While all the poetry in the world might not be worth as much as one good doctor, if there is a reason we are alive, if there is a reason we're here, it can be found in poetry. It is the barest bones of the human experience and it captures the soul in flight.
Beautiful ideas Pathways of light Embody my soul Relinquish my ego Perspective. An array of light A hinder, a fever, A cleansing period, Perspectiv...
I was trying to read a book of poets from all over the world but the day and the light led me to feel their lives. This is the poem that arrived.
They walk among us--those agents of change--but sometimes, we just need to be reminded of who they are, especially in an era where the media remain...
Let's linger together here and now,/ you'll love me anyway,/ and I'll love you all the way,/ I hope you'll embrace me,/ the way that I am,/ I am the this moment,/ I am beyond your conditioning,/ I am the wild one.
What matters bears entering more than once. This entering-more-than-once is a form of listening. It's how leaves in fall offer a deeper color on rainy days.
Months after my father died, I found myself in New York City, wandering through the Museum of Modern Art, a place I love. On the third floor, in an exhibit featuring the work of Gauguin, I felt his presence strongly.
I am a life-long teacher, which means I am a life-long student. I come from a lineage of teachers. And so, I offer this small poem about this noble ca...
After this year's retreat with a men's group, I felt each of them so deeply that I had to pull over on the highway and write this poem.
Little, yet fierce. That's precisely how Emily Dickinson, a poet first appeared to me in the pages of an anthology when I was 11-years-old. She would appear again later when my life was splintering away in trauma due to divorce (and I felt like eleven again).
It's been a year since we lost our beloved dog-child Mira. During this time, we have learned even more about the nature of grief and loss, and how no one is exempt from these tender journeys. This poem speaks to what I've learned.
If anyone could predict which books will sell, publishing wouldn't be the dumb business it really is. Publishers have always made their livings guessing, pretending we have fingers on the pulse of what readers want and need.
The great philosopher Abraham Heschel speaks of his fear that we will lose our sense of the Whole. I think this is inevitable, though just as inevitable that will find the Whole again. This poem explores this feeling.
Of all the words there could ever be titles and fashions of the lady I love, Mother shines way above the beauty of all tragedy. Of all the...
Turn me on With your sweet desire To please - to appease To admire, in this hour.