If the poets offered us nothing more than another make-believe world, they would be mere sellers of drugs or, at best, sweetmeats.

But who are we, where do we come fromWhen all those yearsNothing but idle talk is leftAnd we are nowhere in the world?"= MEETING =

Poems are not often simply emotions butOne has enough emotions -- they're experienceExperience themselves are not important....

for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.

Beer bottles, whiskey bottles, brown glass, green. They fell to the lawn and I'd feel serene. Adam was king to my stilted queen.

Today I write,riots with insite!Tomorrow I read,take the lead!Sometimes I sleep, health to keep!But for now I write,and got no gripe!

I listen to the rainfall, my words wanna flow!Droplets run down the wall,where do they go?Letters in the raw,mesh together for the show!

The sea waves stirred before methey dashed against the rocksLike a mermaid rising from its depthscurled white sea foam were her locks...

Where were you then?Who else was there?Saying what?Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

Once in a while i am struckall over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I'm 56 and I often want to write like a child.

Poems are the chorus of our lives. the poet sets the words to the music of our souls. Each poem has its own rhythm that drums like a heartbeat.

Gardens are poemsWhere you stroll with your hands in your pockets.(Les jardins sont des poemes Ou l'on se promene les mains dans les poches.)

Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.

Non parlavo mai - se non sollecitata. In quei casi - brevemente - a voce bassa.Non mi riusciva di vivere nella confusione. Mi vergognavo del chiasso.