Poem Quotes - Page 22

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

An intricate string made up of infinite knots and curls. Taking a step back, it really did seem so fragile. As if the smallest breeze of opportunity would cause it to snap. It held strong though, fastened to me and you as a line of steel.

I am, a shadowthat grows longer as the sunmoves, drawn outon a thread of wonder.If I bear burdensthey begin to be rememberedas gifts, goods, a basketof bread that hurtsmy shoulders but closes mein fragrance. I caneat as I go. ("Stepping Westward")

MagicSandra’s seen a leprechaun,Eddie touched a troll,Laurie danced with witches once,Charlie found some goblins gold.Donald heard a mermaid sing,Susy spied an elf,But all the magic I have knownI've had to make myself.

Can we share my eyes so you can see what I see?Can we share my ears so you can hear what I hear?Can you perch on my shouldersso you can go where I go?Always in my heart, I don’t experience anything separate from you.This shared wonderment becomes doubled.This shared love becomes infinite.

I left smiles on your wordless lipsThe night roads- dismal and narrow,dream’s path remains shadowy wideas our lone hearts felt that arrowFrom the Poem 'My Tomorrow

Look for mein sleepless nights,among the stars,I’ll be your guiding star...Look for mein the moments of happiness,on a green field,I’ll be your joy....

OnceThere was a quiet island,With a name.You must believe me When I say that sunlight, Impure but beautiful, Broke upon the bay, silveredThe unrepentant, burning moon.

The mind-is not the heart.I may yet live, as I know others live,To wish in vain to let go with the mind-Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells meThat I need learn to let go with the heart.

She cries,I laugh,She becomes numb,I become filled with joy,She slowly crumbles,I feel on top of the world,Yet somehow in the end,Out of the ashes,She rose like a Phoenix,As if nothing had ever touched her

It was uncontrollable, overpowered by others, these colors within me, staring out at a black and white world; without spurning about, wanting to rule, too much negligence, they left me no choice, but to surrender. It was time, had to crash the lightning, and bow to the rain, where promises have broken, and pain still reigns. Had to give up myself and bring life to the world, had to. Dye

The Perfect Man.The perfect man is gentle,Never cruel or mean.He has an beautiful smile,And keeps his face so clean.The perfect man likes children,And will raise them by your side.He will be a good father,As well as an good husband to his bride.The perfect man loves cooking ,Cleaning and vacuuming too.He will do anything in his power,To convey his feelings of love on you.The perfect man is sweet ,Writing poetry from your name.He's an best freind to your mother,And kisses away your pain.He has never made you cry,Or hurt you in any way.Oh f*** this stupid poem,The perfect man is GAY!

Chainschains that hold me to the groundchains that keep me solidly boundchains that tether my heart to youchains that only one truth...

our foundation is rockybecause we made a home in each other’s skin.the damage is beginning to show.

Very possibly this was the night my white-knight complex, as Solange put it, would get me killed. Someone had better write a poem about it. It was only fair.

Rising and falling of the sun confirm Your kingship and Your rulership.

One sister for sale,One sister for sale,One crying and spying young sister for saleI'm really not kidding so who'll start the biddingDo I hear a dollar?A nickle?A penny?Oh isnt there isnt there isnt there anyOne person who will buy this sister for saleThis crying spying old young sister for sale.

You were just another stranger in the room,In a room full of bodies, I was attracted to you,I became your tiny dancer,I became everything to you,Little did you know,That I'm just a dancer, Not your fool.

To suffer together is to suffer with beauty...

How—I didn't know anyword for it—how "unlikely". . .How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?

O Moon that rid'st the night to wakeBefore the dawn is pale,The hamadryad in the brake,The Satyr in the vale,Caught in thy net of shadowsWhat dreams hast thou to show?Who treads the silent meadowsTo worship thee below?The patter of the rain is hushed,The wind's wild dance is done,Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushedAbout the setting sun:And now beneath thy argent beamThe wildwood standeth still,Some spirit of an ancient dreamBreathes from the silent hill.Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokesThe Ancient Ones of night,Once more the old stone altar smokes,The fire is glimmering bright.Scattered and few thy children be,Yet gather we unknownTo dance the old round merrilyAbout the time-worn stone.We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell,Nor mourn our outcast lot,Treading the mazes of a spellBy priests and men forgot.

Our contempt for any particular poem must be perfect, be total, because only a ruthless reading that allows us to measure the gap between the actual and the virtual will enable to to experience, if not a genuine poem—no such thing—a place for the genuine, whatever that might mean.

We grooved together with a rhythm so beautiful that I could feel the moment turned into poetry.

For this,let gardens grow, where beelines end,sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;where bees pray on their knees, sing, praisein pear trees, plum trees; beesare the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.

Strephon kissed me in the spring,Robin in the fall,But Colin only looked at me,And never kissed at all.Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,Robin's lost in play,But the kiss in Colin's eyesHaunts me night and day.

from time to time, i think of him watching mefrom over the top of his glasses, or eating candyfrom a jar. i remember thanking him each timethe session was done. but mostly what i seeis a human hand reaching down to lifta pebble from my tongue

I don’t believe he deserves the thousands of poems I’ve written about him, but life doesn’t follow rules. We do things for people who don’t necessarily deserve it. But we liked it, we loved it and fell in love enough to write about it.

I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.

When I'm with you,I feel exposed.Naked. When I'm naked with you, I feel clothed.Sheltered.

If perfection is absurd, why is tragedy common?

We need each other yet, we bleed each other of the very life we are all drowning in with one another...

She asks why I like her.Might as well askWhy I breathe.Maybe tomorrow I won'tBreathe or like herAnymore.Maybe tomorrow the tidesWill stop.Maybe tomorrow will bringNo more rainbows.Maybe tomorrowShe will stopAsking useless questions.

Sometimes a name seems our most arbitrary possession,and sometimes it seems like the grain in a rocklike a sculptor's hunk of Italian marble: Whack itand you might get either your first glimpse of a saintor a pile of rubble.

The atmospheric intensity of two electric lovers is the most righteous place I need to rediscover.

And what I said was I’ll miss you, What I meant to say was that I love you, What I wanted to say was that I meant what I said I miss you like I miss my own bedafter too many nights of sleeping on couchesor hardwood floors Or sitting silently behind the doors Of hotel rooms became wounds Breathing life in to this loneliness I miss youLike a burn victim must miss their own skinI miss you like a sad ending Must miss someplace new to beginBecause some say that the highway becomes a flat line if you travel it for too longI can’t tell if that’s true or false, But I’m racing down it towards you trying to find myPulse.

I don’t know why we fight.It takes much too effort to stay mad at you.To dodge your skin in the hallwayand leave the kitchen without bringing you a treat.It takes much too effort to stare at the sinkso my eyes don’t smile at you in the mirror.It takes much too effort to look away as we undressand lie apart in the now bigger bed.It takes much too effort to stiffen my bodybecause sleepy limbs forget fightsand pride is always lost in dreams.It takes much too effort to awaken every hour to make sure we are islands with a gulf of white sheets separating us.I dread the light peeking through the parted curtainsand empathise with your groans —I didn’t get any sleep either.I really don’t know why we fight.It takes much too effort to stay mad at one anotherwhen it’s so easy for us to love.

Be still my hand and let the words write themselves upon my heart. Be still my heart and let your pages be filled in silence.

I want to think about trees. Trees have a curious relationship to the subject of the present moment. There are many created things in the universe that outlive us, that outlive the sun, even, but I can’t think about them. I live with trees. There are creatures under our feet, creatures that live over our heads, but trees live quite convincingly in the same filament of air we inhabit, and in addition, they extend impressively in both directions, up and down, shearing rock and fanning air, doing their real business just out of reach.

Your printers have made but one blunder,Correct it instanter, and then for the thunder!We'll see in a jiffy if this Mr S[pencer]Has the ghost of a claim to be thought a good fencer.To my vision his merits have still seemed to dwindle,Since I have found him allied with the great Dr T[yndall]While I have, for my part, grown cockier and cockier,Since I found an ally in yourself, Mr L[ockyer]And am always, in consequence, thoroughly willin',To perform in the pages of Nature's M[acmillan].

Beneath it allI kept faith with Ithaca, travelled,Travelled and travelled,Suffering much, enjoying a little;Met strange people singingNew myths; made myths myself.But this lion of the seaSalt-maned, scaly, wondrous of tail,Touched with power, insistentOn this brief promontory...Puzzles.

The Waterfall and the Sea""Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart,gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts.His passion and love are like the sea, deep and wide, waiting mysteriously,Patiently he awaits her, calling out through time and spaceShe hears his call, her pool overflowing.Her love and passion gushing over her banks she rushes toward himWinding and twisting she finds her way, destined to reach his shoresHe awaits her arrival as she opens her delta and his tide comes inTheir waters mingle every molecule of her river with his seaForever mixing and sharing their passion and love in that place betweenThe Waterfall and the Sea

The sky can never be frozen because its vastness has chosenall warmth of our lives as we look abovewith unbreakable hearts armoured in love

In the very end, all we have left to atone for our faults are words.

You are to me,what wind is to dry leaves.The reason for me to fall,the reason for me to fly.

What is this thing you call substance abuse? All I wanna do is forget and get loose.Drinking and smoking over and overWhat's so great about a life that's sober?There's nothing cool about being youngWhen the monsters of night have stolen the sun.I'm tired of searching for words in the sky.All I wanna do is drink and die. Nothing is real. It's all a big lie. All I wanna do is drink and die. There's nothing cool about being youngWhen the monsters of night have stolen the sun.

There should ne’er be a timeWhen a duty or dimeDoth outshineThe importance of family.

For [W. B.] Yeats magic was not so much a kind of poetry as poetry a kind of magic, and the object of both alike was evocation of energies and knowledge from beyond normal consciousness.

...unquestioning automatonsblindly marching to the beat -an eerie crunching soundhoards of shuffling feet...(from silent moments)

Create a massive drawing of what God has promised you.

I cast myself at him, like a fool, but he didn't see me. And then one day he noticed I was beautiful and he wanted me. He broke me off and took me with him, in his hands, and I didn't care that I was dying until I actually was.

I wear the universe backwards. I imagine putting stars in my coffee, and sugar in the sky. I imagine going fishing in clouds, and watching the sun hide behind lakes. I'm too busy dancing with my imagination to even tip toe with reality for a second. They say I'm going mad. They're right.

Read a poem at a time, or two, or all, but give them time to sink into your heart. Read them again, read a portion, and stop and ponder. Visualize. Take it slow; let the poem show you what lies in your own heart. Let it fuel the words from within.

This is for you, all the women of the worldThose who lived, all who ever willthis is for your love, mine is yoursLove is fate, I am hereBecause you know the meaning of lifeThat begins and ends with a kissWe are knights in shining ardor, who toil for youAnd our children, it's a circleSo they will know this truthLove is the sacred gospel, all we need to knowAs your son and lover, my spirit lives imbuedWith, from and by your wisdom and beautyI am here to pay honor and homage to your soulThis is and will always be my devotionThis I dedicate, because through you I become whole

I have loved this world in ways it could never love me back.

You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.

Wherever you go in the next catastrophéBe it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ryDo not fear that your stay will besolit’ryCountless souls share your fate,you’ll have company!

And was it his destined part / Only one moment in his life / To be close to your heart?

The true poem rests between the words.

Poems ancient and modern prowled the ice floes in bear form, filled with words that could wound with their beauty.

the worst thing," he told me,"is bitterness, people end up sobitter.