What is this slow blue dream of living, and this fevered death by dreaming?

I’m Noah, and you are the ship coasting along the banks and as long as you are my valentine I will sail between your eyes..

Rainer Maria Rilke greeted and wrestled with the angels of his Duino Elegies in the solitude of a castle surrounded by white cliffs tall trees and the sea. I greeted most of mine in the...

It’s considered good sportsmanship not to pick up lost golf balls while they are still rolling.

In honor of Oprah Winfrey: Even greater than the ability to inspire others with hope is the power to motivate them to give as much to the lives of others as they would give to...

Why do I write? Because I like telling stories and I don’t like repeating myself (insert chuckle here).

This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.

In my mind’s eye

When a reader enters the pages of a book of poetry, he or she enters a world where dreams transform the past into knowledge made applicable to the present, and where visions shape the present...

There is in Albert Camus’ literary craftsmanship a seductive intelligence that could almost make a reader dismiss his philosophical intentions if he had not insisted on making them so clear.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream was a manifestation of hope that humanity might one day get out of its own way by finding the courage to realize that love and nonviolence are not indicators...

Journey through the Power of the Rainbow represents a condensed compendium of literary efforts from a life dedicated to transforming the themes of injustice, grief, and despair that we all encounter during some unavoidable point...

Some have speculated that the way [Albert] Camus died made his theories on absurdity a self-fulfilling prophecy. Others would say it was the triumphant meaningful way he lived that allowed him to rise heroically above...

Time (again, Time) like the soul, wears many faces, many bodies and climates and attitudes. The past is one face, the present a second and the future yet another.

I place my fingers upon these keys typing 2,000 dreams per minute and naked of spirit dance forth my cosmic vortex upon this crucifix called language.

A world without poetry and art would be too much like one without birds or flowers: bearable but a lot less enjoyable.

Stars ink your fingerswith a lexicon of flameblazing rare knowledge.