The life we’re given is on a thread, so wear it well.

I was born with my eyes turned inward.

Shelley’s servant”. Wasn’t that a wonderful gesture of humility by someonewho was such a great poet himself? And later, Bharatiyar had his own dasan, the poet Subburathinam, who tookthe pen name Bharathidasan. Subburathinam’s poetry inspired...

Suddenly I remembered that laugh, it told a different story, our story.

Let your love flow where the beautiful things are and something beautiful will always come your way.

Being there doesn’t mean I’m present. I exist only in words. I want to be transmuted fully to white page and ink.

Love flows like flowers, and grows like water. I’m so thirsty for romance I could drink a dozen roses.

Metaphor is a slippery eel, if it wasn’t for its shock I’d stick to the easy catch of prose.

I am God, la de dah.

The sonnet, a lyrical poem, the beauty and magic… convey with our hearts the truth of the universe in a single moment briefly.

At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.

Take the blinders from your visiontake the padding from your earsand confess you’ve heard me crying and admit you’ve seen my tears.

A poem without metaphor is a gelding; useless to nightmares.

Sometimes it’s great, and sometimes it’s shit.These are the things all the great philosophersjust won’t tell you flat out about life. You keep moving, keep living, keep breathingAnd you keep writing-creating because that’s what you...

I choose solitude over cold kisses. If it isn’t love, it is poison.

Yes You Are!Like the Blossoming rose,Like the Rays of hope.Like a deer in the forest,Like an athlete full of zest.Like a lamp in temple,Like the life feeling ample.Like the feel of the dawn,Like the grace...

Old words are reborn with new faces.

Words are powerful. Words make a difference. They can create and destroy. They can open doors and close doors. Words can create illusion or magic, love or destruction. … All those things.

Let your heart dance with pen and paperNow fill the paper with dancing letters.

Don’t kiss me if you’re afraid of thunder. My life is a storm.

My wife is a lovely leathery green, the blue-tongued lizard said;Her eyes are as red as bulldog ants, lurking in holes in her head;Her body is made of the speckled grass, a violet grows on...

I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might I am not...

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

What is hell to a writer? Hell is being too busy to find the time to write or being unable to find the inspiration. Hell is suddenly finding the words but being away from your...

Authors can write stories without people assuming that they are autobiographies, but songwriters and poets are often considered to be the characters in their works. I like Michelangelo’s vision, ‘I saw the angel in the...

The man is in his work,read it if you want to know about him.

Every attempt to fix eternity is an escape from reality. I will be plaguing my days with moments and minutes. For ever is too far!

It starts off like climbing a tree or solving a puzzle – poetry, if nothing else, is just fun to write. But deeper into each and every piece, you no longer hesitate to call it...

I can weave words together and create magic,it’s like knitting and crocheting words with pen and paper, some call it Poetry.

Cook was a captain of the powder-days When captains, you might have said, if you had been Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side, Or gaping at them up companionways, Were more like warlocks...

We built tall buildings, but we have not become any taller.

I’ve played Romeo for Juliet(But in depth)It’s vignettes of silhouettes(And then read)And watched Russian roulette, yeah red SovietYet doing it simultaneouslyWhile dropping down shed oubliettesTurned around and took truth to the head thatLove is the...

Pay attention, and use your imagination.

Some who grow dull religious straight commenceAnd gain in morals what they lose in sense.

My silence knot is tied up in my hair; as if to keep my love out of my eyes. I cannot speak to one for whom i care. A hatpin serves as part of my...

If you wake up tired, you’ve been chasing dreams. If you go to bed tired, your making your dreams happen.

Cheapen words and they’ll cheapen you

Be Visionary …

Sometimes poetry–words–give us a small, lovely look at ourselves. And sometimes that is enough.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

Ultimately not one amongst usWill ever be denied that,The glimmer of a chance to shine.

What Do the Trees Know?What do the trees know? To bend when all the wild winds blow. Roots are deep and time is slow. All we grasp we must let go.What do the trees know?...

You must take these poems as mirrors; for you know that the mirror has no form of itself, but rather reflects the face of anyone who looks in it. Just so a poem has no...

Remembrance and reflection how allied!What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide!

Snake’s LullabyBrother, sister, flick your tongueand taste the flakes of autumn sun.Use these last few hours of goldto travel, travel toward the cold.Before your coils grow stiff and dull,your heartbeat slows to winter’s lull,seek the...

To keep the air fresh among words is the secret of verbal cleanliness.

Dream of the Tundra SwanDusk felland the cold came creeping,cam prickling into our hearts.As we tucked beaksinto feathers and settled for sleep,our wings knew.That night, we dreamed the journey:ice-blue sky and the yodel of flight,the...

The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly.

Big Brown MooseI’m a big brown moose,I’m a rascally moose,I’m a moose with a tough, shaggy hide;and I kick and I prancein a long-legged dancewith my moose-mama close by my side.I shrug off the coldand...

Fear of joy is the darkest of captivities.