The Sharpest Memory Of Our

The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas Eve Is My Mother's Hand Making Sure I Was Settled In Bed.

Without Vision You Don't See, And Without Practicality The Bills Don't Get Paid.

Poetry Is Ordinary Language Raised To The Nth Power. Poetry Is Boned With Ideas, Nerved And Blooded With Emotions, All Held Together By The Delicate, Tough Skin Of Words.

Verse Is Not Written, It Is Bled; Out Of The Poet's Abstract Head. Words Drip The Poem On The Page; Out Of His Grief, Delight And Rage.

A Barn With Cattle And Horses Is The Place To Begin Christmas; After All, That's Where The Original Event Happened, And That Same Smell Was The First Air That The Christ Child Breathed.