To my father, Earl, who labored all his life but also loved the good times, his innate goodness curbed by the Southern mores he observed, a man who relished discipline, who reached out to his son with love, always tempered with restraint;

to my mother, Lillian, who never would let racial segregation, loss of loved ones, ravages of age, or any other principalities or powers stop her sharing what she had or was with the least of those she knew;

to Rosalynn, who, most of all, has stretched my mind and heart and let me know what patience, love, and sharing mean;

to Rachel Clark, whose dignity and grace were heightened by a world in which, although apartheid reigned, she even managed to excel; and to others of her race and mine who suffer now from prejudice and, back then, forced by law and threats to tolerate their plight in silence;

to people living in and near the town of Plains, who all my life, have given me a microcosmic although true awareness of the greater world; to those with whom I traveled on and under seas, with special thanks to Hyman Rickover, who goaded is to reach for higher dreams and duties than the mediocre ones we were inclined to tolerate;

to the few who seek to share their through words and simple deeds and sometimes bring a better life to those who rarely know agape love; and to those others still in need, who'll never know religious acts like these;

to punishment or remorse for those who claim to speak for God, but only in his role as judge; for human rights oppressors in our own and other lands; for those who cause, condone, or disregard the suffering of the poor and weak;

to those many people, still with us or gone, not listed here in any special way, who've helped to mold my life, my thoughts and attitudes, and unknowingly, to shape these poems;

to poets who write at times with simple beauty I can comprehend, including Dylan Thomas, whose work can touch me in a special way;

to Jim Whitehead, who came to Plains and helped me live with what I know;

to Miller Williams, who, with patience and his own particular examples, tried to teach me how a poem should mean;

to Sarah, just sixteen, who read the poems and sketched what each one meant to her;

and to the readers of this book, who, I hope, will draw them some pleasure, stimulating thoughts, or memories to make up for my lack of erudition, skill, or artistry.