Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you fore defeated Challengers of oblivion Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down, The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as...

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

]sing to usthe one with violets in her lap]mostly]goes astray

Be true to your word and your work and your friend.

Once spun,The silken thread of all our aspirationsRemains intact,It can never be broken.

When the heart stops oozing blood & the outpouring is clear as water (so to speak) then you know you’ve turned the corner & will be well.When you look inward & all pathwaysare no longer...

I see specks of the Universe in your eyes.A body of stardustthat gives me a high.And when we make lovethe stars shine brighter than usual.When we lie there holding each other, I see love making...

Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desire,I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twiceI think I know enough of hateTo...

Tongues paired in the forest.

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...

I wanted you mine. I wanted me yours.

PainWaves are the sea’s white daughters,And raindrops the children of rain,But why for my shimmering bodyHave I a mother like Pain?Night is the mother of stars,And wind the mother of foam—The world is brimming with...

To Have Without Holding:Learning to love differently is hard,love with the hands wide open, lovewith the doors banging on their hinges,the cupboard unlocked, the windroaring and whimpering in the roomsrustling the sheets and snapping the...

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

My sincere thanks to friends and family, especially my mother, father, brother, and Mandy, who continue to love and support me despite my obsessions.

When the immense drugged universe explodesIn a cascade of unendurable colourAnd leaves us gasping naked,This is no more than the ectasy of chaos:Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal loveWhich alone, as we know...

I belong to clever words and bedtime storieseven a good riddle or twoI belong to the sound of musicand dance to my own rhythmI belong to the sunlight on a chilly autumn daywhen the world...

You are an Universe of Universes and your soul a source of songs.

I seek to be moved, my imagination reborn.Let me feast on poems that feed my hunger.

You are ruining my loneliness.

Es como si al acomodarnos en el interior del vagón en movimiento quedásemos encapsulados, fuera del mundo, limitándonos a verlo transcurrir plácidamente a través de las ventanillas.

Calligraphy of geeseagainst the sky-the moon seals it.

Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night...

There’s plenty of room for strangeness, mystery, originality, wildness, etc. in poems that also invite the reader into the human and alive center about which the poem circles.

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey,...

Nothingwould beeasier withoutyou,because youare everything,all of it-sprinkles, quarks, giantdonuts, eggs sunny-side up-youare the ever-expandinguniverseto me.

Poetry is a sort of truancy, a dream within the dream of life, a wild flower planted among our wheat.

You claim that the evidentiary miracle is present and available, namely, the Koran. You say: ‘Whoever denies it, let him produce a similar one.’ Indeed, we shall produce a thousand similar, from the works of...

Poetry is a connection to a change within you.

Which the Chicken and Which the Egg?He drinks because she scolds, he thinks;She thinks she scolds because he drinks;And nether will admit what’s true,That he’s a sot and she’s a shrew.

Between the poles of the conscious and the unconscious, there has the mind made a swing:Thereon hang all beings and all worlds, and that swing never ceases its sway. (pg. 16)

This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.

My pond life with hydra is over; now I’m into the ocean world of poetry to dive deeper..

[Y]ou, one day, will knock lips with Turkish-coffee-clad veils whose beds our kin must tuck in misty-eyed.

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

In knowing you I, discovered my self.

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

I came in haste with cursing breath,And heart of hardest steel;But when I saw thee cold in death,I felt as man should feel.For when I look upon that face,That cold, unheeding, frigid brown,Where neither rage...

Every day the world subtracts from itself and nothingis immune.

Our friends through cables and computer screens are as real as the light and sound waves we alter through thought.

A poem is a place where the conditions of beyondness and withinness are made palpable, where to imagine is to feel what it is like to be. It allows us to have the life we...

Friend who has fired the kingfishers and flamed the dragonflies – they catch your light however they move and beam it out of their eyes.

Sleeping AtlantisSilent cool watersdancing upon her skin ~silent cool waterushering dreams within…

Shut lips, sleeping faces,Every stopped machine,The dumb and littered placesWhere crowds have been:.All silences rejoice,Weep (loudly or low),Speak-but with the voiceOf whom, I do not know.

Five minutes are enough to dream a whole life, that is how relative time is.

I will not stop singingthe Muses who set me dancing.

I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.

When you write about what you dream, you become a writer.When you dream about what you write, you become haunted by a curse.

The resurrection of the morning.The mystery of the night.The hummingbird’s wings.The excitement of thunder.The rainbow in the waterfall.Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields.