The very idea of writing is a strange one. It never ceases to amaze me that humans can look at little squiggles, dots, and lines, and...

Two men sat in the fiery sunset of a dying day and watched it burn starry embers into the smoke black sky. One had a face full of...

The rose bush that never bloomed Was a sticky sickly thing It stood in the corner of the garden And never saw the spring The rose bush...

Between the dim and dusky trees When somber sunset falls away A flicker of light from a nearby house Brings comfort in the waning day I...

Isn't it lovely, When you wake before dawn To the muffled sound of little cat feet Of raindrops pattering on the ground Then, rising, you...

I keep some dried flowers in a glass Cheerful faces of summers past And it seems as if, hour by hour The wrinkled faces of the flowers...

Through sweat And through blood Do empires fade Through ink And through time Is poetry made Yet the pen is mightier than the sword...