I could take a walk with my wife and try to explain the ghosts I can’t stop speaking to. Or I could read all those books piling upabout the beginning of the end of understanding…Meanwhile,...

And life goes on like this,an uncomplete poem.

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.

November comesAnd November goes,With the last red berriesAnd the first white snows.With night coming early,And dawn coming late,And ice in the bucketAnd frost by the gate.The fires burnAnd the kettles sing,And earth sinks to restUntil...

That’s what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you’re not sure what the poet’s talking about. You may have an idea, but you can’t be sure. Not a hundred...

A sacred soul Thus, within the cosmic creation proceed Life is precious as gold Death will come In a better place, where there’s no earthly lifeEternity exist…God….. Judgement falls upon usNothing to minus and nothing...

Great literature makes a great life.

From darkness; take me unto Light.O God! Help me today, make my maiden flight.From sorrow; give me the strength to break. And help me to love and to care.From darkness take me unto Light.O God!...

Broken.As I search for hope,In the same eyesI lost it.

Because I found the strength to do the things I believe in, and the will to stop doing the things I don’t believe in.So I have discovered what it means, to be at peace.

We swallowed the chaos because we knew we didn’t want to be ordinary.

Maybe one day we’ll find that place, where you and I could be together and we’ll catch our dreams within the waves of change. So hear me, you are not alone.

PeterSwirling dreamsDragons knewTouching life to winDeep inside many other worldsWhere should we begin?

La terre est bleueLa terre est bleue comme une orangeJamais une erreur les mots ne mentent pasIls ne vous donnent plus à chanterAu tour des baisers de s’entendreLes fous et les amoursElle sa bouche d’allianceTous...

you are here.the moontides are here.and that’s all that matters.

You were the poem I never knew how to write because no words could describe the wind you cannot see, but feel.

nothing’s news.it’s the same old thing indisguise.only one thing comes without adisguise and you only see itonce, ormaybe never.like getting hit by a freighttrain.makes us realize that all ourmoaning about long lost girlsin gingham dressesis...

While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.

Love leads us to write poetry because love improves our hearing; like prayer, poetry is every bit as much about listening as it is about speaking. To ‘get’ the poem is to hear the eloquence...

Reckless of my mortality,Strengthen me to behold a face,To know the spirit of a beloved oneYet to endure, yet to dare!

i am like a dead begoniahanging upside down because like a dead begonia I don’t give a fuck

She was resilientA brave soldier when life tested herIt didn’t matter that she did strange thingslike stand tall under the rainletting the drops kiss her skinthinking the storm was romanticIt was hard to quiet hernot...

I listen to the rainfall, my words wanna flow!Droplets run down the wall,where do they go?Letters in the raw,mesh together for the show!

Monster a person though monster not human.Monster like music. Like Beatles! Like Schumann!World full of stupid. World full of noise.Monster feel ANGRY. No birthday. No joys.World full of JUNK monster not comprehend.What is a childhood?...

She was a beautiful dreamer. The kind of girl, who kept her head in the clouds, loved above the stars and left regret beneath the earth she walked on.

Maybe love was meant to save us from ourselves.

…in that rich earth a richer dust concealed.(I’m flogging a dead horse w/ this one but this is the 1st time I’ve even seen this quotes feature! I just wanted to post something.)

According to [Galway] Kinnell, to make a poem you need the creatures of the world, language, and the unconsious brought together.

I wish to stay drenchedforeverin those rain-blue eyesin those…soul-reaching crystalsnot moving a musclenor breathingjustsavoringthis turquoise acheagainst my heart.

Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.

I’m alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.

My second crush,don’t know, who you are,by thinking of you,my day pass.The things, the things, the things changed,forgot the first, second begins.The second crush,my second crush,don’t know who you are,but, by thinking of you,my day...

I wanted to write some words you’d remember.Words so alert they’d leap from the paper,crawl up your shoulder, lie by your ears,and purr themselves to you like baby kittens,but it was rainy, so I laid...

From one bell all the bells toll.

I wanted a perfect ending. Now Ive learned, the hard way, that some poems dont rhyme, and some stories dont have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change,...

The Old StoicRiches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn:And if I pray, the only prayer That moves...

This wobbly worldhost to insects and lintand a thousand pithy waysto feel unserious each minuteIt brings abouta great softening of the mind, likethe clouded edges of sea glass (thisfilter you could download and apply)A poultice...

Nothing is a masterpiece – a real masterpiece – till it’s about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you’ve got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same...

I die a little,In the echo of your silence.

Humans will never be in charge of this world, as long as dust and weeds do as they please.

The chaos in me is the chaos in you. Like the love in you is the love in me. So maybe we’re both a little crazy. Enough to believe we’re found where dreams are born...

We’re only instruments of love, flowing through heaps of pain hoping one day we’d hatch a passion of our own.

as kids we counted on our fingers, as we grew up we started counting more on people, now what do you think was more disappointing?

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don’t love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of...

the sapphire depthof my own love…startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

the glory of the protagonist is always paid for by a lot of secondary characters

My WishI wish my hearing would ceaseSo I could no longer hear your words.I wish my eyes would ceaseSo I could no longer see your gestures.I wish my mind would ceaseSo I could no longer...

When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead”When you see millions of the mouthless deadAcross your dreams in pale battalions go,Say not soft things as other men have said,That you’ll remember. For you need not...

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

Gazing from the moon, we see one earth, without borders, Mother Earth, her embrace encircling one people, humankind.