Poem Quotes - Page 23

unrequited love is likekneeling on uncooked riceand waiting for the boiling water of his kissesto soften the painbut he never comes.

Poetry contains few words but tells much. Its beauty is that by being condensed it is rich in meaning and open to various interpretations. Unlike prose, there is no boundary to poetry. There is nothing concrete or black and white. Poetry is mutable; it is transformative. Poetry is the alchemy of hearts. And what cannot be said in prose can sometimes be only said through poetry.

Poems are never finished - just abandoned

Sound.Noisethe air employs.Melodies sweet.Tweet, tweet, tweet.Soft. Loud.A roaring crowd.Cluck. Caw. Crow.Tet, tet. Tis, tis.Guttural growl.Harrowing howl.Drip, drip, drip.Tap, tap, tap.Moan and groan.Endless drone.Ding, dang, dong.A church bell song.Vibrations in my earto hear.Sound.

Your personality should be described in poem not in paragraph.

Dance with the waves of sea and sing with the sky,touch the sands with love and let your mind fly high.

I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

I am nobody, even if I say I am this or that.

At last the bottom fell out.No more water in the pail.No more moon in the water.

Better Associations:If you associate yourself with a change maker,Your life will by all means become better.You will wink at challenges and begin to think.In times of frustrations, you will not sink.If you miss the way to a great destination,Just look for those going to that direction.Mount the shoulders of a giant believerAnd you will become a great achiever.People around you determine your speed.They will influence the growth of your seed.People you are around will decide your strengthAnd also the figure of your success’ lengthI trust you want to become a better you.It matters, what your associates plan to do.It depends, where your companions want to go.It relies on what your friends believe and know.Quit friendships that build you nothingChoose friends who bring out of you somethingOne iron sharpens another ironGo along with great people and ride on.

The enemy came to steel,destroy and kill our leader, our hero Steve Biko. He was chosen by God and no one can deny that.

I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I don't don't know why know why,I simply know that I I Iam am inclined to say to saya lot a lot this way this way-I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.My mom my mom gets mad gets mad,it irritates my dad my dad,it drives them up a tree a tree,that's what they tell they tell me me-I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.It gets me in a jam a jam,but that's the way I am I am,in fact I think it's neat it's neatto to to to repeat repeat-I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.

SHE Is A Wonderful Romantic Poem With Billions of Lines. Even If I Could, I Wouldn't Finish Reading HER In My Entire Life....

Undeniable obsession of words that quickens my spirit.

Hanged"I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,the point is I hanged myself today and I’m stillhanging.I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping thatsomeone will come home and cut me downbut then I keep remembering that if I knewsomeone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bitironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I readsomewhere that, like, anything funny is,in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it'sfunny or not. I don’t think my brain owns“funny”, you know?I feel taller. I like that.I’ve never been away from my shadow forthis long. It had always clung to my feet,parting momentarily for a quick dive intothe swimming pool. But never for fivehours. I like it. There’s three feet of spacebetween my two and the floor.I wanted something this morning. I may bestuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

I am that I ama Goddess, a Godentitled to the deepest and most beautiful sensationsoffered by Heaven and EarthIn love I trustIn Wisdom I am revealed

Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it.

Timetick tocksays the clockwhirrling bynever shyquietly passlayer upon grassuntil time has gone.than you die.

Today I write,riots with insite!Tomorrow I read,take the lead!Sometimes I sleep, health to keep!But for now I write,and got no gripe!

At night I dream that you and I are two plantsthat grew together, roots entwined,and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,since we are made of earth and rain.

MOTHER IS WATERI wish I couldShower your head with flowersAnd anoint your feet with my tears,For I know I have caused youSo much heartache, frustration and despair –Throughout my youthful years.I wish I could give youThe remainder of my lifeTo add to yours,Or simply eraseThe lines on your face,And mend all that has been torn.For next to God,You are the fireThat has given lightTo the flame in each of my eyes.You are the fountainThat nourished my growth,And from your chalice –Gave me life.Without the wetness of your love,The fragrance of your water,Or the trickling sounds ofYour voice,I shall always feelthirsty.

Oracle of Delphi:In my deep mystery I breatheyour fragrance swirling inyour odourless soulI return your mysteryrevealing your destiny deep inthe seed of your God Self

Poetry can be more eloquent than the most eloquent sermons, and it becomes a weapon more formidable than the sharpest of swords; whenever such a poem--which finds its correct tune and conveys the excitement of the heart--rings out, all the miserable, heaped drifts of words fly for shelter and bury themselves in ashamed silence. Whenever such a sword of poetry is drawn from its scabbard, all the false princes of words, who have set their thrones on a void, are thwarted and retreat into seclusion.

She speaks in heartbeats and the rises of her chest, words forever seared in thoughts that will never rest.

We have all seen them circling pastures, have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing, the fences of our own backyards, and have stood amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift. But I had never seen so many so close, every limb of the dead oak feathered black; and I cut the engine let the river grab the jon boat and pull it toward the tree... Then as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time its soft countenance the raw fleshy jowls, wrinkled and generous like the faces of the very old who have grown to empathize with everything. And I drifted away from them, reluctant, looking back at their roost, calling them what they are- transfiguring angels who pray over the leaf graves of the anonymous lost with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.

Towards these weeks of rain I give effusive praise. Let me always be reminded that there is time for change.

I remember our childhood dayswhen life was easyand math problems hard.Mom would help us with our homeworkand dad was not at home but at work.After our chores, we’d go to the old fort museum with clips in our hair and pure joy in our hearts.You, sister, wore the bangles thatyou, brother, got as a prize from the Dentist.“Why the bangles?” the Dentist asked, surprised, for boys picked the stickers of cars instead.“They’re for my sisters,” you said.Mom would treat us to a bottle of Coke,a few sips each. Then,we’d buy the sweet smelling bread from the same white vanand hand-in-hand,we’d walk to our small flat above the restaurant.I remember our childhood days.Do you remember them too?

More than loud acclaim, I loveBooks, silence, thought, my alcove.Pangur BánPoem by Anon Irish Monk, Translated by Seamus Heaney

...gripping the rim of the sink you claw your way to stand and cling there, quaking with will, on heron legs, and still the hot muck pours out of you. (p. 27)

having nothing to struggleagainstthey have nothing to strugglefor.

They took my booksbecause my message was love.They took my penbecause my words were love.Then they took my voicebecause my song was love.Soon they’ll take myselfso nothing remains.But they don’t know that when I'm gonemy love will stay.

i bring my kiasu friend to the airportleavings are never easy, not for longand though we both saw blur along the waymemories flooded present tensions.in the curry of his life no lemak remainedso now the predictable exit signalledthe end of his roundings, his bombings–he can bluff like hell, ma, he got style–and left me thinking about home, my kampong.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.Shovel them under and let me work-- I am the grass; I cover all.And pile them high at GettysburgAnd pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.Shovel them under and let me work.Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

But first, on earth as vampire sent,Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent,Then ghastly haunt thy native place,And suck the blood of all thy race.There from thy daughter, sister, wife,At midnight drain the stream of life,Yet loathe the banquet which perforceMust feed thy livid living corse.Thy victims ere they yet expireShall know the demon for their sire,As cursing thee, thou cursing them,Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

Let us remember to always rediscover one anotherbecause we are forever changing.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

I’ve seen daggers pierce the chest,Children dying in the road,Crawling things hooked and baited,Rapists bound and then castrated,Villains singed in public square.Yet none these sights did make me cringeLike when my Love cut all her hair.

Transcendence is before you should you choose to take a swim.Into your deep blue you dive and all that is within.Referred to as my subconscious so you may understand me clear.But there’s nothing very simple about the message I’m sending here.The colour of your blood, the liquid through your veins, is really just a pathway to the place that feels your pains.The heart is an ocean but within it there’s a sun, submerged beneath the ocean, and all that is but one.

And you’re a tall drink of water because we’re so fucking thirsty

I grieve and dare not show my discontent, I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate. I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned, Since from myself another self I turned. My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.

Soul MateWhen we are born, the soul we are given is split apart and half of it is given to someone else. Throughout our lives, we search for the person with the other half of our soul. Very few ever succeed.I am blessed that we have met. In a sudden moment, warm within your loving glare, my soul said, “At last! I can rest. I have found my missing half.” When this happens, it is said we have found our soul mate. We are happy and at peace. When we shared ourselves, we were engulfed in eternity, dancing in a timeless universe. I am truly blessed because that day, my heart recognized you as a part of its own.Thank you for blessing me with you. Thank you for dreaming with me - for seeing the same future as I do. For your beautiful eyes, reminding me of the truest bliss in life. I am forever grateful for you.I will spend an eternity loving you, caring for you, respecting you, showing you every day that I hold you as high as the stars. I am sorry that it’s taken me this long to find you – I shall make it up to you, my flower, as long as we live. I love you!

We can't find the cat,We don't know where she's at,Oh, where did she go?Does anyone know?Let's ask this walking hat.

Gloomy roomimmersed in a scentof modern cowardsfilled withshapeless creaturessitting in silencebecause they havenothing to sayFake plastic faceswith a grimaceof disappointmentpainted on themAre we stuck on holdexpecting our turnin a waiting roomof so-calledlost generation?

Wings can only flyas long as the bird flies Soul blackens when you put on vestment of lies White candle wax criesfor ignitable wickJealous people burnto make your heart feel sick

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

She was small. Her shadow moved in the dance of chaos before her as the inferno blazed behind her and licked the sky with its many tongues. She clutched an indistinguishable toy with both arms tightly. Her face was serene. Her eyes shone with courage more immense than the surrounding flames. She was small, but at that moment, I've never seen a bigger person.

A single poem, alonecan turn tidesscatter galaxiesand burst forth with riversfrom paradise.

Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, stars. Goodnight planets, comets and... Mars. Yes, even you, Mars. And not only for the sake of the rhyme.

I want a fairytale romance in a make-believe land. Let’s run through the beautiful meadow and pretend the walls aren’t closing in. One trip and the world will consume us but don’t hesitate and don’t look back. This world of make-believe survives solely on your faith.

You sit at the edge of the world,I am in a crater that's no more.Words without lettersStanding in the shadow of the door.The moon shines down on a sleeping lizard,Little fish rain from the sky.Outside the window there are soldiers,steeling themselves to die.(Refrain)Kafka sits in a chair by the shore,Thinking for the pendulum that moves the world, it seems.When your heart is closed,The shadow of the unmoving Sphinx,Becomes a knife that pierces your dreams.The drowning girl's fingersSearch for the entrance stone, and more.Lifting the hem of her azure dress,She gazes --at Kafka on the shore

Already the ripening barberries are redAnd the old asters hardly breathe in their beds.The man who is not rich now as summer goesWill wait and wait and never be himself.The man who cannot quietly close his eyescertain that there is vision after vision inside,simply waiting for nighttimeto rise all around him in darkness-it's all over for him, he's like an old man.Nothing else will come; no more days will openand everything that does happen will cheat him.Even you, my God. And you are like a stonethat draws him daily deeper into the depths.

PROMISE DAY POEM:I don't promise that I will bring the moon for you, but.. I shall stand by you in sun!I don't promise that I will not fight with you ever, but.. We shall be together, forever; and distances or differences shall be none!!I don't promise that life will be so easy, and cheesy, but.. when you are with me, I'll make sure it's always fun!!!I just promise one thing; I'll never make you cry, I'll never let you go, so all I need is you to be with me..Let's make it happen.. and let our destiny shine.My life is yours forever.... O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine..Love is more than just promises..Hey honey you be my.. Valentine.Just be mine..O O.. my Valentine!

I have no use for these other loves.Seal them shut in jarsand place them in the pantry. A reserve of love.Thank them for their love.They are so kind.Perhaps store them in the fridgeFor others to take.They say love is a panacea. I know it is not.Flakes of snow,no two are alike.When I am down on my knees, hopeless and angry,for the world no longer makes sense,I won't look in the pantry or fridge.It is your hand pressing on my shoulderthat makes me whole,makes me forget.What trouble? What world?

Katie says, "You can't choose the time and place the when and where with whom you fall in love."She says, "It just happens like that weird feeling you get right before you fall asleep when you gasp in surprise because your muscles just relaxed and you feel like you are falling."She says, "Marcie, you shouldn't worry about it -- give it time to actually happen."I guess --I worry that I won't do it right.That it'll be the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong person.

At Times I Am A Flower...at times I am a flower ~singularly defined ...

And then I feel the sun itselfas it blazes over the hills,like a million flowers on fire --clearly I'm not needed,yet I feel myself turninginto something of inexplicable value.-from The Buddha's Last Instruction

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction.

A fleeting second on someone's news feed,No dearth of meanings for those who read,Not my stories but 'tis what I think,I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

If I were dead, I wouldn't be sad, and I wouldn't be glad, because I wouldn't be.