Children when they ask you why your mama so funny say she is a poet she don't have no sense

may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back

Tell the truth... maybe just to see clearly, as clearly as possible.

My Mama Moved Among the Days My Mama moved among the days like a dreamwalker in a field; seemed like what she touched was here seemed like what touched her couldn't hold, she got us almost through the high grass then seemed like she turned around and ran right back in right back on in

the lost women I need to know their names those women I would have walked with, jauntily the way men go in groups swinging their arms, and the ones those sweating women whom I would have joined After a hard game to chew the fat what would we have called each other laughing joking into our beer? where are my gangs, my teams, my mislaid sisters? all the women who could have known me, where in the world are their names?

To be a good poet, you must care more about the writing, than the writer.

telling the truth about children's lives is radical.