Poetry Quotes - Page 19

Perfection, my dear being,is what you are.Let not your mindobscure your view.Be still and be aware,right where you are,you cannot miss it.

Deep feeling doesn't make for good poetry. A way with language would be a bit of help.

Once upon a timeI fell in loveLost myselfAnd find another one.

I bleed myself to be your drink:Is not the blood of poets—ink?

And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air.

All those big words produce disgust today.

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.

How many people came and stayed a certain time,Uttered light or dark speech that became part of youLike light behind windblown fog and sandFiltered and influenced by it, until no partRemains that is surely you.

I tossed a stone into the Sea To see what it would do for me And the ripples went out And became ocean waves To return to the Sea inside of me

I find it incredibly amazing how at every sunset, the sky is a different shade. No cloud is ever in the same place. Each day is a new masterpiece. A new wonder. A new memory.

CALL YOURSELFLook deep in the mirrorAnd say: 'I LOVE YOU'And immediatelyAn electric current willRipple throughout your soulAnd burst through your eyesLike shooting starsDancing across the skiesIn ecstasy.To tell your soul you love it -Is like rememberingWHO YOU AREAfter being in a comaFor a hundred years.Your face will beam the lightOf a hundred galaxies.

Whether it was in the maze of my fantastical mind or the allure of her gossamer eyes, they took me to undiscovered worlds of azure and metamorphosis. The air shimmered with every breath, the water tightened with every sound.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

I seek no favor untouched by blood.

At times, love is silent because of too much hurt or too much care. At all times,love is the strongest voice you can always rely on.

When I was younger, I was told that there is too much inside me. That I have feelings where others have bone. At the age of seven, a doctor tapped inside my head and asked, "Do you choke on memories from time to time? Do you cry for no good reason at all? Do words take a hammer to your head and crack your skull?" Yes, yes, yes, I nodded. "Then you've definitely got them," he said, as he checked off a box on his list. "Too many feelings. What a shame. Try not to keep them inside or you'll drown.

My Papa's Waltz:The whiskey on your breathCould make a small boy dizzy;But I hung on like death:Such waltzing was not easy.We romped until the pansSlid from the kitchen shelf;My mother's countenanceCould not unfrown itself.The hand that held my wristWas battered on one knuckle;At every step you missedMy right ear scraped a buckle.You beat time on my headWith a palm caked hard by dirt,Then waltzed me off to bedStill clinging to your shirt.

When this, our rose, is faded,And these, our days, are done,In lands profoundly shadedFrom tempest and from sun:Ah, once more come together,Shall we forgive the past,And safe from worldly weatherPossess our souls at last?

I imagined I was God for a millisecond And became speechless for a long time.

Refuse the old means of measurement.Rely instead on the thrumming wilderness of self. Listen.-From "Out West

If the most High grant thee to live, thou shall see after the third trumpet that the sun shall suddenly shine again in the night, and the moon thrice in the day:

When wounds are healed by love,The scars are beautiful.

I am inclined to trust you. You shouldn’t be like that with another man, not ever; but I can’t help it. I felt it strongly from the instant I heard your voice; and though I thought momentarily that it would falter, it didn’t. It’s still here. You see, the essence of trust is not knowing a person’s motive; it’s knowing what isn’t. It’s a simple process of trial and error that gets you to the heart of a man; and once that soft voice and those light feet of yours got to moving I saw in you no measure of ill intent.

What would your shoes say about the things you do everyday?

Hands. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips.Neck. Ears.Thighs.Heart. Soul.Ahh!the things I get tosavor you with.

I didn't come from a success lineage but I am so glad that my earthly lineage is not my final story because when I gave my life to Jesus twelve years back, God interrupted my story.

Being a writer makes you immortal.

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice

So it's off with the shellsuit and on with the Armanis,Bring out the champagne and the caviar sarnies

{...]I began to feel tears of frustration build up in my eyes, yearning to free themselves from their glandular prisons.

He loved me like thick molasses on a summer's day. Pure, sweet, sticky, warm, dark.

The exceeding brightness of this early sunMakes me conceive how dark I have become.

You said: "Wait for the moon with me."I stayed. I waited. The moon never came.

I have fallen,for your words.They are like,a gossamer cobweb,I have been,embroiled,decoyed,snared into!Incapacitated.I fail to escape.I fail to liberate.Your words,didn't redeem,made me a,captive instead.

When hope turns dark, I will bring the sun to light it, I shall guide, protect thee, For I am the human spirit.Poem: God’s Dream, in ‘Chameleon Lights

Anyone who claims good or evil isn't one or either, they're just a liar... the worst kind of liar... the liar that doesn't even know they're lying. We're human. We're good during the day and evil at night, half the time those roles are reversed, that's what it's all about.

The moon seems unawareof night's dark hittingon the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of loveraising hearts beatingwhile weather learns morefrom rain lovers meeting

To the knights of faith nobody believes.

Every word was once a poem.

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.

They were too much to carryso i left them behindfor a new life, in a new placebut no one forgot who i wasi didn'tand neither did the people who watchthey watched for yearsthey watch now

I need to work on me.The mewithout you.

You are my strength when I am weakYou are my shield when I am hurtingWhatever you say unto me LordI will do

Cruel, Clever Cat.Sally, having swallowed cheese,Directs down holes the scented breeze,Enticing thus with baited breathNice mice to an untimely death.

Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

[P]oetry resembles metaphysics: one does not mind one's own, but one does not like anyone else's.

See with your soul and not your eyesbecause to dance with the beasts youmust penetrate their disguise.

He is smitten on the brain, -he reads and writes verses! I caught him in the act! Fools might say he was inspired; but I know it is the first and worst symptom of lunacy. All other maniacs have lucid intervals; some are curable; but the madness of poets, dogs, and musicians, is past hope. Earth possesses no remedy, science no cure.

I’m looking for youinto that silverspoon where I taste my reflection to feel the touch of your untouchables- from the poem "Looking For You

The philosophy of poetry must acknowledge that the poetic act has no past, at least no recent past, in which its preparation and appearance could be followed.

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.

Were I to use the wits the Spirits gave me, then I would say this lady cannot exist cannot exist - for what sane man would hold dream to be reality. Yet rather would I not be sane and lend belief to charmed, enchanted eyes.

when you allow that man. to walk through your children. plant his feet. in their veins. hold their voices. necks. bodies. inside his violence. you are no longer a mother. when you give him the key to that door. because you need to be loved by someone. you have seasoned them for the wolf. burned their childhood into a fantasy. it’s going to take a third of their lives. all the courage. from their cells to their hair. to learn the alchemetic formula that turns that kind of betrayal. a demothering. soft. liveable. – before you get that key made

We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.

Poets, with no sponsors, no agenda, are the truest form of freedom today, bleeding out every drop of themselves for the world to either hate or devour.

Starlight beats when heart twinklesYouthful sky beyond cloudy wrinklesMuse of glory to flame the nightVerse inscribed as written light

Dream by making and make by dreaming.

There is a beastwithin my heart.She plays immaculately with the beauty in my soul.

I am just like you,Destined to play my part.And leave,In the nature of my departure at least,Some kind of sweet message behindIn the fathomless pattern I make.

Pour yourself a cup of steaming coffee, honey, then come pour yourself into me. I need you like you need your morning fix. You need me to breathe. And today I need you to love me like a storm. Love is the only thing that will heal our tormented hearts. Love is the only thing that will set us free.