs

30 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2014, 5*, beach, blue, childhood, children, family, love, marble, memory, reflection, sandstone, sitting, time, water

                all the sandstone
                reflections in the
                marble-blue troughs

                when I was young
                I would fall in love
                with the children

                of families near to
                which we sat for
                hours on the beach

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

beach wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
blue wormhole: forgotten anything
childhood wormhole: lost and city ground
family wormhole: to rescue something
love wormhole: too greedy
reflection wormhole: dream I // dream II
sitting wormhole: concordance
time wormhole: slightly / uphill
water wormhole: volcanic rock;

 

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to rescue something

20 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

2017, 20th century, 7*, anxiety, blue, chair, childhood, Dad, depression, dining room, divorce, Eglinton Hill, family, feeling, Genesta Road, great aunt Mary, life, purpose, talking, Thames, visit, windows, World War

mary-louise-woodhouse

                Mary came to visit one year,
                I think before Dad left, sense

                of anxiety and visitation to
                get things right; we gathered

                in the dining room, she sat
                regal in one of those blue

                wing-back chairs to one side
                of the fireplace; they talked

                of things and the way things
                were while the war built up

                and the way things are now,
                we crawled about under the

                legs of the chairs while they
                talked, through the tunnels

                to rescue something with
                several teddies in tow; we

                kept one of those blue chairs
                when we moved, I remember

                sitting in it feeling the coarse
                knap and the horsehair stuffing

                in the lonely bedroom with
                my back to the high windows

                anxious about the purpose
                to do with my life … is

 

quite naturally, but unforseeably, this was written quite considerably, and apocryphally, after: green-wine, but then everything knits together eventually

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

20th century wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
anxiety wormhole: ‘never look up’?
blue wormhole: occa / s / i // o / n / a // l // l // y
childhood & Dad & divorce & Thames wormhole: south horizon
depression wormhole: what wounds have you got?
Eglinton Hill wormhole: alighted
family wormhole: familiasyncopation
Genesta Road wormhole: work
life wormhole: darkness
talking wormhole: embodying
windows wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams

 

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familiasyncopation

13 Sunday Nov 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2016, 7*, apartment, baby, breeze, brother, cactus, children, cotton, family, father, Granada, laughing, meal, passing, portrait, running, sound, streets, sun, Sunday, talking, tragedy, uncle, walls

                                familiasyncopation

                                down
down in the narrow streetways of the Gran Realjo of always sunny Granada

                                                                clak
                                                vacuum clak whines
                                quickly clak scrapescrape around
                the ap – clak – ment

                light cotton cloth hangs
                                back into the room
                                                hangs
                                                relents
                                                hangs                hangs

                family
                                sits
                                                variably
                                                                for the
                                                                                meal
                father’s sentence – chairscrape –
                                ri – co – ch – e – t – s
                                                around four walls
                                                                in warm and all-inclusive statemental embrace                
                                                                                and continues – despite interruptions – all the while                

                children lament a chasing game
                                of plakplak sandals
                                with surprising tragedy
                                                in the street below an uncle

                pushing the baby
                                half on the pebbles                from time to time
                                                “ahahahaha … herrr”
                                                                talks staccato with his brother

                light cotton cloth
                                billowing out, not quite
                                                          not quite
                                                snagging
                                on the cactus

                leans back into the room

 

the title runs together the Spanish word for family (which ends in the useful prefix ‘a’ which links) with syncopation to provide a gloriously arrhythmic portrait of a family meeting for midday dinner on a Sunday through the wide open windows of the apartiemento; I’m not even sure if all the noises I heard were from the same family, but that doesn’t matter, they were, they were;

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

breeze wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs
family wormhole: ‘field of corn …’
father wormhole: Doctor Strange III – the needs of billions
passing wormhole: industrial estate
sound wormhole: … swap round
streets & walls wormhole: passersby
sun wormhole: woven-through
Sunday wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Olly
talking wormhole: sleep now
uncle wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – from arm to nature, doing nothing

 

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‘field of corn …’

12 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2015, 5*, being, family, field, haiku, identity, others, walking, wind

                                     field of corn, the wind
                           across the tops of heads, some
                               taller, some not so

 

I still try to be other than what I am, and thereby fall short of what I am, and what I could be, to others; somewhat

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being & identity wormhole: con / sum / mate
family wormhole: this aching // and spacious dichotomy
field wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – … as the new town marches in
haiku[esque] wormhole: I
others wormhole: beepbeep
walking wormhole: love and precision
wind wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Snow

 

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this aching // and spacious dichotomy

09 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2016, 8*, air, architecture, cathedral, child, echo, emptiness, family, God, Granada, height, identity, light, location, Moses, name, nationality, song, sound, statues, teaching, tourism, windows

                oh, what have you done
                this, the way that it is

                made to location
                twenty pillars tall

                costing absolute
                tourism for the upkeep

                so many nationalities
                to come find themselves

                awed and reduced
                by the very quieted echoes

                that they themself have
                made; this the way to

                make the cross,
                child, no, this first,

                here are the names
                to find your family

                and this is the song
                in disciplined arpeggio

                there the pipes to
                sculpt the air

                all everywhere the figures
                for to know your place

                and there – thank God –
                the windows to let the

                light to see within to
                bridge this aching

                and spacious dichotomy

 

written sitting in the Cathedral in Granada – no speaking please; the second line right-angles the “I AM WHO I AM” given to Moses from the Burning Bush when Moses asked ‘who shall I say sent me?’ … unqualified existence, self-am-ing existence, made cathedral; also posted the morning when Donald Trump was elected President …

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

air wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – A Sign of the Times
architecture wormhole: passersby
cathedral wormhole: Saturday
child wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs
echo wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
emptiness wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
family wormhole: chartless …
identity wormhole: beepbeep
light wormhole: the skyline
sound & windows wormhole: … swap round
teaching wormhole: [once a] dilemminal [always a dilemminal]

 

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chartless …

17 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

1967, 2007, 5*, abandonment, business, career, children, comics, cult, Dad, family, groundlessness, isolation, land, life, lifestyle, music, people, poetry, private, relationship, religion, sea, searching, trauma

                                                                chartless …

                                … since 1967
                                no moorings no ports
                                my search for land
                                through comics poetry music religion
                                reclusive

                                … my own Dad
                                moored in music and
                                an ideal partner outside
                                his family his job his own business
                                reclusive

                                … people landlocked
                                from trauma have
                                houses and lifestyle
                                and children and soap and opera
                                all private

                                                … all susceptible to cults
                                and all of life is a
                fluid cult …

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

abandonment & Dad & family wormhole: what life went on
career wormhole: dry rot
comics wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
groundlessness & searching wormhole: hello, luvvey, do you want a cup of tea?
life wormhole: passing skies
music wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25
people wormhole: even / a second
poetry wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – autumn
sea wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

 

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… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes." ~ Annie Dillard

pages coagulating like yogurt

  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 10
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Introduction
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • William Carlos Williams
  • wormholes

recent leaks …

  • “…and may the great elements…”
  • paisley // implicitly
  • this pocketed being
  • the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes
  • time
  • the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
  • taking birth
  • mirror
  • long / road
  • ‘in my car I pass…’

Uncanny Tops

  • me
  • Moebius strip
  • YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams
  • 'in my car I pass...'
  • 'the practice ...'
  • 'I can write ...'
  • like butterflies on / buddleia
  • meanwhile
  • 'hello old friend ...'
  • under the blue and blue sky

category sky

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tag skyline

'scape 2* 3* 4* 5* 6* 7* 8* 20th century 1967 1979 1980 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019 acceptance afternoon air Allen Ginsberg anxiety architecture arm in arm attention awareness Batman beach beauty bedroom being birds birdsong black blue Bodhisattvacharyavatara books Bowie branches breakdown breathing breeze brown Buddha buildings career Carol cars change child childhood children city clouds coffee shop colour combe end comics communication compassion compromise crane creativity curtains dancing dark death distraction divorce doing doors dream Dr Strange earth echo Edward Hopper Eglinton Hill emergence emptiness evening eyes faces family father feet field floorboards garden Genesta Road girl giving glass gold grass green grey growth haiku hair hands Have hedge hill hills history holiday hope horizon house houses identity kitchen leaf leaves lemon letting go life lifetimes light lime listening living London looking lost love management managerialism mauve meaning mind mist moon morning mother mouth movement Mum muse music night notice open openness orange others park passing pavement people performance management pink Plumstead poetry pointlessness politics portrait posture power practice professionalism purple purpose quiet rain reaching reading realisation reality red requires chewing river roads roof rooftops samsara sea searching seeing settling shadow shops silence silhouette silver sitting sky skyline sleep smell smile snow society sound space speech step stone streetlight streets sun sunlight superhero table talking talking to myself teaching teaching craft Thames thinking thought time train travelling trees true nature university voices walking walls water waves white William Carlos Williams wind windows wood Woolwich words work world writing years yellow zazen

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