Who among us has not suddenly looked into his child’s face, in the midst of the toils and troubles of everyday life, and at that moment “seen” that everything which is good, is loved and...

Cut my life into pizzas. this is my plastic fork. oven baking, no breathing, dont give a fuck if its carbs that i’m eating’ -Catherine Spann

I am the author of my Life and Lovestory,I wrote it in poetry

I thought leaving you would be easy, just walking out the door but I keep getting pinned against it with my legs around your waist and it’s like my lips want you like my lungs...

…perhaps in actions I’m less of a man – but, oh the words – such lovely words…

Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.

…I recall that day on the beach – the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair…

Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.

..snow gently settles like dust in a shaft – for one moment there is no one else – only the wind like the hiss of an ice skate …

There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection.

Poetry [is] more necessary than ever as a fire to light our tongues.

Creating means living.

And blue-lung’d combers lumbered to the kill.

He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.

It’s funny, for all it took was a broken heart and that alone was enough, enough for her to do everything she ever dreamed of.

To go where no one else has ever gone before is the secret of heroism.

She wildly burned for the one she loved and he stood there watching, hoping he too would catch a blaze from the violence stirring in her heart.

Even great men bow before the Sun; it melts hubris into humility.

I kept loving and loving and loving. Every waking hour, I marveled on how these moments would make made me feel. I wanted to love the world and be the change it so deliciously craved.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,and I wanted nothing morethan to be in the moment-but which moment?Not that one, or that one, or that one,

So it’s off with the shellsuit and on with the Armanis,Bring out the champagne and the caviar sarnies

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also call’d No-more, Too-late, Farewell

Poetry is more than a form of art. It’s a vibration and a pulsing heart. Whether it’s sour or whether it’s sweet. It can give you strength no one can defeat

We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.

My best testimonies are from the times I thought I couldn’t survive.

Absolute equals nothingness.

The eye–it cannot choose but see;We cannot bid the ear be still;Our bodies feel, where’er they be,Against or with our will.

loneliness can fly a helicopter through a cut-out shapeof a helicopter the same size as the helicopterand that’s it’s only skilland it isn’t good enoughbut it’s still amazing.

If Erik existed and lived life in despair,We wish him to know we are here and we care.

I said: ‘A line will take us hours maybe;Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

words…To lure the tribal shoals to epigram / And order.

Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.

I will love you forever” swears the poet. I find this easy to swear too. “I will love you at 4:15 pm next Tuesday” – Is that still as easy?

How are you supposed to know what to read next? This is the question that keeps us up at night, so at Day One our mission is to feed an audience of literature-hungry, time-constrained readers...

In most poetic expressions of patriotism, it is impossible to distinguish what is one of the greatest human virtues from the worst human vice, collective egotism.

Thoughts thoughts. Are they not mine?I think, I write, I type.Thoughts. Are they wise?Let truth be told in words, compiled together, create a page, a book. Thoughts. Are they master piece?Is it a prize winner?…An...

We didn’t start the fireIt was always burningSince the world’s been turningWe didn’t start the fireNo we didn’t light itBut we tried to fight it

On sunny days of summer, I am indeed the butterfly;And like the ancient drummer,I rhythm straight towards the sky…

Poetry, Shakespeare and opera, are like mumps and should be caught when young. In the unhappy event that there is a postponement to mature years, the results may be devastating.

Bugle”Black beetles know where the most recent bonesbake in the heat, tendons and meat long gone, bleached white, and if you give them cheap wine –drizzle a few red drops on a flat stone–they will...

my bones are heavy” i would only mean itas a good thingheavy bones can’t be broken,you can’t break heavy bones

Under the rough and ridiculous circumstances of life in the Rocky Mountains there was something exciting and vital, full of rude poetry: the heartbeat of the West as it fought its way upward toward civilization.

My mother’s deathchanged the alchemy of food.Holidays run together nowlike ungrooved rivers. I forgetwhat they are for. I buy bakery goods.They look deadunder the blue lights.I don’t do anything the way she taught mebut I...

The fructe of all the servise that I serveDispaire doth repe, such haples hap have I ;But tho he have no powre to make me swarve,Yet by the fire for colde I fele I dye...

The stars are brilliant at this time of night and I wander these streets like a ritual I don’t dare to break for darling, the times are quite glorious.I left him by the water’s edge,still...

A vast field opened like a blossoming tulip, flowers blooming in the rippling airs of spring. High and frothy trees hugged air and sun as they gallantly cast a shade over the earth. On the...

I will find comfort in the rhythm of the sea.

Auguries of innocence”It is right it should be so;Man was made for joy and woe;And when this we rightly know,Thro’ the world we safely go.Joy and woe are woven fine,A clothing for the soul divine.Under...

Like most arts, the link between the mind and the pen can chain you like an enslaved workaholic. Even on an intended vacation you suddenly have this killer urge to record whatever the vacation may...

so quiet now my dearest knightyour armor shines white stillfor my lips shall not say the wordsthat make you flee with fear”White Knight