No more can this Angel teach her,Yet, this guiding wing shall not forsake …

I credit poetry for making this space-walk possible.

life’s not a paragraphAnd death i think is no parenthesis

Clear, unscalable, aheadRise the Mountains of Instead,From whose cold, cascading streamsNone may drink except in dreams.

Love is Not AllLove is not all: it is not meat nor drinkNor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise...

LeisureWhat is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare? —No time to stand beneath the boughsAnd stare as long as sheep or cows.No time to see, when woods we...

If poetry could truly tell it backwards, then it would.

To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the music the words make.

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings and some are treasured for their markings– they cause the eyes to melt or the body to shriek without pain. I have never seen one fly, but sometimes...

poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.

There is the scent too. Wonder follows it; wonder about how a boy can smell like that when he probably has no idea. He smells like the woods in the winter or the rain when...

She who reconciles the ill-matched threadsOf her life, and weaves them gratefullyInto a single cloth – It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hallAnd clears it for a different celebration.

The best gift you can give today is the gift of LOVE!

Poetry is the scholar’s art.

And this is what being an artist means, being a poet? To sacrifice yourself for your art, sacrifice your heart for your art, because it’s only through something broken that something beautiful can grow.

Death stoops over me.I’m a problem in chess. Hehas the solution.

I strike the ground with the soles of my feet and life rises up my legs, spreads up my skeleton, takes possession of me, drives away distress and sweetens my memory. The world trembles.

Sometimes when I’m aloneI Cry, Cause I am on my own.The tears I cry are bitter and warm.They flow with life but take no formI Cry because my heart is torn.I find it difficult to...

There have been times I’ve felt so much art in my soul I grew sick of artists.

evet kimsesizdik ama umudumuz vardıüç ev görsek bir şehir sanıyorduküç güvercin görsek meksika geliyordu aklımızacaddelerde gezmekten hoşlanıyorduk akşamlarıkadınların kocalarını aramasını seviyorduksonra şarap içiyorduk kırmızı yahut beyazbilir bilmez geyikli gece yüzünden

…Negligible Senescence…

When I heard the learn’d astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; When I, sitting,...

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,We people on the pavement looked at him:He was a gentleman from sole to crown,Clean favored, imperially slim.And he was always quietly arrayed,And he was always human when he talked;But...

Birds are flyin’ south for winter.Here’s the Weird-Bird headin’ north,Wings a-flappin’, beak a-chatterin’,Cold head bobbin’ back ‘n’ forth.He says, “It’s not that I like iceOr freezin’ winds and snowy ground.It’s just sometimes it’s kind of...

I miss you, I miss you at night, I can’t sleep without you anymore, I’m scared. Meet me in heaven.

Winning a love is just an outcome, keeping a love is a true accomplishment.

In school, I hated poetry – those skinny,Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catchIn the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.Pablo, your words are rain I run through,Grass I...

Mother (fragment)…You asked me if I would be sad when it happenedand I am sad. But the iris I moved from your housenow hold in the dusty dry fists of their rootsgreen knives and forks...

The adversary humbly cloaked in its fine smile ‘eyes devoid of kindness, speaking gentle its knife secretly hidden.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

there are only so many thingsthat you can fix with your hands….What they don’t realize is I am not a thing to fix.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.

A BlessingJust off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.And the eyes of those two Indian poniesDarken with kindness.They have come gladly out of the willowsTo welcome my friend and me.We...

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

Love is wind for the soul

All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology.

And here, in thought, to thee-In thought that can alone, Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne, By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the...

Wawashkeshthese apples arefor you,red on the whitesnow,their cider tangwill find youin the gray woods.There is a storyhow a snakeoffered an apple,so sweet, so cold,those bite wassorrow.–excerpt from Eric Gadzinski’s poem “Wawashkeshgiwis” from The Way North

That is what you meant to me: a light that shone through the darkness.” (Your smile, p. 56)

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And...

If I were stranded in the woods with nothing to eat but nuts, berries, and the complete works of Allen Ginsberg, I’d eat the latter first, because at least the nuts and berries might be...

In a tired time, with the light outside drifting away for another day and the lights inside flickering as they come to life, I cup my hands together and prepare to give thanks … to...

Reading haiku is as much an art as writing it. The reader needs to pause and listen to the silences, to feel the spaces between the words, and to journey into the depths of many...

A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that...

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

Limitations are possibilities . . . Opportunities to perceive ourselvesBeyond our present selves . . .

~A Comparison of Seasons~Snow’s unforgiving power causes some men to wish for spring’s flower.Some might hate snow’s bitter chill, but you love it at your own will.I see snow as something fun, but others might...

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.

That night, when the creature sleeps, when he sleeps, the mother escapes into her daughters’ room. She tells her daughter that the creature’s afraid of her having too much love, too much heart. She takes...

Honest criticism and sensible appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry.