"The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest." ~~ E.B. White
What I wouldn’t give to be in a conversation with
Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Haydn. Hell. All of them.
Add John Steinbeck and James Salter, Charles Dickens! Leo Tolstoy! Edith Wharton, Shakespeare, Dos Passos, Austen, Emily Dickinson. Hell. All of them.
And Lincoln, Washington, TR, FDR. Hell. All of them.
Dr. King, Mandela, Gandhi, Malcom, Sadat, Eleanor Roosevelt. Hell. All of them.
Per the droppers on the window
hinting the scent of wet leaves
good reading weather
cuddle
I am sick of violence. All kinds.
Physical. Emotional. Spiritual.
Financial. Environmental. Bigoted.
Your capacity to inflict violence
is not a measure of your strength.
Rubbish. Violence and strength,
nothing synonymous
about them.
This the pathway to
Words touch tender touch
My page and my hand
Pen sends friendship
To your wordsmith self
Our camaraderie
Write on
People
Smile
And the tears roar punches down
Wetlands drenching twists
A muscled foe
Into spirit
Form
