Do not speak unless you can improve on silence, said a Buddhist sage.
A certain amount of housekeeping also goes on in my poems. I wash doorknobs, do dishes, mop floors, patch carpets, cook.
The pressed oil of words can blaze up into music, into image, into the heart and mind's knowledge. The lit and shadowed places within us can be warmed.
Justice lacking passion fails, betrays.
Wrong solitude vinegars the soul, right solitude oils it.
Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.
Some questions cannot be answered. They become familiar weights in the hand, round stones pulled from the pocket, unyielding and cool.
Don't pray when it rains if you don't pray when the sun shines.
No matter how sad we might be, the universe is still planning our happiness.
I'm steeped in aesthetic theory, so I tend to bring in my own amateurish way of baring a little bit - when, in practice, I'm not thinking about that when I'm working over the keyboard, or musing over musical ideas in my head. But when discussing it, we want to have some new thought about this new music.
I really wanted to retire and rest and spend more time with my children, my grandchildren and of course with my wife.