A million ways to scatter light And change the future overnight, And yet you rest content with one. Don't leave your work of art undone. 'Tis your own breath: 'tis full and real Of life and beauty. Into dark Your innovation launches sparks; Oh art and
Nobody else writes poems like I do. The fixed-form poet's art is old and dry. It limits creativity? Not true. But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by. Oh wait--there are yet writers springing free On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends. Alright: nobody writes in
I once beheld dreams as leaves Green and full of life Their veins clear against the sunlight Never to see autumn Never to let go Never to crinkle. But some I behold now as at end of summer wondering if fall will come on them after all. Crushed to brown
I asked you why I suffered such and such. It matters not the means; it's all the same To suffer little and to suffer much. For both bespeak a dying world's worst shame-- That goodness won't prevail in every sense. Why won't
Wisdom's house is firmly built; her seven pillars raised. Her wine and bread on table spread--a feast a king would praise. And out she sends her servant-maids to call at twilight hour To those of foolish character to come nigh and devour The bread of learning, and be