All Art, In Spite Of The Struggles

... Politics Are Nothing But Sand And Gravel: It Is Art And Life That Feed Us Until We Die. Everything Else Is Ambition, Hysteria Or Hatred.

The Initial Mystery That Attends Any Journey Is: How Did The Traveler Reach His Starting Point In The First Place?

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over Their Ground, Trees Make A Long Shadow And A Light Sound.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.