My Grandmother Standing Wordless Fifteen Minutes Between

I See A Vision Of A Great Rucksack Revolution Thousands Or Even Millions Of Young Americans Wandering Around With Rucksacks, Going Up To Mountains To Pray, Making Children Laugh And Old Men Glad, Making Young Girls Happy And Old Girls Happier, All Of 'em Zen Lunatics Who Go About Writing Poems That Happen To Appear In Their Heads For No Reason And Also By Being Kind And Also By Strange Unexpected Acts Keep Giving Visions Of Eternal Freedom To Everybody And To All Living Creatures.

I Recalled When I Worked In The Woods And The Bars Of Madras, Oregon. That Short-haired Joy And Roughness America Your Stupidity. I Could Almost Love You Again.

Gratitude To The Great Sky Who Holds Billions Of Stars - And Goes Yet Beyond That - Beyond All Powers, And Thoughts And Yet Is Within Us - Grandfather Space. The Mind Is His Wife

I Try To Hold Both History And Wilderness In Mind, That My Poems May The True Measure Of Things And Stand Against The Unbalance And Ignorance Of Our Times.

Clambering Up The Cold Mountain Path, The Cold Mountain Trail Goes On And On: The Long Gorge Choked With Scree And Boulders, The Wide Creek, The Mist-blurred Grass. The Moss Is Slippery, Though There's Been No Rain The Pine Sings, But There's No Wind. Who Can Leap The World's Ties And Sit With Me Among The White Clouds?