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
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Holy Schlamoly – honored that my post “2 A.M.” was
- 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
- KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON – A Teacher Appreciation Dissertation
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.
PORTS OF CALL I FREQUENT
Tag Archives: Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner
With a stinky stogie clamped between my teeth, I threw a crumpled trench coat over my shoulder, slapped my grandfather’s worn fedora on my head, stood on tip-toes and peeked through the window of the classroom door. Waiting for my … Continue reading
An abundance of wisteria if found flourishing in Bulgaria might migrate to Bavaria causing
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
Extreme weather boots. Hat. Insulated gloves. Balaclava (baklava, optional) Back, neck, hand and foot heat packs Thermal socks…and…and…and. The list was long. About this time three years ago, I was packing for an arctic adventure. Thirty-six months ago, I had … Continue reading
Alice Wetherby Pimms physically felt time pass in the coursing of her blood for as long as she could remember. Every second -tick, tick, tick- was like an invasion of needle-nosed imps nipping at the underside of her plump flesh. Each … Continue reading
If I were a simple love poem I’d, first of all, want to rhyme, then, be flawless and impeccable in meter and time, but since life is not perfect, nor is this holiday poem, I’ll continue in free-verse (maybe) to a chorus … Continue reading