The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

Alike and ever alike, we are on all continents in the need of love, food, clothing, work, speech, worship, sleep, games, dancing, fun. From tropics to arctics humanity live with these needs so alike, so inexorably alike.

I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.