Poetry Is The Silence And

Arithmetic Is Where Numbers Fly Like Pigeons In And Out Of Your Head.

Tell No Man Anything, For No Man Listens Yet Hold Thy Lips Ready To Speak.

We Read Robert Browning's Poetry. Here We Needed No Guidance From The Professor: The Poems Themselves Were Enough.

Come Clean With A Child Heart Laugh As Peaches In The Summer Wind Let Rain On A House Roof Be A Song Let The Writing On Your Face Be A Smell Of Apple Orchards On Late June.

The Single Clenched Fist Lifted And Ready, Or The Open Asking Hand Held Out And Waiting. Choose: For We Meet By One Or The Other.