Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.

Poetry is a puppet-show, where riders of skyrockets and divers of sea fathoms gossip about the sixth sense and the fourth dimension.

I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.

In these times you have to be an optimist to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.

Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.