Poem Quotes - Page 19

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings and some are treasured for their markings-- they cause the eyes to melt or the body to shriek without pain. I have never seen one fly, but sometimes they perch on the hand. Mist is when the sky is tired of flight and rests its soft machine on the ground: then the world is dim and bookish like engravings under tissue paper. Rain is when the earth is television. It has the properites of making colours darker. Model T is a room with the lock inside -- a key is turned to free the world for movement, so quick there is a film to watch for anything missed. But time is tied to the wrist or kept in a box, ticking with impatience. In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps, that snores when you pick it up. If the ghost cries, they carry it to their lips and soothe it to sleep with sounds. And yet, they wake it up deliberately, by tickling with a finger. Only the young are allowed to suffer openly. Adults go to a punishment room with water but nothing to eat. They lock the door and suffer the noises alone. No one is exempt and everyone's pain has a different smell. At night, when all the colours die, they hide in pairs and read about themselves -- in colour, with their eyelids shut.

If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.

Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie,Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing: "There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she!She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea.(from poem 'The Forsaken Merman')

Cold stars reflected in the waterAbyss beckons us his dark distance.Our world, only one of hundreds,In which we can not see the sun.In this world, I am uneasy,I want to touch another planets.Because there is dark and cramped,That spirit is calling me to run.Wander through the world I'm tired,And every day to meet the dawn,For me this world has closed its doors.I want to go to other worlds,To know all mysteries of their,And here never to return.

He is deaf, and keen to accept,any economical operation,that will correct his situation.He visited the doctor best,and started talking on subject,like the after-effects, and if any threats.The doctor medically checked,and asked him what he expects?He expressed, he wants to be addressed-in words, and not in signs.And how keen he is, to have his ears listening.He wants to listen the echo of,sun-set over that crimson dawn.He is keen to know, the sound of,a blooming rose.He wants to know what it sounds like,when a seedling grows.But Doctor- if you say: You are incapable,then I better get away,for then there is- nothing worth to be heard,in your seemingly wordy world.

Most things may never happen: this one will.

I stand in my own power now, the questions of permission that I used to choke on for my every meal now dead in a fallen heap, and when they tell me that I will fall, I nod. I will fall, I reply, and my words are a whispermy words are a howlI will fall , I say, and the tumbling will be all my own. The skinned palms and oozing knees are holy wounds, stigmata of my She. I will catch my own spilled blood, and not a drop will be wasted.

I was mistaken when I said you live in my heart. How absurd I was when you live in my fingertips so that everything I touch is you. How foolish I was when you live in my toes so that everywhere I go there's you. How senseless of me to say you live in my heart when you breathe in my lungs, walk on my mind, and drink in my mouth. I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

Sex with an exIs it ever really painless or just inviting stress?I mean, reallyWho does that?Oh wait, I’m sure if they could, most everyone would...

At the end of all things, why do lovers break up? Because love is magic. You have to believe, for it to exist.

You Have Happened To MeLike the first blossom of the spring and the first drizzle of the rain,tttYou have happened to me.With that sudden smile, very close to mine, tttYou have happened to me.When I was at lowest aura, with tears on edge of my eyes, You have happened to me.When I have least expected, in that depth of our talks, out of my knowledge,You have happened to me.Somewhere in those loud laughs and gathering some smoky puffs,tttYou have happened to me.Without the fear of world, got tied up with just one knurled,You have happened to me.In the most beautiful way I could ever imagine, while getting my self lagin,tttYou have happened to me.I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a miracle then,How you have happened to me?I am still surprised with those shiny sparks in my eyes,You have happened to me.Talking about having the happy time, you became the reason of my smile,You have happened to me.In those long waits and running behind your fast steps,You have happened to me.Around your long advices, rolling my eyes while trying to believe in them,You have happened to me.The warmth of tea I have sipped next to you, melted my heart for you and You have happened to me.Over those answers of my every question, and the way my heart felt so freshen,You have happened to me,Somehow surrounded by our rational deliberation, and continuous feel of desperation,You have happened to me.Looking at you a many times a day and look! How it is changing the way in slow motion,tttYou have happened to me.

I ache not from need -but from my heart's gluttony of you.

Our bodies are made of supernova dust, the epitome of ultimate destruction and shatter. And though we are whole, beings with bodies and souls, with cosmos in our eyes and black heart holes, we love as fiercely as the force of creation.

ONE WORDOne word— one stonein a cold river.One more stone—I'll need many stonesif I'm going to get over.

what if you get most of what the eye sees?what if love came in seeds?what if we plant them and they grow trees? what if they form hearts instead of leafs?what if hate was to freeze?what if there was no honeybees?what if your heart stops when you sneeze?what if the evil uses the word please?what if we get down on our knees?what if we pray to the creator of the earth, heavens ,and seas?what if the heartless bleeds?what if the poor needs?what if the wealthy and greedy feeds?what if the illiterate reads what if hearts had keys?what if we aim for our dreams?what if we do all good deeds?what if the only brew was teas?what if we all wore white tees?what if we could accomplish some of these? WHAT IF ?

Give me the purple smoke, rising higher and higher into my brain until I dance with the purple butterflies.” -Girl with the violet eyes.

Loveis not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size.Loveis simply two hands reached out in the darkness,saying; I’ll be your light, if you’ll be mine.

You must take these poems as mirrors; for you know that the mirror has no form of itself, but rather reflects the face of anyone who looks in it. Just so a poem has no one particular meaning of itself , but presents to each reader his state of the moment and the completeness of his case

All my past heartache and pain suddenly made sense. That was who I would not be to the person who deserves the best of me.

The only time she's come close to being "known" was when she accidentally came out as bisexual during sophomore English class while talking about her favorite poem.

Knock! knock!who's there?me!me who?that's right?what's right?meehoo!that's what I want to know!what's what you want to know?me who?yes, exactly!exactly what?yes, I have exactlywatt on a chain!exactly what on a chain?yes!yes what?no, exactlywatt!that's what I want to know!I told you-exactlywatt!exactly what?yes!yes what?yes it's with me.what's with you?exactlywatt-that's what with me.me who?yes!go away!knock knock...

blue-gold sky, fresh cloud, emerald-black mountain, trees on rocky ledges, on the summit, the tiny pin of a telephone tower-all brilliantly clear, in shadow and out. and on and through everything everywhere the sun shines without reservation (p. 97)

I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech.

She didn't do anything at allexcept arrived without warningin the middle of the night(right when I least expected it)She walked by me, with a strut in her stepsmelling like summercausing me to turn my head(even the leaves swayed her way)All she did was look at mewith bright, curious eyesfilled with mirth and secrets(as if an adventure was about to happen)I tried not to think of her at allnot the curves of her bodyor the stories that she told(you knew there'd never be dull conversations)By then, I couldn't walk awayI got caught up in her stormwithout a care in the world(I was a very good swimmer)She was a hurricane who created her own sunshine.

Scenes from the PlayroomNow Lucy with her family of dolls Disfigures Mother with an emery board, While Charles, with match and rubbing alcohol, Readies the struggling cat, for Chuck is bored. The young ones pour more ink into the water Through which the latest goldfish gamely swims, Laughing, pointing at naked, neutered Father. The toy chest is a Buchenwald of limbs. Mother is so lovely; Father, so late. The cook is off, yet dinner must go on With onions as her only cause for tears She hacks the red meat from the slippery bone, Setting the table, where the children wait, Her grinning babies, clean behind the ears.

Till the time you realize your conquest you already reach that stage when you start losing the grip.

I am foolish in the way distance makes me feel partial.

Find mebeneath your tongue,but not with other lipsnor by another tongueFind melet your yearning run wild as thirst seeks wateras silence seeks the soundFind meand I will be on my way...

You didn’t understand the poem, but that was because it wasn’t for you. It was for me to understand the pain you put me through.

My cup is yellowOr not, though not'sImpossibleIt's yellow

Easter blessingsAll life’s sacrifices like autumn leavesawaken our sensesand power to love and be wholeOur Mother Earth, Our Father Skyembraces our happiness and laughterPraise be to freedom and life’s seasonsPraise be to Christ’s freedom song

My mind gets stronger everyday,my heart gets weaker with time.

My Personalityunfolding before youlike a Swiss Army knife.

you want to be angry but you can’t stop looking and when you look you love and when you love the entire world unfolds around you

Sacred space in whichTo distil, like amber,The best of your love.

And here face down beneath the sunAnd here upon earth's noonward heightTo feel the always coming onThe always rising of the night

Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time futureAnd time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.What might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.

She was a poem and a painting too. Everything she said sounded like a song, every silence was the music too.

In all the flames of fire fume’s left the traceInto the bluest sea the sky is drownedThe miracles of life can you embraceFrom the poem 'Can You Embrace?

Is Virgin you trying to fathom me

Love frees us of all pain, or of any restraint. Once a circle that ever widens without end. Various colors it shines in our lives to paintExcelsis, glorious manifestation to befriend.

You've slipped away like a fistful of sand. You've vanished so quickly like a wind. Do you know how I long to hold you love of my life.

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun:Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller's journey is done. Where the Youth pined away with desire,And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: Arise from their graves and aspire, Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

Behold yon rough and flinty roadWhere youth, now youth no more,Gropes whining, seeking crumbs of loavesHe cast away of yore.

You do not seem to realize that beauty is a liability ratherthanan asset - that in view of the fact that spirit creates formwe are justified in supposingthat you must have brains. For you, a symbol of theunit, stiff and sharp,conscious of surpassing by dint of native superiority andliking for everythingself-dependent, anything anambitious civilization might produce: for you, unaided, toattempt through sheerreserve, to confuse presumptions resulting fromobservation, is idle. You cannot make usthink you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you arebrilliant, itis not because your petals are the without-which-nothingof pre-eminence. Would you not, minusthorns, be a what-is-this, a mereperculiarity? They are not proof against a worm, theelements, or mildew;but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliancewithout co-ordination? Guarding theinfinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience tothe remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be re-membered too violently,your thorns are the best part of you.

The ProdigalDark morning rainMeant to fallOn a prison and a schoolyard,Falling meanwhileOn my mother and her old dog.How slow she shuffles nowIn my father’s Sunday shoes.The dog by her sideTrembling with each stepAs he tries to keep up.I am on another corner waitingWith my head shaved.My mind hops like a sparrowIn the rain.I’m always watching and worrying about her.Everything is a magic ritual,A secret cinema,The way she appears in a window hours laterTo set the empty bowlAnd spoon on the table,And then exitsSo that the day may pass,And the night may fallInto the empty bowl,Empty room, empty house,While the rain keepsKnocking at the front door.

To live with you is to live.To live without you is to die.

And I Said To My Soul, Be LoudMadden me back to an afternoonI carry in menot like a woundbut like a will against a woundGive me again enough manto be the childchoosing my own annihilationsTo make of this severed limba wand to conjurea weapon to shatterdark matter of the dirt daubers' nestsgalaxies of glassWhacking glintsbash-dancing on the cellar's fireI am the sound the sun would makeif the sun could make a soundand the gasp of rotstabbed from the compost's lumpen living deathis meO my life my war in a jarI shake you and shake youand may the best ant winFor I am come a whirlwind of wasted thingsand I will ride this tantrum back to Goduntil my fixed self, my fluorescent selfmy grief–nibbling, unbewildered, wall–to–wall selfwithers in me like a salted slug

And once the ripples still and the water returns to its unwavering calm, even the pebble that broke its surface will be forgotten. And the world will go on.

Mountains, hills and valleys confirm the beauty of Your holiness.

Dreaming of getting you I loosed everything Cheerfulness of smile And all the dreams of life

Death is buried there into death Hunger strikes on its own last breathNo spine to shiver, no heart talks At life’s craving poverty mocksFrom the poem 'Exhumation

My child, I know you're not a childBut I still see you running wildBetween those flowering trees.Your sparkling dreams, your silver laughYour wishes to the stars above Are just my memories.And in your eyes the oceanAnd in your eyes the seaThe waters frozen overWith your longing to be free.Yesterday you'd awokenTo a world incredibly old.This is the age you are brokenOr turned into gold.You had to kill this child, I know.To break the arrows and the bowTo shed your skin and change.The trees are flowering no moreThere's blood upon the tiles floorThis place is dark and strange.I see you standing in the stormHolding the curse of youthEach of you with your storyEach of you with your truth.Some words will never be spokenSome stories will never be told.This is the age you are brokenOr turned into gold.I didn't say the world was good.I hoped by now you understoodWhy I could never lie.I didn't promise you a thing. Don't ask my wintervoice for springJust spread your wings and fly.Though in the hidden gardenDown by the green green laneThe plant of love grows next toThe tree of hate and pain.So take my tears as a token.They'll keep you warm in the cold.This is the age you are brokenOr turned into gold.You've lived too long among usTo leave without a traceYou've lived too short to understandA thing about this place.Some of you just sit there smokingAnd some are already sold. This is the age you are brokenOr turned into gold.This is the age you are broken or turned into gold.

Echo of the waves appears in the sky, their lights reflected in your eyes. I'm back in our world and happy again. The sound of your voice, compassionate embrace... The power in your touch, serenity of stride... The beating of your heart calms down my presence, gracing with eternal peace of mind... Bathing in the sunshine of your arms I'm deeply aware of the melodic stream that has no language...gliding beneath the quiet Heaven of your eyes...

Don't be concerned with other women's beauty. Only admire God's amazing work and wish them well., this earth was made to bite us in half and grind us to bone, but we were made to be kind.

one doesn't even think ofthe liverand if the liverdoesn't think ofus, that'sfine.

My life was a blank paper, until you came to rhyme with words & make it a poetry book. ❤ ❤

It is raining in my heart.Humanity is shedding a tear.I asked, “Who is suffering?”Is it my mother?Silence.No answer.Everyone has a mother,And she always suffers.Why as a child do we let our mothers suffer?I could not get an answer.

In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down,Whose bonnets touch the firmament,Whose sandals touch the town, ―Meek at whose everlasting feetA myriad daisies play.Which, sir, are you, and which am I.Upon an August day?

Here's another poem,like all others before and after,dedicated to you.There isn't anything left to be saidbut I will spend my lifetrying to put you into words.You who is every goodness,every optimismand hope.Your love is a better fate for methan anything I could wish for.If you are a part of me, then you’re the best part.And if you're separate from me, then you are my destination.But I’ve become a weary traveller,so please,let us never be apart.