All The Untidyactivity Continues, Awful But Cheerful.

Even Losing You (the Joking Voice, A Gesture I Love) I Shan't Have Lied. It's Evident The Art Of Losing's Not Too Hard To Master Though It May Look Like (write It!) Like Disaster.

I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.

All My Life I Have Lived And Behaved Very Much Like The Sandpiper - Just Running Down The Edges Of Different Countries And Continents, 'looking For Something'.

I Am Overcome By My Own Amazing Sloth...can You Please Forgive Me And Believe That It Is Really Because I Want To Do Something Well That I Don't Do It At All?

Being A Poet Is One Of The Unhealthier Jobs--no Regular Hours, So Many Temptations!