Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And

Come Clean With A Child Heart Laugh As Peaches In The Summer Wind Let Rain On A House Roof Be A Song Let The Writing On Your Face Be A Smell Of Apple Orchards On Late June.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Time Is A Great Teacher, Who Can Live Without Hope?

We Don't Have To Think Up A Title Till We Get The Doggone Book Written.

Who Am I, Where Have I Been, And Where Am I Going?