A Poet Never Takes Notes. You Never

Writing Free Verse Is Like Playing Tennis With The Net Down.

Nature Is Always Hinting At Us. It Hints Over And Over Again. And Suddenly We Take The Hint.

The Only Way Out Is Through.

God Turned To Speak To Me (don't Anybody Laugh); God Found I Wasn't There At Least Not Over Half.

Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood, And Sorry I Could Not Travel Both And Be One Traveler, Long I Stood And Looked Down One As Far As I Could To Where It Bent In The Undergrowth.