What are we, if not words?
With the ability to move
to love
to teach

Thanks to words,

I know why the caged bird sings,
but only because Maya Angelou told me so.

Where Shel Silverstein’s sends his childish words to play,
where the sidewalk ends,
that’s where my writing begins.

Meeting Robert Frost on that day in woods.
Choosing the path of poets over normality,
that has made all the difference.

On that good night with Dylan Thomas,
I was taught to not go gentle.
To attack whatever paper lay before me with a ball point blade of rhymes.

O WHITMAN! my Whitman! Our fearful trip will never seize.
Your imagery has moved me and I hope to write more, if you please.

i am discovering myself, slowly but surely, through stanzas of confession,
and I thank you, E.E. Cummings, for proving how small “i” can be

and although this life of words and association
of independent pondering
and new worlds placed on pages
can be lonely as a cloud...

I will continue to wander as William Wordsworth.
Because my words are worth much.

They are my friends, to whom I laugh at.
My priest to which I confess.
My enemy to whom I feel rage.
They are a connection to myself
of whom I do not, yet, fully understand.