A Work Of Art Is

Slowly I Would Get To Pen And Paper, Make My Poems For Others Unseen And Unborn. In The Day I Would Be Reminded Of Those Men And Women, Brave, Setting Up Signals Across Vast Distances, Considering A Nameless Way Of Living, Of Almost Unimagined Values.

How Can I Look Back And Not Speak Of The Stupid Learning About Birth? Of The Stupid Learning That People Make Love, And How It Seemed The Reason For All Things, The Intimacy Of My Wondering, The Illumination That To An Adolescent Was The Cause For Life Around Me, The Reason Why The Unhappy People I Knew Did Not Kill Themselves?

The Truth Of A Poem Is Its Form And Its Content, Its Music And Its Meaning Are The Same.

I Will Try To Be Non-violent One More Day This Morning, Waking The World Away In The Violent Day.

Not All Things Are Blest, But The Seeds Of All Things Are Blest.