I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.

There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.

Nothing happens... but first a dream.

There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.

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.

Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.

Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.