Poetry Is A Mystic, Sensuous

I Couldn't See Myself Filling Some Definite Niche In What Is Called A Career. This Was All Misty.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

One Of The Greatest Necessities In America Is To Discover Creative Solitude.

Poetry: A Sliver Of The Moon Lost In The Belly Of A Golden Frog.

I Am! I Have Come Through! I Belong!