I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

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

There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.

I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.

What if they gave a war and nobody came?

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

A man may be born, but in order to be born he must first die, and in order to die he must first awake.