Words disjointed and drifting in the gloomlaughter muffling nearby to where we arewhile at a tilting table in the bar…
On the other side of the hillI found the Queen Anne’s Laceas it swayed in the dying wind
Atheism is the door to the religious heartin all its unknown majesty, this surprising resultdefies the synagogue, the steepled churchthe preacher…
A brown leaf scraped at the window panejust when Ihad thought I had lost enough to cry.
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 poetic muse has always been an alter-ego, chastising me for being too much in my head, too cerebral. Looking back over…
My love is like a red, red roseA red, red rose is sheAll day long beneath the willow boughsShe suavely swings my baby
I do not know, I do not knowWhich way the wind is going to blowIt may blow West — but I know thisYou’re the one I want to kiss
If I hold to the soft lightand you to the sadwhat makes it such a wrong ‘right’that we should be glad
I am the wind. I am less than the wind.I am a tree. I am greater.I am an ant with strong ant arms.I am a weak flower, a little violet, with…