Richard Tillinghast

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.—L. P. Hartley While drums pounded and cymbalsDrove men mad and bronze siege cannonPulverized walls built to last till the dayOf judgment, Fatih Mehmet—Shadow and Spirit of GodAmong men, Monarch of the Terrestrial Orb,Lord . . . . Continue Reading »

The wind shears through hardwoods,       then rain brings down the leaves      here, eight thousand miles east oftheir archipelago of service,     maplike now in its remoteness. Woodsmoke censes the air in the hermitage       they . . . . Continue Reading »