Poetry
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Violin: A Love Poem to the City of Oranges
Adventure, airbnb, backpacker, Backpacking, City Guide, Culture, Europe, history, networking, Poetry, Road Trip, Spain, Travel, travel writing, travelblog, writingArt, backpacker, Backpacking, bohemian, design, eruopean, eurail, euro trip, gypsy, inspiration, journalism, journalist, literary, literature, memoir, news, personal essay, poet, Poetry, prosaic, prose, romani, songwriting, Spain, travel, travel spain, travel writer, travelblog, travelblogging, Traveling, vacation, vagabond, valencia, valencian, visit spain, writers life, writerslife, Writing
Bohemian nights in Valencia where the gypsies shred violins into the coming dark “Rhythmic swells reverberate trough my lungs. The back streets of Valencia. Back street Europe. Romani enclaves and gypsy parts of town. We’ll sit here in the Plaça de la Virgen with our stiff sangria, smartly bashful in red-faced delerium. For it is Spring…
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Flash Poem to Self: “Be confident, not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar:” On Writing, Cultivation, and Balancing Art/Mind.
Art, Author, Authors, Blogging, Culture, Flash Poem, Flash Poetry, In Another Country: Novel, literary fiction, literary nonfiction, literature, networking, nonfiction, novels, Poem, poet, Poetry, publishing, Review, rough draft, spiritual, spontaneous combustion, success, The Outsider, the writers life, writingartist, author, Book Blog, book blogger, bookblog, confidence, Flash Poem, Flash Poetry, lifestyle, literary, literary agent, literature, meditation, memoir, mental health, mindfulness, muse, Novel, novelist, Poem, poet, Poetry, publishing, rough draft, self love, stream-of-consciousness, success, travel, work in progress, writers life, Writing
I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar. I will be, act, speak with intention. I will be finished, will shop my novel.
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I lost my papa recently. And while I never sometimes my father, it was Papa who failed in presence, support, and generosity.
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Summer is a wild time of endless gaiety; A lazy, balmy, mild time; of human laxity. Of days with cares abandoned beside a socky shore, And breeze-swept, heathered stretches of Scotland’s ageless moor.
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I lost someone close to me last week. One of my parents, to tell you the truth. And while they weren’t exactly a birth parent, they practically raised me. Some of my earliest memories are of escaping my childhood home through the back window, down the juniper tree, up Sir Gillingham Street, and to their…
Nicholas Andriani Rankin 