When Daniel Boone goes by at night The phantom deer arise And all lost, wild America Is burning in their eyes.

And Thames and all the rivers of the kings Ran into Mississippi and were drowned. They planted England with a stubborn trust But the cleft dust was never English dust.

Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

Money is sullen And wisdom is sly, But youth is the pollen That blows through the sky And does not ask why.

One cannot balance tragedy in the scales Unless one weighs it with the tragic heart.

A phrase may come to me as I am walking, and, once I write it down in my journal, the rest of the poem will unravel from that catalyst.

It's to a younger people's advantage to work with evolving computer technologies that provide so many ways to explore the use and distribution of text, including sound, images and motion.