Poem Quotes - Page 17

True poetry is the perception of human feelings, the voice of the heart, open or hidden. It is the lyrics, compositions, and melody of the relation between humankind, the universe and God, a shadow pinpointing each of the truths we can discern everywhere (from the earth to the stars), a photograph of the creation’s projection cast in our feelings and thoughts and framed through words, a heartfelt tune of our loves and joys played on different strings, and it is a bouquet of our faith, hope, determination, beauty, love, reunion, and yearnings.

And life goes on like this,an uncomplete poem.

I can’t shake you.

Twas a sheep not a lamb that strayed awayIn the parable Jesus told,A grown-up sheep that strayed awayFrom the ninety and nine in the fold.And why for the sheep should we seekAnd earnestly hope and pray?Because there is danger when sheep go wrong;They lead the lambs astray.Lambs will follow the sheep, you know,Wherever the sheep may stray.When sheep go wrong, it won’t take longTil the lambs are as wrong as they.And so with the sheep we earnestly pleadFor the sake of the lambs today,For when sheep are lost, what a terrible costThe lambs will have to pay!

I’ve reached the vanishing point without you.Here my heartache begins with your paintrying to find an unborn startin this fatal disappearanceFrom the poem ‘Me with the Vanishing Point

I forced myself out of a love that I knew would only end fatally.I forced myself into the dark, until I could no longer remember how to feel with my eyes. I forced my mind to believethat someone would hold youbetter than I ever could. But the worst part was selling my soulfor a price I know I'll never repay, and forcing myself into lovewith someone who wasn't you

Do the lovers know that when they whisper these poems they are commemorating our love?Do they ever think of you and meor only of themselves?Do they know that I once found a strand of your hairand wore it around my necklike a necklace?That I kiss your handsmore than I kiss your lips?Do they realise that our love and their love are drops in the universe’s ocean of loveand that without any of these drops, the ocean would be less?

Green and living jewels drip into my eyes" from the poem "All Green and Living Things" in the book "Terra Affirmative

Don't ask me any questions. I've seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.

Thus it is, we sow motions of hatred out of our own impoverished understanding of love. Yet we do so in the name of love. The perplexing precipice of the illusory infirmity.

Ô, Wanderess, WanderessWhen did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

Home at six AM.Is it still a walk of shame?I was shooting porn.

Anything is a poem if you say it often enough.

She's vodka in a sexy lingerie and high heels.I'm always drunk.

There were plenty of fishes in the pond,yet i fell in love with a crocodile.

People who are buried leaveBehind their memories.People feel sad for them andWorry, but for the living man,They are never sorry.This person, who is the sufferer,Will never be able to withstand,The chances snatched from him,He thinks, “Am I under a ban?”So he dies, and the world isForever in debtFor the man who facedDeath before his death.

NowNow is the time…Now is the time – Make a changeNow is the time – All is strangeNow is the time – Start life anewNow is the time – Cannot stewHeartbreak, loss, pain, and challenges paleNow is the time – Sharp as a nailNow is the time – Take a chanceNow is the time – Sing and danceNow is the time – Make a changeNow is the time – engageNow is the time…

No mark survives this place: you too will yieldto unmemory.

I was born one thousand times and all the while it was you I met again to only meet again under the thousand stars that divide us and connect us.

Some of us cover to protect our bodiessome of us cover to protect our soulsin both cases,respect their choices.

(...) It,s hard not to be able. There, look there!/ I cannot get the movement nor the light;/Sometimes it almost makes a man despair/To try and try and never get it right./Oh, if I could -oh, if I only might,/I wouldn,t mind what hells I,d have to pass,/Not if the whole world called me fool and ass."Dauber (A poem). John Masefield. 1916. London William Heinemann

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me will full hands; How could I answer the child?......I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. There was the hope Dr. Holden had talked about-the grass was a metaphor for his hope. But that"s not all. He continues, Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Like grass is a metaphor for God's greatness or something.... And then soon after is itself a child.... And then soon after that, Or, I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broadzones and narrow zones. Growing among black folk as among white.

Shut lips, sleeping faces,Every stopped machine,The dumb and littered placesWhere crowds have been:.All silences rejoice,Weep (loudly or low),Speak-but with the voiceOf whom, I do not know.

The gift of words, the source of enjoyment, the source of delight that comes within and the unfading beauty and energy of words.

When I feel lonely you are here beside me with your loving and caring touch.

I chase the wind and get lost in the clouds. I'm sweep into darkness in my search for the light.

The things you struggle with today are the things you choose to struggle with.Because you believe that what you want to accomplish, is worth struggling for.

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

What makes us leave what we love best?What is it inside us that keeps erasing itselfWhen we need it most,That sends us into uncertainty for its own sakeAnd holds us flush there until we begin to love itAnd have to begin again?What is it within our own lives we decline to liveWhenever we find it, making our days unendurable,And nights almost visionless?I still don't know yet, but I do it.

Come, let us speak with our bodies.Teach me how to please you.I am here to learn.Let us not waste this time.It is the hour of union.ComeAnd after you do,Come again.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity ofmy city and it's ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked theheartaway.

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

Nobody really knows herExcept the chosen fewHer secrets are kept hiddenBehind that sun-kissed hue.If I reach out to touch herShe’ll just run awayMy Forever and AlwaysWill have to wait another day.

Life shows us all colours, some bright and some shades of grey,Some accept with a smile, while some frown in every wayThoughts and memories never end but life does one day.Whole age passes by in wait of that old time to return,But those old days once gone, will never come back again,Rather we can just cherish them in the memories that burn,In the back of our mind and make us remember,How we used to be so crazy,In those old days…

Flowers wither knowing that you exist.

no time agoor else a lifewalking in the darki met christjesus)my heartflopped overand lay stillwhile he passed(asclose as i’m to youyes closermade of nothingexcept loneliness.

Sometimes my helpless blood runs numb and, if only for a second, I forget how frail bones can be.

Every time a poet is about to write, every time the open their mouth to say something, they express their inner world and tell of their own feelings, thoughts, beliefs, and opinions, unless they are deliberately pursuing fantasies which contrast with their beliefs, opinions, thoughts, and the point of view.

True beauty lies not upon gilded veneers,But found in the soul within.

Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Ya got cigarettes?” she asks. “Yes,” I say,“I got cigarettes.” “Matches?” she asks.“Enough to burn Rome.” “Whiskey?”“Enough whiskey for a Mississippi River of pain.” “You drunk?” “Not yet.

...4-5-6: when time escapes the day in its most beautiful way. She starves for that beauty, she longs to quench her limitless thirst, but those moments are so fleeting and their limit is her unrest. Her bones are hollow and heavy as she takes a single step, and in that instant she is gone, blinded by the flash of a stray ray of light, her eyes close in that moment and stars flood her night. She falls forward slow, counting the half seconds of her descent. Her eyes stay closed, her thoughts are spent.

My heart may be bruised and scarred, bleeding slow drip-drip with every thump and every other thump-thump that widens unsealable wounds. My heart is the strongest part of me. It's survived everything I've thrown at it and much more than it should.

The best tourist is one without a camera

A stream of primal voicesWhispering in the breeze of your heartTo urge you on.

It was a slow fall, through warm experiences and good laughs. It didn't even feel like love until I got to the end. Even then, it was not the hard surface of rock, but the scorching embrace of more.

Today is the winter solstice. The planet tilts just so to its star, lists and holds circling in a fixed tension between veering and longing, and spins helpless, exalted, in and out of that fleet blazing touch. Last night Orion vaulted and spread all over the sky, pagan and lunatic, his shoulder and knee on fire, his sword three suns at the ready-for what?t I won’t see this year again, not again so innocent; and longing wrapped round my throat like a scarf. “For the Heavenly Father desires that we should see,” says Ruysbroeck, “and that is why He is ever saying to our inmost spirit one deep unfathomable word and nothing else.” But what is the word? Is this mystery or coyness? A cast-iron bell hung from the arch of my rib cage; when I stirred, it rang, or it tolled, a long syllable pulsing ripples up my lungs and down the gritty sap inside my bones, and I couldn’t make it out; I felt the voiced vowel like a sigh or a note but I couldn’t catch the consonant that shaped it into sense.

I feel no grief for being called somethingwhichI am not;in fact, it's enthralling, somehow, like a goodback rub

A writer draws a road map where readers walks with their love, joy, anger, tears, and dismay. Every story, every poem, has different meanings for every reader.

Ask of your eyes to seeonly to seek love.Ask of your mouth to speakonly to utter words of love.Ask of your hands to feelif only to touch the lover.

Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

A no hurts but a broken promise hurts more, Listening to a no is not easy but a shattered wish stabs more! Don't ever promise anything that you will not be able to give, BECAUSE THE HEART BREAKS INTO A ZILLION PIECES WHEN PEOPLE PROMISE BUT DON'T GIVE .

...like that star of the waning summer who beyond all stars rises bathed in the ocean stream to glitter in brilliance.

When I dieI'm sureI will have aBig Funeral.Curiosityseekers...coming to seeif Iam reallyDeador justtrying to makeTrouble.

Dancing to the sounds of trees and stones and slow minutes ticking in our hearts and bones.

My love, I have tried with all my beingto grasp a form comparable to thine own,but nothing seems worthy;I know now why Shakespeare could notcompare his love to a summer’s day.It would be a crime to denounce the beautyof such a creature as thee,to simply cast away the precisionGod had placed in forging you.Each facet of your beingwhether it physical or spiritualis an ensnarementfrom which there is no release.But I do not wish release.I wish to stay entrapped forever.With you for all eternity.Our hearts, always as one.

Would it be enough to rock on a stormless sea with each our separate memories tuned to the state of the sinking sun?

Come to me.Why must you ruin this moment?You are burdened with thought.Burdened with the pastand expectations of the future.You are burdened with your self.Cast these aside by laughing at yourself.And love,for what more is there than to love me?Take me nowand let it be heaven for us.

Every morningbefore the birds starttrilling me their stories,I give birth to a new lovethrough my same old heartwhen a lake’s placidityfinds life in the swans breathOnly for you...From the poem 'Only For You