Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

Life Goes Before We Know What It Is. / One Fool Is Enough In Any House. / Even God Gets Tired Of Too Much Hallelujah. / Take It Easy And Live Long As Brothers.

I Take You And Pile High The Memories. Death Will Break Her Claws On Some I Keep.

In The Average Newspaper There Is Not A Complete Suppression Of Stories That The Sacred Cows Don't Want Printed. But Rather What Happens Is That The Stories Get Printed With Stresses, Colorations And Emphasis That Favor The Sacred Cows.

Lips Half-willing In A Doorway. Lips Half-singing At A Window. Eyes Half-dreaming In The Walls. Feet Half-dancing In A Kitchen. Even The Clocks Half-yawn The Hours And The Farmers Make Half-answers.

The People Know What The Land Knows.