You were one person, and you changed the world.
The sharpest memory of our old-fashioned Christmas eve is my mother's hand making sure I was settled in bed.
Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.
The corncob was the central object of my life. My father was a horse handler, first trotting and pacing horses, then coach horses, then work horses, finally saddle horses. I grew up around, on, and under horses, fed them, shoveled their manure, emptied the mangers of corncobs.
All poetry is an ordered voice, one which tries to tell you about a vision in the un-visionary language of farm, city, and love.
I knew about holiness, never having missed a Sunday-school class since I started at four years. But if Jews were also religious, how could our neighbor with the grease-grimy shirt use the word 'damn' about them?
Soldiers of the American Revolution fought that 18th century war with heavy muskets. In the early 20th century, we kids fought it every Fourth of July not only with exploding powder and shimmering flares, but with all of our senses.
People aren't always what you want them to be
To reach a port we must set sail
Don't give up at half time. Concentrate on winning the second half.
How lucky we are to have such a treasure of memories.