A Writer Can Have Only One Language,

Heads In The Women's Ward On Pillow After Pillow Lies The Wild White Hair And Staring Eyes; Jaws Stand Open; Necks Are Stretched With Every Tendon Sharply Sketched; A Bearded Mouth Talks Silently To Someone No One Else Can See. Sixty Years Ago They Smiled At Lover, Husband, First-born Child. Smiles Are For Youth. For Old Age Come Death's Terror And Delirium.

Why Should I Let The Toad Work Squat On My Life? Can't I Use My Wit As A Pitchfork And Drive The Brute Off? Six Days Of The Week It Soils With Its Sickening Poison-- Just For Paying A Few Bills! That's Out Of Proportion.

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.

Poetry Should Begin With Emotion In The Poet, And End With The Same Emotion In The Reader. The Poem Is Simply The Instrument Of Transferance.