Poem Quotes

When your heart starts to feel full again. I love FREE refills, and if a restaurant tries to double charge me, I refuse to write a love poem on their Yelp page.-Karen Quan and Jarod Kintz

Carry good cheer in the morning;Carry good cheer in the night.Effort is sweeter and living completer,If ever we walk in love's light.

I finally wentwhere everyone goesand I realizedI wasnevermissingout.

When you left you left behind a fieldof silent flowers under a sky full of unstirred clouds...you left a million butterfliesmid-silky flutters You left like midnight rain against my dreaming ears Oh and how you left leaving my coffee scentless and my couch comfortless leaving upon my fingers the melting snow of you you left behind a calendar full of empty days and seasons full of aimless wanders leaving me alone with an armful of sunsets your reflection behind in every puddle your whispersupon every curtain your fragranceinside every petal you left your echoes in between the silence of my eyes Oh and how you leftleaving my sands footless and my shores songless leaving me with windows full of moistened moonlight nights and nightsof only a half-warmed soul and when you left... you left behind a lifetime of moments untouched the light of a million starsunshed and when you left you somehowleft my poem...unfinished. (Published in Taj Mahal Review Vol.11Number 1 June 2012)

Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail,And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale:'Time is short, life is short,' they took up the tale: 'Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may;Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail; Love is sweet, use to-day.

Leave the hush to those who love like apes because together, you and I make vulgar sounds like a fervent sojourn in paradise.

The words of the true poems give you more than poems, they give you to form for yourself poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, daily life, & everything else, they balance the ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes, they do not seek beauty, they are sought, forever touching them or close upon them follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. They prepare for death, yet they are not the finish, but rather the outset, they bring none of his or her terminus or to be content & full, whom they take they take into space to behold the birth of the stars, to learn one of the meanings, to launch off with absolute faith, to sweep through the ceaseless rings & never be quiet again.

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

I stood in your doorway this morningdreaming you’d turn aroundyou’d tilt your headyou’d softly whisper ”stay”or that you’d grab my armsto shake me while askingwhat the hell are we doingwe loveeach otherand this is not rightso we will make this worknow stay!You poured your coffee. Stirred the spoon like a crystal manwith your back to me and not a sound. the fridge humming elegies while the clock ticked onand the streets are so clean here people rushing to workand maybe I should be tooby nowat this agethis stagethis town.I will stand in that doorway dreamingfor many nights to come.

Yes, I know," Isadora said, and then read her poem, leaning forward so Carmelita Spats would not overhear:"I would rather eat a bowl of vampire batsthan spend an hour with Carmelita Spats."The Baudelaires giggled and then covered their mouths so nobody would know they were laughing at Carmelita."That was great," Klaus said. "I like the part about the bowl of bats.

Four simple chambers.A thousand complicated doors.One of them is yours.

blue-gold sky, fresh cloud, emerald-black mountain, trees on rocky ledges, on the summit, the tiny pin of a telephone tower-all brilliantly clear, in shadow and out. and on and through everything everywhere the sun shines without reservation (p. 97)

Air of dustFor a moment I was a storm cloud,All righteous booming thunder;All sharp and pinning,Dazzling.Once the flashing fadedA sizzling prong sprang upwards.I was positively popped.The static situationStruck meNegatively, And I leaked out sulfur on the peopleWho dared hold up the sky.Strong storms are still bonelessAnd mostly all alone.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I have five fingers, the middle one is for you.

Cradle of SolitudeFor we know not why our tribulationsare given as suchour fragile formscreated from the dust...

She senses your vulnerability, and reassures that every dream you’ve ever whispered in the night, or secret desires you dared not speak, are all within the palm of her hand

I am nothing but a ripped fabric stitched together by God's grace.

Hang tightHold on Look upStay strongHang on Hold tightLook strongStay up One day I might breakOne day I mightb r e a kfree

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.

Destruction wasn't when you chose to destroy me.It was when i let you.

Life shows us all colours, some bright and some shades of grey,Some accept with a smile, while some frown in every wayThoughts and memories never end but life does one day.Whole age passes by in wait of that old time to return,But those old days once gone, will never come back again,Rather we can just cherish them in the memories that burn,In the back of our mind and make us remember,How we used to be so crazy,In those old days…

It is snowing and death bugs meas stubborn as insomnia.

Larry’s such a liar---He tells outrageous lies.He says he’s ninety-nine years oldInstead of only five.He says he lives up on the moon,He says that he once flew.He says he’s really six feet fourInstead of three feet two.He says he has a billion dollars‘Stead of just a dime.He says he rode a dinosaurBack in some distant time.He says his mother is the moonWho taught him magic spells.He says his father is the windThat rings the morning bells.He says he can take stones and rocksAnd turn them into gold.He says he can take burnin’ fireAnd turn it freezin’ cold.He said he’d send me seven elvesTo help me with my chores.But Larry’s such a liar---He only sent me four.

A JEWELRY STORE NAMED INDIAIf you hold this Dazzling emeraldUp to the sky,It will shine a billion Beautiful miraclesPainted from the tearsOf the Most High.Plucked from the lush gardensOf a yellowish-green paradise,Look inside this hypnotic gemAnd a kaleidoscope of Titillating, Soul-raising Sights and colorsWill tease and seduceYour eyes and mind.Tell me, sir.Have you ever heardA peacock sing?Hold your earTo this mystical stoneAnd you will hearSacred hymns flowingTo the vibrationsOf the perfumedWind.

I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.

If my like for you was a footy crowd, you'd be deaf cos of the roar.And if my like for you were a boxer, there'd be a dead guy lying on the floor.And if my like for you were sugar, you'd lose your teeth before you were twenty. And if my like for you was money, let's just say you'd be spending plenty.

I am at the gates of my own destruction.(Or so I'm told.)

I'm only leaving you for a handful of days, but it feels as though I'll be gone forever—- the way the door closes behind me with such solidity, the way my suitcase carries everything I'd need for an eternity of traveling light. I've left my hotel number on your desk, instructions about the dog and heating dinner. But like the weather front they warn is on its way with its switchblades of wind and ice, our lives have minds of their own.

With chilling care, my hardshipshave managed to implant a spiritof recklessness within me,one that impels me to point out injustice and wrongdoing.So, while many strive to have a toil free life, I spend my time criticizing tyrants,and so the spirit of subversion was quickly established within me. Now all I can do is calmly wait for cold death to seize me.

It is December, and nobody asked if I was ready.

How I'm glad to go back home!Once I truly have no more worry. Many of those who are in a hurry Endure setbacks in the outcome.

But tears are an indulgence. Memory sings.

Hers is a timeless life weaving through other longer lives like a flash of lightning in a clouded evening sky.

I was burdened with an ever-growing heart on the verge of decay. To save myself, I had to give many pieces of my love away. I hope I can give it all to someone, someday.

Sing a song of suspense in which the players die.Four and twenty ravens in an Edgar Allan Pie.When the pie was broken, the ravens couldn't sing.Their throats had been sliced open by Stephen, the new King.The King was in his writing house, stifling a laughWhile his queen was in a tizzy of her bloody Lovecraft.When the dead maid got the garden for her rank as royal whore,King's shovel made it double and he married nevermore.

On the canvas of life,Every sweep of the brush matters,Counts for something…

Love is a poem that keeps on writing itself, sweeping us along.

Be Vast, Solitary, Down to Earth and Firm

I listened long to your story,Listened but could not hear.When you chose to walk that path so overgrown,I remained alone with my fear.Cold silence covers the distance,Stretches from shore to shore.I follow in my mind your far-off journeying,But I will walk that path no more.

Rare and powerful harmonies exist,Shaping both scent and contour in a flower.Thus brilliance lies unseen by us until,Beneath the chisel, it blazes in the diamond.And thus do images of fleeting vision,Drifting above like cloud-forms in the sky,Once turned to stone live on from age to age,Held always in a faultless, polished phrase.("A Sonnet To Form")

MotherHushed and sacred silencefills the dawning skyI ponder in this momentof our journey which is nigh...

God promised you to give you dreams and visions, see Him as your great dream/vision giver.

It is raining in my heart.Humanity is shedding a tear.I asked, “Who is suffering?”Is it my mother?Silence.No answer.Everyone has a mother,And she always suffers.Why as a child do we let our mothers suffer?I could not get an answer.

Peace is a road to happiness and the future.War is a road to destruction and death.

the answer is to just let gothe betrayal is to the pastthe cocoon dangles emptythe desire outlasts the objectthe effort lingersthe frustration is in how pointless the effort wasthe ghost does not make itself transparentthe heart knows nothing except its own mindthe ideas are not enoughthe jealousy is always therethe killing blow is sometimes the softestthe life you lead can be detouredthe moment you know cannot be taken backthe new you will try to bury the old methe opportunity has passedthe past is inopportunethe questions all grow from whythe reality will always be contendedthe sadness will ebbthe trouble is the time it might takethe ugly words cannot be erased, only discreditedthe versions are never the samethe wonder is that we make it throughthe x is the unknown variablethe yesterday cannot be repeatedthe zenith is the point when you look down and realize you’re no longer below

We will paste upon the curled pages wordsLike charming and romantic and sentimentalForgetting that charming is witchcraftRomantic is loveAnd sentiment is what makes us human

EARLY BIRDOh, if you’re a bird, be an early birdAnd catch the worm for your breakfast plate.If you’re a bird, be an early early bird--But if you’re a worm, sleep late.

We are only allowed to livedue to some colossal misunderstanding.

Don't be polite.Bite in.Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon.For there is no coreor stemor rindor pitor seedor skinto throw away.

In school, I hated poetry - those skinny,Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catchIn the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.Pablo, your words are rain I run through,Grass I sleep in.

Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesn’t belong to time. That’s why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.

Poetry is breathing words that gives a reader pause.

Ask of your eyes to seeonly to seek love.Ask of your mouth to speakonly to utter words of love.Ask of your hands to feelif only to touch the lover.

If grief could burn outLike a sunken coal,The heart would rest quiet, The unrent soulBe still as a veil; But I have watched all nightThe fire grow silent, The grey ash soft:And I stir the stubborn flintThe flames have left, And grief stirs, and the deftHeart lies impotent.

Find mebeneath your tongue,but not with other lipsnor by another tongueFind melet your yearning run wild as thirst seeks wateras silence seeks the soundFind meand I will be on my way...

I wonderif you ever read my poemsand wish they were writtenfor you.

Be you.That, my friend,is the change you wantto become in the world.

Too lazy to be ambitious,I let the world take care of itself.Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?Listening to the night rain on my roof,I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

Nobody came to see me today. Nobody saw him arrive. Nobody saw him walk away. Nobody knows he's alive.Nobody knows when he comes and goes. Nobody seems to care. Nobody, take me away with you. Take me into your care.

I'm a peasantI'm the muzhikA pest you're destined to play the musicAnd yes it's pleasant to say it's beauty I'mIndebted to rest respecting it truly