Poem Quotes - Page 3

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.

I've discovered a way to stay friends forever - There's really nothing to it. I simply tell you what to doAnd you do it!

Just looking at themI grow greedy, as if they werefreshly baked loaveswaiting on their shelvesto be broken open--that oneand that--and I make my choicein a mood of exalted luck,browsing among themlike a cow in sweetest pasture.For life is continuousas long as they waitto be read--these inked pathsopening into the future, pageafter page, every bookits own receding horizon.And I hold them, one in each hand,a curious ballast weighing mehere to earth.

The tragedy of love is in its ending, the blessing—everything else. No love ever deserves to end.

The search began 10 years agoTo find a nasty viscous foeThey searched in caves and undergroundBut no Bin Laden could be foundThe President full of seethingCalls his Generals to a meetingHave you looked under your noses?Is the question he proposesQuick smart a search is under wayA General comes back the same dayOh president you’re the cats pyjamasYou really do have all the answersDo you know that sneaky toadIs in a house down the roadObama calls him a useless bum(It’s time to get that terror scum)The SEALS are sent to get their manFrom a house in PakistanBut from behind his wifely shieldOsama Bin Laden does not yieldYou’ll not take me you infidelThe SEAL replies you go to hellYou scum this is for 9-11Then shoots him dead with his weapon

All this waiting.Waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting in traffic. Waiting for the bill. Waiting at the airport for an old friend.Waiting to depart. Then, there’s the big waiting: waiting to grow up. Waiting for love. Waiting to show youryour parents that when you have kids you’ll be different. Waiting to retire. Waiting for death. Why do we think waitingis the antithesis of lifewhen it is almostall of it?

If a muscleman like Hukum can write a poem, everyone can.

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.

I celebrate myself, I paint and dance and sing myself, and what I assume you will assume, for every atom as of me as good belongs to dreamy You. I am a song. I am a poem. I am the soil and a gem. I am a stargate and a voyage. I am the ocean and your soul.

Sure, we thought the acresThat we tilled were sacred,But how could we have knownThat wheat can haunt like ghosts

If breath is as close as I can get,tomorrow, I’ll become the windjust to be with you again.

What is this lovethat makes me see beauty,and makes every beautiful thing bring you back to me?What is this lovethat makes me declare 'I love you'even though I uttered itonly a moment ago?What is this love that keeps growing even when my chest is soreand it hurts to love you any more?Tell me:How am I to find what this love iswhen it was the one to find you, me, this verse, and this universe?

Identity the greatest thing that ever happened to all humanity on earth. Identity the source of knowing who you are and where you come from. Identity the source of understanding yourself and makes you proud to be the person who you are, the daughter, the son of the Most High God.

A Coy Aversion...a fluttertoo shyto be seen...

The things you struggle with today are the things you choose to struggle with.Because you believe that what you want to accomplish, is worth struggling for.

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!

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

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

I held my breath tightly against the shivers coursing through my body. Darkness ate away the edges of my vision and numbness stole away my fingers. I kept holding though. Watching the last bubble of precious air escape my lips. Then it became all black. But I never let go.

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.

She had blue skin. And so did he. He kept it hid, And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through, Then passed right by - And never knew.

oh. she heard it too-no waters coursing, canyon empty, sun soundless- and the beast your life nowhere hiding (p. 103)

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?

A book about books is like a poem about poetry:Books are knowledge, paid for, all.Readers - horses in a stall.Stallions should always run.Lest they stale become, in turn.Running waters are most clear.In some books, you disappear –lose yourself, and track of time.How I wish that one was mine...Mine, to have, to write, to read...Mine, just like a flying steed.Mine, forever, - to improve.Would I then, of me, approve?I would not, I can't... myself.I'm but dust, swept off a shelf.Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled,down, beside my flower, petalled.

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

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

Furthermore, he had beautiful eyes.

Like young fern shootsmy child's fingers curled.I did not expect,in the fifth month, frost.

Like a child who saves their favourite food on the plate for last, I try to save all thoughts of you for the end of the day so I can dream with the taste of you on my tongue.

Every book has to wait for the right time to be read and understood.

O youcan’t tell someone just how lonely he is

She cries,I laugh,She becomes numb,I become filled with joy,She slowly crumbles,I feel on top of the world,Yet somehow in the end,Out of the ashes,She rose like a Phoenix,As if nothing had ever touched her

All I need to dois place my pen against paperand your lovewrites for me.

So here is my story, may it bringSome smiles and a tear or so,It happened once upon a time,Far away, and long ago,Outside the night wind keens and wails,Come listen to me, the Teller of Tales!

You may continue to call it a breakup. I will continue to call it an exorcism.

I do not fear the nightWhen I know that todayI am bathed in a lightIt cannot be stolen away

They flew to avoid the horrors of land and sea, Daedalus and Icarus were for few moments free. Though the sun was Icarus' ultimate bane, we came to always remember his name. For he felt the sun's burn, a lesson Daedalus would never learn. When he found his son's corpse and looked upon his face, he saw a smile there fastened in place. He continued his life wondering what his son had seen, hoping it was worth it since his dead smile was so serene. The sun always seemed to mock him after, shining, brilliant, blinding laughter. Daedalus grew withered and haunted by light, preferring the sea's air in the depths of night. He watched lunar birds soar through the stars and away, forever regretting his decision to take flight during the day. He had lost his son to the sun in a twist of anomaly, he wondered which of them truly escaped that day, in all honesty.

They say Night is all black in the faceAll that glitters only adds to the graceNo attempt to success ever succeedsWithout one slogging through the blackened days"- Poem "The Beauty of Night

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.

A rural Venus, Selah rises from thegold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweepspetals of water from her skin. At once,clouds begin to sob for such beauty.Clothing drops like leaves."No one makes poetry,my Mme.Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,”I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it withour souls.”Desire illuminates the dark manuscriptof our skin with beetles and butterflies.After the lightning and rain has ceased,after the lightning and rain of lovemakinghas ceased, Selah will dive again into thesunflower-open river.

I'm not your blue-eyed Czech,I'm just a brown-eyed girl, A little mix of rock your world,And now you'll never be the same. You grabbed me by the hand,I grabbed you by the neck. I changed the game, and your convictions.So is it criminal to steal a heart or two?I keep them on the shelf, Like only hunters do. I like it hardI like you highI love your mouthWhen it's on mine.I wanna hear you make that sound, Cause it's the greatest thing around. Take it off now,Take from here.Watch your head spin When I come near,And you will lose every time,Cause I won't stop until your mine.And they say who the hell is she?They either love me or they hate me. But still they never look away,This vixen's gonna give you everything.

Those lips that Love's own hand did makeBreathed forth the sound that said, 'I hate'To me that languished for her sake,But, when she saw my woeful state,Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that ever sweetWas used in giving gentle doom,And taught it thus anew to greet:'I hate,' she altered with an endThat followed it as gentle dayDoth follow night, who like a fiendFrom Heaven to Hell is flown away.'I hate' from hate away she threwAnd saved my life, saying 'not you'.

My life was a blank paper, until you came to rhyme with words & make it a poetry book. ❤ ❤

could not sleep last nightbed cover of unease distance kept me awake windy whispers in summer nightwas telling you were awake one corner to another rollinglike swimming in a competitionmy heart wanted to seeyou then n thenwe live ,we loveon same earth mostlyrare within a real another world don't allow usto sleep in side your ,or mine restful love©litymunshi

(...) It,s hard not to be able. There, look there!/ I cannot get the movement nor the light;/Sometimes it almost makes a man despair/To try and try and never get it right./Oh, if I could -oh, if I only might,/I wouldn,t mind what hells I,d have to pass,/Not if the whole world called me fool and ass."Dauber (A poem). John Masefield. 1916. London William Heinemann

There are no lungs like the ones that breathe poetry.

In the very end, all we have left to atone for our faults are words.

It is when things are at worst you will get the best.

...as we are endowed. ...with rhetorics. ...none will deny. ...of innocence. ...towards scribbling. ...of love lines. ...and of lust. ...to what seems like male. ...to what seems like female. ...in those days. ...I mean nothing. ...but in high school.....even me. ...I can't deny.

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

On the Gallows OnceKofi AwoonorI crossed quite a fewof your rivers, my gods,into this plain where thirst reignsI heard the cry of mournersthe long cooing of the African wren at duskthe laughter of the children at dawnhad long ceasednight comes fast in our landwhere indeed are the promised vistasthe open fields, blue skies, the singing birdsand abiding love?History records actsof heroism, barbarismof some who had powerand abused it massivelyof some whose progenitorsplanned for themthe secure state of madnessfrom which no storm can shake them;of some who took the last shipsdisembarked on some far-off shores and forgotof some who simply laid down the loadand went home to the ancestors

Release-For yearsthey told you tosit.Stay.Now they open the doorand tell you toget up.Leave.Where do you gowith no oneto show youthe way?

Stop the bleeding! Gauze the wound!" And his voice became much softer, "Those are the words... I've yet to write." He died with that exhale. He died in a steaming carmine pool of unwritten stories that incredibly cold night. He always thought his work would take the form of ink, pen and paper, but as the last glow dimmed in his eyes, he realized his most meaningful words were sloppily spilled and patched together using blood, bullet holes and concrete.

You can't write a poem until you live.

For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something — distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world — but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

The gift of words, the source of enjoyment, the source of delight that comes within and the unfading beauty and energy of words.

Master the art of selfloveand you will never have to seekvalidationever again.

Every poem is an infant labored into birth and I am drenched with sweating effort, tired from the pain and hurt of being a man, in the poem I transform myself into a woman.

An intricate string made up of infinite knots and curls. Taking a step back, it really did seem so fragile. As if the smallest breeze of opportunity would cause it to snap. It held strong though, fastened to me and you as a line of steel.

She wore her scarsas her best attire.A stunning dressmade of hellfire.