In Our Language Rhyme Is A Barrel.

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say

In Our Language Rhyme Is A Barrel. A Barrel Of Dynamite. The Line Is A Fuse. The Line Smoulders To The End And Explodes; And The Town Is Blown Sky-high In A Stanza.

Our Planet Is Poorly Equipped For Delight. One Must Snatch Gladness From The Days That Are. In This Life It's Not Difficult To Die. To Make Life Is More Difficult By Far.

In The Church Of My Heart The Choir Is On Fire

To Us Love Says Humming That The Heart's Stalled Motor Has Begun Working Again.