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...

It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be, with no effort or trying and slowly we found each other’s hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a...

Possible impossibility emerges From an impossible possibility, Or possibly, impossible possibility Blooms from the impossibly possible impossibility.

When shall I be dead and rid Of all the wrong my father did? How long, how long ’till spade and hearse Put to sleep my mother’s curse?

Fear of joy is the darkest of captivities.

Maggunitanay ta, unya binanwagan sa bituon, / Latason ta ang hataas nga patag sa kagabhion.(Let us hold hands, and guided by the stars, / Let us tread the long pathway of the night.)

Oh, mightiest wind,wilt thou cease thy breathing inand hold thy exhales?

yo soy mi propio ángel y mi único demonio.

Her belly ruptures full of parasites, Her eyes sink back in her skull Her butchered wrists, dangle From the edge of the bathtubHer children cuddle against her Desperate for love she cannot give

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes…

Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it

When he asks you whyyou chose alone all these years.Tell him that it’s becauseyou love with all claws and bared teeth.Apologize for the scratchesthat you will leave on his skin;ask forgiveness for the bite marks.Tell...

I’m supposed to a man who never blows his composureA boy trapped in a war, forced to be a soliderThe weight of the world just put on top of my shouldersBut if there’s one thing...

Change happens for youthe moment you want somethingmore than you fear it.

What’s madness but nobility of soulAt odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!I know the purity of pure despair,My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,That place among the rocks–is it a cave,Or winding path? The...

Your flesh is not a reflection of your soul. So when you look in the mirror, remember that your light outshines your flaws.

There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul,...

To HelenI saw thee once-once only-years ago;I must not say how many-but not many.It was a july midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,There...

Walk the midway and hear the carnival barker. Come see the freak named after his deceased father. Come see the prince who wants to abdicate his throne. Come see the son whose name is carved...

Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

I submitted a poem last night to The New Yorker. They said it can take up to three months to hear back. I got rejected immediately.

Reclaiming the sacred in our lives naturally brings us close once more to the wellsprings of poetry.

What’s the use of writing poetry for your peers? I don’t think I should sell my poetry to other poets. If that’s who my audience is, I’m dead, I’m not going to make any money.

Some hae meat and canna eat,And some wad eat that want it,But we hae meat and we can eat,And sae the Lord be thankit.

Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

Snow harder! Snow more!Snow blizzards galore!I can’t get enoughOf the fluffy white stuff!Snow! Snow! Snow!Snow a ton! Snow a heap!Snow ten feet deep!I wouldn’t cryIf it snowed til July.Snow! Snow! Snow!

Meredith,’ interposed Celia, ‘makes one of his women, Emilia in England, say that poetry is like talking on tiptoe; like animals in cages, always going to one end and back again.

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill.

Poetry is the way that we transcend language through language. And thus our freedom lies in the poetry of all things

there isn’t enough of anythingas long as we live. But at intervalsa sweetness appears and, given a chanceprevails.

I held a jewel in my fingersAnd went to sleep.The day was warm, and winds were prosy;I said: “‘T will keep.”I woke and chid my honest fingers,—The gem was gone;And now an amethyst remembranceIs all...

your smile.is the ultimategolden dream.all the poemsin the worldare waking up from.

How….will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.

A Paradise for you and meTrust, true love to guide us freeLoneliness shall not fill the dayI will forever be with youOur Love is beautiful like the sunshine lighting the wayYour gentle feelYour caring handsThere...

..i spill intothe kind of silenceonly Khalil Gibran would understand.

Keep Moving…Move forwardLet go Give inDecideand just DoProgress every dayAnd make one step forward no matter what’s in your wayKeep moving, till one day you wake up and you’re there.

my dear, I have nothing to say.my heart burns like the evening sky.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,Student of our sweet English tongue,Read out my words at night, alone:I was a poet, I was young.Since I can never see your face,And never shake you by the hand,I send...

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street,Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.

When my words are concealedWith lies and disguises, truth and beyondInsecurities in the veil of trustBetrayal in bounds of liesIt’s just the charm of words darlingGiving the illusion of happiness inside misery

Love, bemysticalas the flickering blue flameof nightas the fully-awokenmoonbeneath cobwebsof passing cloudsamidst chantinghigh-tidesfuzzy,as my blanketbig enough to illuminate a hundredthousand billion galaxiesand just small enough to fitinto my embrace.

When I Am Dead, My DearestWhen I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops...

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering...

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again...

Numbered are the daysof hunger stricken straysa woman’s curving tastea paper police state.

There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.