The origin of these poems in traceable to a poetry class I had from Greg Keeler in 1980. Greg invited a few of his students to recite at the Union Hall Coffee Shop in Bozeman. Keeler taught us how to channel just enough of our unabashed goofiness to fancy ourselves writers and reciters.

Poetry writing for me is the satisfying manifestation of dumb luck. Each poem is born from the ether. They come from stumbling into amusing and delightful arrangements of words. The good ones are the snapshots you decide to keep.

In its grandest form, a poem is a like carefully stoked campfire where kindred spirits can gather around the warmth of humanity. I hope you find some fire. I hope you feel some warmth.

Cheers!

Bob MacNeal