In a dark moment I ask, "How can anyone bring a child into this world?" And the answer rings clear, "Because there is no other world, and because the child has no other way into it."

The painter puts brush to canvas, and the poet puts pen to paper. The poet has the easier task, for his pen does not alter his rhyme.

If it doesn't work horizontally as prose... it probably won't work any better vertically pretending to be poetry.

We are Godseekers all, though some be churchgoing believers and others pilgrims to an unknown shrine.

When I am gone, my love, do not look for me in the places we used to go to together. Look for me in the places we always planned to go to together.

Every day I go forth to seek my identity, feeling greatly blessed by the things I don't find it in.

Am I keeping my promises?