I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face.

Frosting Freedom Is just frosting On somebody else's Cake-- And so must be Till we Learn how to Bake.

Gather out of star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust, Not for sale.

Rest at pale evening... A tall slim tree... Night coming tenderly Black like me

When poems stop talking about the moon and begin to mention poverty, trade unions, color, color lines and colonies, somebody tells the police.

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I did not believe political directives could be successfully applied to creative writing . . . not to poetry or fiction, which to be valid had to express as truthfully as possible the individual emotions and reactions of the writer.