He Who Gives Quickly Gives

One Writes Because One Has A Burning Desire To Objectify What It Is Indispensable To One's Happiness To Express.

The Irish Say Your Trouble Is Their Trouble And Your Joy Their Joy? I Wish I Could Believe It; I Am Troubled, I'm Dissatisfied, I'm Irish.

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

Poetry ... ... A Place For The Genuine, Hands That Can Grasp, Eyes That Can Dilate, Hair That Can Rise

I Never 'plan' A Stanza. Words Cluster Like Chromosomes, Determining The Procedure.