Photo & Poem Gallery

Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
  What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
  Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
  And I knew all her ways.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

Human beings suffer.
They torture one another.
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.

History says, Don't hope
On the side of the grave,
But then, once in a lifetime

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,

Everything an Indian does is in a circle and that is because the power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round...The sky is round and I have heard the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars.

Hold high the woof, dear friends, that we may see 
The cunning mixture of its colours rare. 
Nothing in nature purposely is fair,— 
Her beauties in their freedom disagree; 
But here all vivid dyes that garish be, 

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,

Nobody on the road
Nobody on the beach
I feel it in the air
The summer's out of reach.

  This photo is presented without an accompanying poem.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,