Deftly They Opened The Brain Of A

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

Poetry Is Ultimately Mythology, The Telling Of Stories Of The Soul. The Old Myths, The Old Gods, The Old Heroes Have Never Died. They Are Only Sleeping At The Bottom Of Our Minds, Waiting For Our Call. We Have Need Of Them, For In Their Sum They Epitomize The Wisdom And Experience Of The Race.

I Can Hardly Wait For Tomorrow, It Means A New Life For Me Each And Every Day.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.