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

I don't go get a poem. It calls me and I accept it.

The end of a thing, is never the end, something is always being born like a year of a baby.

the lesson of the falling leaves the leaves believe such letting go is love such love is faith such faith is grace such grace is god i agree with the leaves

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?

Say it clear, and it will be beautiful.

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