POETRY, GHOSTS, AND VAMPIRES He told me that he loved The warm breeze on his face The smell of pine trees And water on granite

POETRY, GHOSTS, AND VAMPIRES He told me that he loved The warm breeze on his face The smell of pine trees And water on granite
Headless He stood in front of me his neck a stump without a head. In his hand was a note on expensive stationary scrawled in
I’m honored to share a poem from my friend, Northern California writer, and Vietnam Vet, Richard Turton. The Eagle Cried The acrid smell of cordite
He turned to her A faint smile With depth And sharpness Yet when he turned It was as if He was only An image In
A need you dare not admit. Poetry on a Vampire Mom blog? Why? I’ll tell you. People won’t admit they read poetry and are moved
He told me that he loved The warm breeze on his face The smell of pine trees And water on granite The sounds of nothing