“Often because the attempt to practice it is misunderstood, discouraged, brought under attack, or made a target of willful abuse.”

The ecstatic beauty and soulful grace of Rumi’s poetry inspires human hearts to believe in possibilities beyond the predictably fatal.

Upon the lips of babes asleep I saw light embracing light and so allowed my syllables to rest there as a prayer they might sing in their dreams.

Varieties of angels, like varieties of love, are many.

Millions cheer the warriorspilling blood across the ringwhile the one who stands for peaceis ridiculed and shamed.

The books are also a part of what I call the great continuum of spiritual literary dialogue that I feel has been in progress since human beings

From her gospel-singing mother Cissy Houston, her legendary pop-diva cousin Dionne Warwick, and her Queen of Soul godmother Aretha Franklin

Rainbows introduce us to reflections of different beautiful possibilities so we never forget that pain and grief are not the final options in life.

We are living in an era in which billions of people are grappling to promote communication, tolerance, and understanding over the more destructive forces of war

Change is one of the scariest things in the world and yet it is also one of those variables of human existence that no one can avoid.

Still willing to invest in art and poetry’s own uniquely explosive contributions to the great, and small, dramas of human history.

Love as a concrete foundation for an authentically functional civilization requires the around-the-clock labors of forgiveness. Without it, Love fails

Without the relief of compassion, the voice of an exceptional poet producing exceptional work is not something the world can afford to dismiss.

Love taught me to die with dignity that I might come forth anew in splendor. Born once of flesh, then again of fire

September 11, 2001: Citizens of the U.S., besieged by terror’s sting, rose up, weeping glory, as if on eagles’ wings.–from the poem Angel of Remembrance: Candles for September 11, 2001

A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.

Made applicable to the present, and where visions shape the present into extraordinary possibilities for the future.

When you’re accustomed to wealth, you don’t show it, right? That’s why the white kids in school could wear bummy sneakers; it’s almost like, ‘Don’t show wealth – that’s crass.’

One grows accustomed to being praised, or being blamed, or being advised, but it is unusual to be understood.

All parts of the body which have a function, if used in moderation and exercised in labors in which each is accustomed, become thereby healthy, well developed and age more slowly, but if unused they become liable to disease, defective in growth and age quickly.

We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others that in the end we become disguised to ourselves.

And I had long ago become accustomed to being called ‘Ophelia Daphne Flavia, damn it.

So endlessly, still expecting to be believed. We are accustomed to the contempt inherent in the political lie.

The public is accustomed to it, expects little from it and therefore takes little notice of it.

Being points beyond itself. Accustomed to think in terms of space, the expression “being points beyond itself” may be taken to denote a higher point in space.