A Little About Me
I am an adventure seeking ponderer of the mysteries of the universe, writer of children's books (represented by Stephen Fraser of the Jennifer DeChiara Literary Agency), and lover of anything involving armor, archery, or swashbuckling.
MAY 2-3, 2020
Share the Joy of Reading with
14 February 2020
Holy Schlamoly – honored that my post “2 A.M.” was
- FROM MRS. HUMBUG TO YOU – A (sort of) Holiday Greeting
- IT’S DECEMBER? WHAT HAPPENED TO NOVEMBER?
- ODE TO ME BONNIE BLUE PLAID WELLIES
- THE CASE OF THE PURLOINED PICKLE
- MINDING MY Ps AND Qs – A Punctilious Quest
- MINING 4 MEMORIES IN THE LEAST LIKELY PLACE
- SECRETS, LIES, and SFOGLIADELL’
- IN HOT PURSUIT OF THE UNTETHERED MIND
Member Since 2007
© 2012-2019 Donna Gwinnell Lambo Weidner
Punishment for ignoring said © is, at best, death by hanging from the tallest yardarm. Content may be shared for non-commercial use as long as credit is given to Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner and linked to http://donnaweidner.com All photo, art, and media content that is not my own are for representational + non-commercial purposes. I do my best to give credit where it is due.
BLOG-MATIES I VISIT
Category Archives: VIEW FROM MY SOAP BOX
webs of spun silk billow in morning’s mild breeze sparkling orbs handiwork of moonlight’s toil twinkle plucked from the cosmos of recollection a cache of memories cling to spider’s haphazard roadmap many muddled fuzzy out of reach others beckon for … Continue reading
She stands facing the pale, windswept bay, tall and erect as the ancient redwoods poking through the shroud of fog folding over the mountain range behind her. They loom in the distance like a pack of protective brothers, chanting in … Continue reading
Why do I write? Good question. It’s not because it’s been a passion ever since second grade when Sister Ann Michael praised my poem I WANT TO BE A DOG for its wit, rhyme, and wild imagination, or the inclusion … Continue reading
It’s somehow fitting. The sweeping square is shrouded in silence, but for the dime-size drops of rain slapping the neatly laid cobbled stones under my feet. The typically bustling quad is empty too, except for the line of bicycles strung … Continue reading
Quimmer. Stranded. Separated from his pack. About as visible as a grain of sand stuck to the smooth side of a seashell, the dog stands on a slab of sea ice floating atop the placid waves of Scorsbysund. Four days ago, … Continue reading
Clouds of steam rise from bubbling pits on the pocked landscape. It smells like Beelzebub is venting a batch of burned hard-boiled eggs from his sizzling subterranean scullery far below our hiking booted feet.