Poem Quotes - Page 8

The Garden En robe de parade. - SamainLike a skein of loose silk blown against a wallShe walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,And she is dying piece-mealof a sort of emotional anaemia.And round about there is a rabbleOf the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.They shall inherit the earth.In her is the end of breeding.Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.She would like some one to speak to her,And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

So Lightning says to Mud,“What would happen if I struck your blood?”And Mud says, “Brother, It would hurt, And make me the motherOf every living thing.But, Fire Boy, you ain’t lifting my grass skirtUntil you burn me a ring.

I'm heading for a clean-named placelike Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get therewithout help and nosy proclivities.

We are only allowed to livedue to some colossal misunderstanding.

Tender Ember...Barred and brandedto be forever unlovedI was a tender emberseeking solace from above...

And someday,when the partiesdon’t dazzle you anymore,and when the alcohol failsto amuse your senses,come to me.We’ll lie on the grass,stare at the stars,and talk about Life.Maybe I will become the Momentyou rediscover yourself again.

THE THREE LAWS OF ALLYou are never to worship a living soul,Except for three entities:Three - YOUR FATHERTwo - YOUR MOTHERAnd one - HE WHO IS ALL.To begin to study All Things,You must start with only three things:Man,Nature,And the universe.All three are a reflection of each other.So simply study one,To understand the other.All of creation started with JUST three things,And no living thing was created without them:Water,Light,And dust.Know these three basic laws.And you will come to knowHe Who Is All.Forever big, yet sometimes small,He is found in the heartOf everything.Suzy Kassem Poetry, Truth is Crying

Death stings so harshly, no escape and hiding zone from it.

ASK NOT IF POETRY IS DEAD, ASK HOW YOU CAN LIVE FOR POETRY.

Inside, my soul is curled tightly bearing the burden of massive sins from another life. And my eyes look far at the hell around me... a sharp grin tugs at the corner of my lips.

What happens to a dream deferred?

El remanso de airebajo la rama del eco.El remanso del aguabajo fronda de luceros.El remanso de tu bocabajo espesura de besos.*The still waters of the airunder the bough of the echo.The still waters of the waterunder a frond of stars.The still waters of your mouthunder a thicket of k

..Breaking yet budding,dying yet living - standingamongst ruins and rage,reaching for possibilitiesplaying hard to get.

I love you in my very own way.Like a stone loves the mosses around itLike a sea loves the pebbles in itLike a coincidence...Taking you as the way you are,With all the bruises, scars and broken parts all around you and your heart.I love you in my very own wayBy throwing the stone, the mosses, the sea and the pebbles to your headLike i want to kill you.Just because of envying the love That my heart spend on you.

Standing is stupid, Crawling's a curse, Skipping is silly,Walking is worse.Hopping is hopeless,Jumping's a chore,Sitting is senseless, Leaning's a bore.Running's ridiculous,Jogging's insane-Guess I'll go upstairs andLie down again.

Of everythingI have ever endured,YOUareMy Favourite Tragedy.

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO “Even when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.”—VICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow— Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow “has wings,” however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso “corvo,” although con dizionario io parlo Italiano— this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too— my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow— gioièllo mio— I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a

if onlyour tongueswere made of glasshow muchmore carefulwe would bewhen wespeak

Pity that child who was born near Rouen,His only crime, to arrive deformed.

To harden the earththe rocks took charge:instantlythey grew wings:the rocksthat soared:the survivorsflew upthe lightning bolt,screamed in the night,a watermark,a violet sword,a meteor.The succulentskyhad not only clouds,not only space smelling of oxygen,but an earthly stoneflashing here and therechanged into a dove,changed into a bell,into immensity, into a piercingwind:into a phosphorescent arrow,into salt of the sky.

I desired to praise the Chosen One and was hinderedBy my own inability to grasp the extent of his glory.How can one such as I measure an ocean, when the ocean is vast?And how can one such as I count the stones and the stars?If all of my limbs were to become tongues, even then –Even then I could not begin to praise him as I desired.And if all of creation gathered together in an attemptTo praise him, even then they would stint in his due.I have altogether ceased trying – awestruck, clinging to courtesy,Tempered by timidity, glorifying his most exalted rank.Indeed, sometimes silence holds within it the essence of eloquence,And often speech merely fodder for the faultfinder.

Since ever the world was spinningAnd till the world shall endYou've your man in the beginningOr you have him in the end,But to have him from start to finishAnd neither nor borrow nor lendIs what all of the girls are wantingAnd none of the gods can send

FRIENDSLooking out the window, I see you looking in.You are the sunshine,That fills my soul.

Autumn is hereand I am in love.My heart has taken residence in my mind.I pick the crisp ochre leaves and put them in my pocket.I am in love.

A silent velvet footstep filled me, unwelcome yet so needed. You finally found my hidden shore with grains of time and ocean of the most secret secrets, violet and red; left a trail of deep blue footsteps on my glowing beach of soul, and no matter how many times tides wash the golden sand anew, your prints can never be erased. Each one a shining star in my quiet Universe...

Have they known scorn like youFive cellars down?

A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.

Oh, a sleeping drunkard Up in Central Park, And a lion-hunter In the jungle dark, And a Chinese dentist,And a British queen--All fit togetherIn the same machine.Nice, nice, very nice;Nice, nice, very nice; Nice, nice, very nice--So many different peopleIn the same device.

when I am feelinglowall i have to do iswatch my catsand mycouragereturns

Ah dearest heart if you will but waitI'll become the ideal soulmatenevermore causing you a moment's troubleand I but a mere ectoplasmic bubbleswaying above your gorgeous headgruff and garrulous and safely dead.

Justice DeniedThousands of women, probably moreI cannot reach them behind justice doorsMany stay silent, barred just like me.Haunted by demons, faces unseen.Still by the hundreds, they continue to serveDuty and country, active and reserve.Thankless, forgotten through America's warsScarred like their brethren, treated as foes.Volunteered to go to the shores.Died like the others, shamed to the core.Where is the dignity, long since denied? Lost in the White House of Justice DeniedWomen in service since beginning of time Often they're treated like victims in crime.Where is their voice, silence throughout the years? It's dead in the Senate and House, with their tears!

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

HUG DAY POEM:Wrap me in your hug..make me feel happy!Hold me tight and close..not like a pillow or a teddy!!My heart needs you..for you touched my soul, believe me things shall go fine.Walk me to my Dreams..and take me to divine!!My life is yours forever.. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.Let the hearts embrace..Sugar you be my.. Valentine.Just be mine..O O.. my Valentine!

Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.

The best tourist is one without a camera.

If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, 'It might have been,'More sad are these we daily see:'It is, but hadn't ought to be.

The sweetest melody that playson starry nights and wintry days,most soothing to my listening earsand calming to beleaguering fears,I call a symphony on air―the song of sweet, still silence rare.

Time’s relativity is considered and abandoned, for the more revelatory experiences of starlightin strands, and pearly floors that span as far as absolute compassion...

The aching in my chest isn't because I miss you,it's realizing that you have become someone I no longer know,your fears, your 4 am thoughts, your achievements,are things I no longer have an equivalent to.Who we were and who we are are four different people, and the me from now doesn't relate to the me from then, let alone to the you from now.-Tanzy Sayadi and Jarod Kintz

Poetry is a storm asking peace to dance with her.

A poem is a meteor.

No. Not really red,but the color of a rose when it bleeds.

I spill my emotions and hopes on pieces of paper and pixels of screens, combining and creating, merging traditional methods with artificial means.Words carved in ink and electricity to facilitate simplicity and eradicate toxicity. No matter what fashion, form, font, method or avenue, the simplest and most meaningful words remain ever so true; I choose and love, only forever you.

Great Britain be proud, be blessed, be bold! Show the world what are you made of; show them you are made of gold not bronze. Be proud, be blessed,be bold!

Our flushing hearts, trying to climb to the stars- how with the wrong wind, we can fall.

Just when you see a kid selling a mascot,If you don't buy it because he winks, Not only that will be considered a "boycott",Xenophobically, it will also be a jinx!

When you get to find love, make sure it's because you get to find yourself

The stars will live for me, if not anything else

Pour Into My Spirit...spread your arms around meconsole me and keep me close -wield your mighty swordto vanquish all my foes...

Be nothing which thou art not

I went out to the hazel woodbecause a fire was in my headcut and peeled a hazel wandand hooked a berry to a threadand when white moths were on the wingand moth-like stars were flickering outI dropped the berry in a stream,and caught a little silver trout....(Song of Wandering Aengus)

I always felt it wouldpass.I listened to the charges against meknowing some of them to be truebut certainly notimportant enoughto become the target ofviolence, envy,vengeance.I thought it would surelypass.

You are the Poem I dreamed of writing, the Masterpiece I longed to paint. You are the shining Star I reached for in my ever hopeful quest for life fulfilled. Yes, I am Blessed.

to live in this worldyou must be ableto do three thingsto love what is mortal;to hold itagainst your bones knowingyour own life depends on it;and, when the time comes to let it go,to let it go

Her question was clear-“Father, where does the Loss reside?”In the sighs?Cheeks with tears wiped?A lost appetite?Owning a room confined?Or in the smiles all falsified?Thus, the Father decide,It is no matter to hide, he replied-“I think its deep inside,Probably,In the layers of your soul,Where the body provides it,Ample food to be-Magnified, multiplied, intensified.But once you clarify,That its not to be occupied inside,It starves of supplies,And dies.So child, when there is loss,Make sure you refuse to invite it inward, And absolutely never make it your lifelong parasite.

There is a blue bird in my heart that wants to get out.

Do you want to see all the wrong things in our world?You sit right there.Then notice how many people move too fast about in life,they go blind over the miracle of being in the moment.Now, do you want to see all the right things?Well I can't honestly speak for others.But this is how it always works for me.I just sit right here.Right here. Beside you.Then silently,I notice how all the wrong things in my worldjust seem to start fallinginto their rightful places.Right here. Beside you.

Why are you so scared and creeping around,taking photographs all over town,pictures in the dark that live in the light,the world is my playground too and I’ll do what I like.

The first stanza of Eyes In Moonlight Drown, a poem from DeadVerse.With your face framed in a halo of stars,your hair melts into trailing clouds,and your eyes in moonlight drown.A man could lose himselfin those freckled irises,reflecting the galaxies above;surely he could fall into their promiseof eternity, of Heaven, of love.Your lips glisten, part, and beckon,a smile of warm invitation,a suggestion of sweet intensity,a loss of self in addictive agony.For we translate these aestheticsinto something mystical;ideas of fantasy, of fiction,obscuring the clinical truthof chemical reactions,electric sparks, responsesas sure as gravity,measurable yet beyond cold,above philosophy and below truth.

there are only so many thingsthat you can fix with your hands....What they don't realize is I am not a thing to fix.