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.

I do think that the kind of writing that I do will always be around and printed in books, magazines, and now blogs.

I am tired of loving a foreign muse.

Honesty is as rare as a man without self-pity.

We thought we were done with these things but we were wrong. We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom.

I died in my boots like a pioneer With the whole wide sky above me.

Our earth is but a small star in a great universe. Yet of it we can make, if we choose, a planet unvexxed by war, untroubled by hunger or fear, undivided by senseless distinctions of race, color or theory.