Atheism is the door to the religious heartin all its unknown majesty, this surprising resultdefies the synagogue, the steepled churchthe preacher…
On the other side of the hillI found the Queen Anne’s Laceas it swayed in the dying wind
My poetic muse has always been an alter-ego, chastising me for being too much in my head, too cerebral. Looking back over…
There is an island in my breast, all snowywith whiteness, frosted in tons of billowycoldness of pain, and hurt of a cold wind blowing…
My love is like a red, red roseA red, red rose is sheAll day long beneath the willow boughsShe suavely swings my baby
A brown leaf scraped at the window panejust when Ihad thought I had lost enough to cry.