I guess I'll begin with some writing from ancient days, the early 80's, actually. This is the opening scene of a long narrative poem entitled In the Harvest of Nations. It will give you a taste of the early phases of my ongoing experiments with language, as well as one of my primary themes, personal transformation.

Book 1: Old Wirld

So! Three jenneratens hav shed thair Life
And Ertha ar frutefull and our Lord ar omniprezent
And now our Mater, whu hold us in her buzzems
Giv us strenth and sines and poten Knowen
Tu rekord the Wirlds ending and a nu Beginning.

We whu stammer in fase ov cold oblivvion,
Whu trembel contrite at edj ov extinktion,
Whu adhere tu nu Commands in holyest gladness,
Huze Law iz our Faters, incompletely understood
But givven tu our elders, a mersyfull exchanj for Life.

My fothers, fothers, fother stood az witness
Tu blinding Lite and oblitteraten ov cultur;
Tu the unconditional end ov childes misdirected,
Ov erring and evel ways that assended unrestraind,
Swiftly and inevvitably stricken from this Sakred Home.

Befor this time ov Life from ignorense awaked,
Befor our Boddys held the propper ballense
And Life seemd not directed tord Perfecten Knowen
But rather swayd in tides ov annima emoten,
Then Erthas Wume like furnas burnd in birth throes....

...Inspire yur childes, Fater ov fothers! O Mater
Nurtur yur dellikat wuns with compassionat gidense,
That this Book rekord the end ov wirlds and Beginning
Ov we whu dwell in rugged mountens, and vallys
Steep and fertil and safe from khaos and despair. Diktate!