My fist is her flag still furled. Take the cannoli and leave the tuxedo - This is my jackleg opera to the world.

And when I feelthe masks beneathcrumble and fade withtime I build new onesto replace the old."Masks"- Sins Within

...so i will greet youin a wayall loved thingsare meant to be greetedwith a tear in my heartand a poem in my eye.

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

The greatness of poetry comes from its struggle to express the rapture of the soul in the contemplation of beauty.

My grandmotherhad no time for old,no matter how her face crinkledor her days folded like an apron aroundher middle.

Our age has built itself vast reservoirs of power / formless as the straining energy that it wrests from the earth.

Tener opiniones es estar vendido a uno mismo. No tener opiniones es existir. Tener todas las opiniones es ser poeta.

Blessed are you who circled desire with a blade, and the garden with fiery swords, and heaven and earth with a word.

Some poems are written great, some poems are written swell. But then there are poems that could win a prize in Hell.

On sunny days of summer, I am indeed the butterfly;And like the ancient drummer,I rhythm straight towards the sky...

Such is true joy’s absolute certainty,Its slow lit fuse that burns holesIn the shabby shroud of death forever.

The untented Kosmos my abode,I pass, a wilful stranger:My mistress still the open roadAnd the bright eyes of danger.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

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