Poetry Quotes - Page 43

Cliche is Truth's most loyal friend...

Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.So I’ll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them.

From key signature to coda, from downbeat to the sound of life's final fermata, our pasts set the tone for all that was, that is, and that ever would be.

Colorless green ideas sleep furiouslythree old owls on a chest of drawerswere screwingthe daughter of the doctor.But then the mother called them,colorless green ideas slepp furiously.

God is not interested in helping you finding out why you are in a mess, He is interested in fixing it.

Our songslive longer thanour kingdoms.

I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my versesand my heart is closinglike a fist.

The sea is dangerous, they say, but not if you're the sea.

Soul SisterEvoking all my inner goodnesswith bastions of timeI cradle your heartsisterly into mine...

The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seaswhere we would dive for pearls. My lover’s wordswere shooting stars which fell to earth as kisseson these lips; my body now a softer rhymeto his, now echo, assonance; his toucha verb dancing in the centre of a noun.Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the beda page beneath his writer’s hands. Romanceand drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -I hold him in the casket of my widow’s headas he held me upon that next best bed.

It's 8a.m. and time to restIt's 10a.m. and time to relaxIt's noon and time for reposeIt's 3p.m. and time for shut-eyeIt's 6p.m. and time for siestaIt's 9p.m. and time to slumberIt's midnight and time to snoozeIt's 4a.m. and time to hang upside down from your bedroom ceiling, screaming.

This is how you explain how you feel: broken words and hard truths.

The artistic methods of poetry, painting, photography, and writing share certain commonalities of deep composition: spirit, rhythm, thought, and scenery.

He smelled like a wolf and I knew I should run, instead I opened my heart and invited him in for a bite.

For it is up to you and meto take solacein nostalgia's armsand our abilityto create the everlastingfrom fleeting moments.

Honor LostAmbulant sunshine piercedthe soot covered glass ~the feeble man wandered byin this ritual morning pass ...

To withstand the nothing, it really takes everything.But it can also take just one thing: a heartbeat in truth beside you; when the mask has been removed.(Soar)

We always think that God's presence is always provided to fix our problems but what if God's presence is more about fixing your perspectives? So that you will have a new way to see your problems. If you didn't make your bed before leaving home this morning, no angel is going to make your bed for you, it is still going to be as you left it till you come back.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.

Musicians do not get on stage without hearing the song singing inside of them. Poets do not write as if they are jotting down a sermon, they see everything in their subconscious before presenting it to the conscious, which they later turn to  readable materials. Artist do not draw and paint without painting in dream states, trance, or see an art form that others do not see. Being creative does not calls for being any supernatural entity, but in creating with the entities inside of you.

Comfortable? Don't be. I believe in those moments where we grow comfortable is where we stop growing, and in order to keep evolving, God slips the rug from beneath our feet and makes us look up.

I have emotions
that are like newspapers that
read themselves.I go for days at a time
trapped in the want ads.I feel as if I am an ad
for the sale of a haunted house:18 rooms
$37,000
I'm yours
ghosts and all.

I didn't get to God by effort or title, I got there by invitation. God can lift you quickly if you let Him. He really cares.

The Quiet WorldIn an effort to get people to lookinto each other’s eyes more,and also to appease the mutes,the government has decidedto allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day.When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup.I am adjusting well to the new way.Late at night, I call my long distance l

Some of us die long before our last breath. We perish in the fire of love, reduced to ashes in the consuming blaze. No, we do not die when our hearts cease to beat, but when they start beating the first timefor someone else.

We all knew she needed help.But none of us knew how.And none of us could swallow our pride and just ask her what she needed.I don’t know why.Maybe we were too ashamed we didn’t know how to approach our own mother.So we let the years slip unhappily past us and hoped we would never inherit the misery embedded in her soul.But I did.And I didn’t know how to say it aloud. And I still don’t.

Numbered are the daysof hunger stricken straysa woman's curving tastea paper police state.

To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.

Did you tell them that you made love to the poet?Did you tell them that our lovechild is an elegy?

Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it

She was the kind of eleganceThat would never tarnish. A mixture of lace and mesh, Like a classic heirloom that begged to be worn.She was sharp intellect and quick wit.The type of woman that spoke her mind,Even if it shook.(Or even if no one was listening.)She was beautiful.But not someone you’d see in magazines, Her hips were too wide, her hair a mess of wispy tendrils, (Rather, she was actually very ordinary.) My, was she stubborn! She’d drive you mad!(Sometimes, you’d probably call her crazy.)But mostly, her laughter was a joyful moments. Like a warm towel fresh from the dryer,Or finding a twenty-dollar bill in your winter coat.And that was the true revelation.That magic does exist, It ran through her like a wild, fiery current.

The sacred stillness of your brilliant hearthas as the myriad wonders masqueraded.But if you knew this secret from the start,then you'd have quit this Game before you played it.

The universe is God's son.

While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.

So what if the airin Paris smells of romance?My shirt smells of you.

The agenda of the Media is not to inform you, they don't care about you, they are trying to show you the truth. There are some intelligent Christians but they can't find them and put on the air ...for instance me

It takes a strong man to be with a woman full of fire and stars and all of October.

It's the smell of him in the bathroom, all I need to get ready for the day. Watching him get dressed, and the sound in the kitchen; a slow hum of a song and his movements, picking things to eat. The way I could observe him, for hours, just go on with his day – or as he sleeps – simply breathing in and out, in and out, and it's like the hymn that sings me to peace. I know the world is still out there and I know I'm not yet friendly to its pace, but as long as I know him with me, here, there, somewhere – us – I know I have a chance.

unsignificantlyoff the coastthere wasa splash quite unnoticedthis was Icarus drowning

When Love Was NewWhen love was newand life was young,and once we walkedin gracious sun,I never dreamt of darker days,or feared that fate had cruel ways.When life was strongand love was free,and time was onceeternity -we never planned for more or less,nor stopped to think we should digress.When love was youngand life was new,and everythingwas once our due,I never doubted what I owned,nor knew the cost was merely loaned.Now love is triedand life is old,and still my feetdrag down the road -not knowing where it all has gone,nor how much more it still goes on.But life grows newand love gets old,and this tired heartstays off the cold -not caring it compares with fools,nor wise enough to fear the rules.-Drea Damara

...and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?

Like a wildflower, poetry does not need explanation. It only needs to touch our emotions.

I die a little everyday, in trying to revive what I lost yesterday!

This is what I have. The dull hangover of waiting, the blush of my heart on the damp grass,the flower-faced moon. A gull broods on the shore where a moment ago there were two. Softly my right hand fondles my left hand as though it were you.

You have strength born of years of grief and anger... The strength of a man denied revenge.

Since poetry deals with the singular, not the general, it cannot - if it is good poetry - look at things of this earth other than as colorful, variegated, and exciting, and so, it cannot reduce life, with all its pain, horror, suffering, and ecstasy, to a unified tonality of boredom and complaint. By necessity poetry is therefore on the side of being and against nothingness.

Consider in his spiritual martyr this being who lies with closed eyes, dislocated like the victim of a brutal accident who no longer requires care or rescue. Count the stabbing wounds of the hideous disappointment in the human imagination. Auscultate this pensive desert where alternate the rale and the silence. Feel pity for the grief that calls not only for death, but for a disgracied death, and receive, o World, this weight of trampled dream in the paradise with no conscience of your vain eternity !

I had forgotten such innocence exists,/forgotten how it feels/ to live with neither calendars nor clocks

These places I traveled through, they were a lot like the people I knew. Some abodes I muddled about for a day or two, others entertained my thoughts for a year or a few. Each place and person gave me wisdom or growth, and, if I was lucky, sometimes I'd get both.

I only ever wanted to feel more human.

Winning is a matter of endurance. As long as you don't quit, you will win!

The day arrived,when myriad teary rivers flow and the muted wind faintly died in his tears—an altar for the beloved one's departure,for sister-hood is no more,for her to adore!while pangs the beating world in a lamenting voice;their remembering loss of the 'one' they embrace most and when the crepuscule came like a phantom,the mournful,gathered birds swiftly flew in gloom.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

I'll say I love you,Which will lead, of course,to disappointment,but those words unsaidpoison every next moment.I will try to disappoint youbetter than anyone else has.

The wind is the moon's imagination wandering.

There are things we do that the human mind doesn't understand, yet the same things are meant for the heart to fully comprehend.

I will come back to you, I swear I will;And you will know me still.I shall be only a little tallerThan when I went.

All shadows of clouds the sun cannot hide like the moon cannot stop oceanic tide;but a hidden star can still be smiling at night's black spell on darkness, beguiling

Do not feel alone.You are connected to everyoneyesterday, today, and for days to come connected with a threadless garlandthat is love.