I wouldn’t give ten gallons of my own piss for clear sentence that gives the sense of a tree as a tree, when I revel in the nonsense of its being my own Grandfather, a...

It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be, with no effort or trying and slowly we found each other’s hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a...

The Waterfall and the Sea””Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart,gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts.His passion and love are like the sea,...

I used all my potential and all my talents and pushed myself to the limit. I could not have fought any harder.

As Raimbaut dragged a dead man along he thought, ‘Ohcorpse, I have come rushing here only to be dragged along by theheels like you. What is this frenzy that drives me, this mania forbattle and...

It…whatever ‘it’ is, has swallowed me and I lie here in the pit of its cold dark stomach being eaten alive by its bile and I…I don’t even know if I want to be saved.

The Inner Self…What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

Don’t use a five-dollar word when a fifty-cent word will do.

The young student sits with his head bent over his books, and his mind straying in youth’s dreamland; where prose is prowling on the desk and poetry hiding in the heart.

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,and I still don’t know which month it was thenor what day it is now.Blurred out linesfrom hangovers to coffeeAnother vagabond lost to love.4am alone and on my way.These are...

When the others were picked up and walked home by friends or fathers or best friend’s sisters,I was the kid in a grey hoodie, walking with the poets, the singers, the thinkers, and I was...

And I howled at that swarm and the crops and the sky, and the stars should have quit because there weren’t no reason to be shining.

…wisely mingled poetry and prose.

Meadow’s Waltz…the meadow had becomeher sanctuary of spiritoffering an escape from a painno child should ever endureforeboding clouds began…

Poetry is more than a form of art. It’s a vibration and a pulsing heart. Whether it’s sour or whether it’s sweet. It can give you strength no one can defeat

Mirabelle sat down, dropping into the cushions like a ball being caught in a large leather glove.

Their lives have a size and a shape now. Estha has his and Rahel hers.Edges, Borders, Boundaries, Brinks and Limits have appeared like a team of trolls on their separate horizons. Short creatures with long...

… because one day, maybe one day, if I learned how to write clear enough, sing loud enough, be strong enough, I could explain myself in a way that made sense and then maybe one...

I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.

I can’t be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus.

You and I, under the moonlight, together until the stars don’t shine any more… The world slips away as we dance in the fire as we had never yet danced…in anticipation of the red flame,...

…unquestioning automatonsblindly marching to the beat -an eerie crunching soundhoards of shuffling feet…(from silent moments)

The displacement of water is equal to the something of something.

You know, my dear, it’s only doing you harm to write vers libre. After you have been writing strict, rhyming verse for about 10 years it will be time to venture on the free sort....

I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleaning me. I’m the one on the...

There’s a reason humans peg-out around eighty: prose fatigue. It looks like organ failure or cancer or stroke but it’s really just the inability to carry on clambering through the assault course of mundane cause...

Watch me go. Watch me. Because you said i couldn’t. Because you thought I wouldn’t. Go on, cry now. Cry.

Butterfly KissesAged imperfectionsstitched upon my faceyears and years of wisdomearned by His holy grace.Quiet solitude in a humble homeall the family scattered nowlike nomads do they roam.Then a giftsent from abovea memorypure and tangiblewrapped in...

Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.

Once he got bitten, and they all wept bitterly, expecting to see a spectacular death-agony; but he just went off into the bush and probably ate something, for he came back in a few days...

I am a free soul, singing my heart out by myself no matter where I go and I call strangers my friends because I learn things and find ways to fit them into my own...

I don’t need anyone else to distract me from myself anymore, like I always thought I would.

I knew it was a day of endings, one way or another.

Flora took pleasure in the delicacy of her approach and studied the ways of the smallest, sweetest blooms she could find, tiny pimpernels and forget-me-nots hiding in the pockets of the fields. The energy of...

The Decision…I wiped my hands on my pinaforenow sullied and stainednot crisp or pressedas it had been before…

…prose unfolds in time; and time contains both obstacles and revelations. Prose develops, the way characters and situations do. It requires a flow. A poem is an instant, lightning across the sky. Prose is before...

Each of us carries a room within ourselves, waiting to be furnished and peopled, and if you listen closely, you may need to silence everything in your own room, you can hear the sounds of...

I tended to find lines of poetry beautiful only when I encountered them quoted in prose, in the essays my professors had assigned in college, where the line breaks were replaced with slashes, so that...

For I have nothing to lean on, nowhere to call my home and there is nowhere I will go for Christmas to rest my head and touch familiar walls. I have no degree to show...

The flesh of prose gets its shape and strength from the bones of grammar.

Poems, even when narrative, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory or defeat. Everything moves towards the end, when the outcome will be known.Poems,...

Echo of the waves appears in the sky, their lights reflected in your eyes. I’m back in our world and happy again. The sound of your voice, compassionate embrace… The power in your touch, serenity...

Ode to the Chamber…linger here amidst the chamberin which we embrace our lovetalk to me of sonnetsand call me turtledove…

Prose: words in their best order; poetry: the best words in the best order.

The rhythm of fraught footsteps and fervent heartbeat orchestrated a symphony of anticipation and dread.

I am a worried person with a stressed out soul, living a simple life with no capital.

The fact is that certain themes cannot be celebrated in words, and tyranny is one of them. No one ever wrote a good book in praise of the Inquisition.

For me a page of good prose is where one hears the rain. A page of good prose is when one hears the noise of battle…. A page of good prose seems to me the...

Honor LostAmbulant sunshine piercedthe soot covered glass ~the feeble man wandered byin this ritual morning pass …

Afghanistan had collapsed and everyone’s life now lies broken at different levels within the rubble.