Human Life Is Too Difficult For People.

But Maybe It's Up The Hills Or Under The Leaves Or In A Ditch Somewhere. Maybe It's Never Found. But What You Find, Whatever You Find, Is Only Part Of The Missing, And Writing Is The Way The Poet Finds Out What It Is He Found.

Has The Painter Not Always Gone To An Art School, Or At Least To An Established Master, For Instruction? And The Composer, The Sculptor, The Architect? Then Why Not The Writer? Good Poets, Like Good Hybrid Corn, Are Both Born And Made.

Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making Tinder.

Contrary To Slanderous Eastern Opinion, Much Of Iowa Is Not Flat, But Rolling Hills Country With A Lot Of Timber, A Handsome And Imaginative Landscape, Crowded With Constant Small Changes Of Scene And Full Of Little Creeks Winding With Pools Where Shiners, Crappies And Catfish Hover.

Poetry Is Ordinary Language Raised To The Nth Power.