I Wanted To Write Poetry Almost A

I Can Still Remember The Feel In My Hand Of That Most Wonderful American Coin Ever Minted, A Nickel With A Buffalo On One Side And The Head Of An Indian On The Other. That Nickel Was A Daily Proof Of Our Country's Past. Bring It Back!

Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making Tinder.

The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas Eve Is My Mother's Hand Making Sure I Was Settled In Bed.

The Corncob Was The Central Object Of My Life. My Father Was A Horse Handler, First Trotting And Pacing Horses, Then Coach Horses, Then Work Horses, Finally Saddle Horses. I Grew Up Around, On, And Under Horses, Fed Them, Shoveled Their Manure, Emptied The Mangers Of Corncobs.

All Poetry Is An Ordered Voice, One Which Tries To Tell You About A Vision In The Un-visionary Language Of Farm, City, And Love.