Death be not proud

The other night I dreamed that an old poet, spewing vitriol about his lowly brethren who dared let loose their works, was methodically hoarding away every poem written through the ages. I watched as he stacked poems, like precious bricks of gold, in underground caves. When I moved to intervene, he barked that poetry was far too important to ever see the light of day. A grey rabbit, dressed in overalls and a newspaper hat, was riding a chariot through these underground tunnels; under his breath he was muttering something about the nature of vanity, the nature of pride, and the nature of poetry.

I woke to the alarm ringing out Joni Mitchell.

A student of mine and fine poet has asked if I think she should begin seeking publication.

What could I do but quote Robert Creeley.

If you got a song, man, sing it.