In the baby’s roomThe city lights areMilkyIn the curtains… Breath Gentle as rain, Sleep Quiet as snowflakes

you cannot teach art—you cannot make a soul

…true love is an irrevocable act – you can only give your heart away once – after that, you give as much as you have left …

…there is no map of the soul because we make it up as we go…

…you must never partly love or stop half way – because then, you become superficial and cannot be deeply hurt or loved…

…I’ve discovered why you fascinate – you keep the mystery and as Carlyle noted, Wonder is the basis of worship…

…every time I look at you autumn leaves come in between – does it matter they’re the color of your hair – or they still fall in my memory?…

…you’ve lost perspective? Well, get it back – God alone has the third person point of view in this life …

Deb and I were married on a snowy night – wind cross-wove a veil of snow for her then threw confetti at us as we left the lighted church…

… the house is on fire, but go ahead – finish painting the verandah…

…you betrayed me, but after all those years I discover, my tears have wiped the slate clean…

…the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows…

…if it weren’t for you, mornings wouldn’t be so comforting – slippers wouldn’t scrape through the rooms of my heart…

…I gave you painted air – tears I couldn’t weep – truths I couldn’t speak – all the words that caught in my throat…

…you do violence with your words if you force them – art is given – the words received, moment by moment from unseen hands – call it a Muse …

…we each harbor a shadow self with shadowy motives and murky desires…

…the wind hums low with sweet exultation, sings its lullaby, while you sleep …

…summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows…

…the strands that connect us are frail, so don’t hang great weights on slender wires…

…your memory is a warm stone hidden in my hand I’m always turning over…

…I know Shakespeare said art is holding up a mirror to nature- but you’re actually bending and refracting it through your interior dialogue …

…beneath torrents of spring rain, buds come to life – and we do too, beneath torments of tears…

…it must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul…

I see you kneeling in church—stained only by colored windows

…all kinds of images swim like tropical fish in the bathysphere inside my skull …

…a writer without authority? Impossible. as Kenneth Burke says, creation implies authority in the sense of originator….

…I committed a sin the day I refused you – I discovered metal inside me where my heart should be – forgive me, Love, for acting on principles…

…true love is my religion…

…a dream isn’t a wish – it’s an altered state of consciousness …

…futility is being sorry while doing nothing to remove the cause …

…it’s merely writing, but you have to adjust your ear – I speak quietly – I sob – I whisper…

…and here’s a secret for you – everything beautiful is sad…gilded with impermanence…

yes, writing is mostly a dream, but angels visit in dreams

…the heart breaks in so many different ways that when it heals, it will have fault lines …

…I see you as series of gestures, a palette of colors -all these tiny tiles pixelate, and then coalesce… into the idea of you…

…all winter the acorns and red Maple leaf moldered in silence – in the same way grief is gnawing at me – slowly, imperceptibly… consuming…

…it begins with isolation – demons always inhabit desolate places…

…I recall that day on the beach – the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair…

…each person is required to ask, ‘what is my authority?’ – on what do you base your decisions? if it’s yourself, then you are without excuse…

…never be disappointing – you may wound me, but you must never be disappointing…

…don’t think love is just an emotion – I am dangerous and you know it because I will do anything you ask me to do…

…these vignettes I sketch for you – what are they? watercolors ..yes and dreams blurred with tears …

…at dawn, the grains of sleep turn to floating black spots, then out of focus the world tilts, and the cat scratches at the door…

…the making of stories is only one part of my craft -mainly, I’m a heart whisperer…

…come lie beside me again and understand – the others can show by actions, but I alone will immortalize you in words…

…language always occurs in a context – you can speak Elizabethan words, but to speak the language you have to put on the mindset…

the abyss you stare into and that stares back at you is your reflection in the mirror – we all have it – that shadow self – that dark heart…

… paint in blue and black…sometimes gray – the colors of night – occasionally I surprise you with a mustard yellow, but then, I am a poet …

…You won’t age? I promise you this – your hands will go shiny and transparent and at the slightest bruise they’ll bleed…

…open the access to your heart and write down what your voice is whispering…