Poetry cannot block a bullet or still a sjambok, but it can bear witness to brutality-thereby cultivating a flower in a graveyard.

There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere.

As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn't leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I'd still be in prison.

I love playing and chatting with children...feed ing and putting them to bed with a little story, and being away from the family has troubled me throughout my...life.

I looked into the vast dome of blue emptiness that stretched out above me in all directions and the illusion was still there, the size and speed, and what information they were sending to mother earth.

My son has died of AIDS.

There is little favorable to be said about poverty, but it was often an incubator of true friendship.