He loved me like thick molasses on a summer’s day. Pure, sweet, sticky, warm, dark.

When I was ten all I knew was that I hated the weird words used to describe whatever it was that was wrong with my brother—to this day I think it all happened because he...

The sacred stillness of your brilliant hearthas as the myriad wonders masqueraded.But if you knew this secret from the start,then you’d have quit this Game before you played it.

I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going whereI have to go…..Great Nature has another thing to doTo you and me,...

And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few;There is not time enough on earth for all I’d like to do;But, having lived and having toiled, I’d like the world to...

The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books...

A picture in a book, a lynching. The bland faces of men who watcha Christ go up in flames, smiling,as if he were a hookedfish, a felled antelope, some wild thing tied to boards and...

From key signature to coda, from downbeat to the sound of life’s final fermata, our pasts set the tone for all that was, that is, and that ever would be.

In poems, equally as in philosophic disquisitions, genius produces the strongest impressions of novelty while it rescues the most admitted truths from the impotence caused by the very circumstance of their universal admission.

Her shoes were so pink that if she stepped in bubblegum, nobody would be able to see. And my shoes were so brown that if I stepped in shit, you wouldn’t be able to tell...

Okay, we didn’t work, and allmemories to tell you the truth aren’t good.But sometimes there were good times.Love was good. I loved your crooked sleepbeside me and never dreamed afraid.There should be stars for great...

What I really want is to be recognized as a writer; that someday, my poetry — this is an interesting paradox — would be taught in English classes; for my name, along with my poetry,...

Flow gently, sweet Afton,amang thy green braes,Flow gently, I’ll sing theea song in thy praise;My Mary’s asleepby thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton,disturb not her dream.Thou stock dove whose echoresounds thro’ the glen,Ye wild whistly...

And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!

Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Visitors come and go.Daily I read tea leaves for signsof the approaching century:a raven perched on a crossa sword piercing a cloud–A Victorian Life

Poetry, if it is not to be a lifeless repetition of forms, must be constantly exploring “the frontiers of the spirit.” But these frontiers are not like the surveys of geographical explorers, conquered once for...

And you know what the worst thing was?The worst thing was that nobody ever believed how hard we tried.

Country music is the poetry of the American spirit.

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye….

moonlight disappears down the hillsmountains vanish into fogand i vanish into poetry.

Love me in actions, not in words.

i hope thatwhoever you arewherever you areand no matter howyou are feelingyou will always have somethingto smile about.

The wall between writing and painting is just good grammar. Moderation in moderation. Fun is scary with a happy ending. Just love. If love doesn’t transform that which annoys you, it will be easier to...

Saki says that youth is like hors d’oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don’t notice it. When you’ve had them, you wish you’d had more hors d’oeuvres.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their...

Must always try to be out thereGetting everything out thereTake what is inside yourselfAnd place it out there.

How hard it is, to be forced to the conclusion that people should be, nine tenths of the time, left alone! – When there is that in me that longs for absolute commitment. One of...

Painted desert, ocean of colorsun’s worshiper, moon’s loverpicture of a coyote’s voicesandbox of angels, another toy.

Why not?

my lovefor youwill always belike a mountain stream.quiet. persistent. continuous.

Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it...

i would rather havefeelings without wordsthan words without feelings.

Without poets, without artists… everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever....

Where even ravi (the sun) cannot reach, there will go a kavi (poet).” – Vimalananda

In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.

I will be glad to go. There is no poetry here. It is as I have always set forth: joy comes of its own free will; it cannot be belabored.

A wind starts to blow, without feelings,A song falls in love, without singing,A life will begin in melodies of the strings,May you find all pleasure of the light,God bless, Warrior of Light!

The universe, maybe a blank canvas, you and I are born to create a painting. Some people die from cancer, some people die at birth, and that’s their painting. We’ll share the same painting, we’re...

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

When I shut my eyes on this world I’ll finally have peace.

Let the wet earth embrace you firmly, soundly. She needs to be revived, she needs to beat like a heart full of adrenaline inside a chest.

The heart’s actionsare neither the sentence nor its reprieve. Salt hay and thistles, above the cold granite. One bird singing back to another because it can’t not.

We left you there, lonely,Beauty your power,Wisdom your watchman,To hold the clay tower.from ‘The Tale of the Tiger Tree

Man would not be man if his dreams did not exceed his grasp. … Like John Donne, man lies in a close prison, yet it is dear to him. Like Donne’s, his thoughts at times...

Let them shoot us in the head,My blood will grow rootsand will blossom.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.

We ran as if to meet the moon.

A Rough GuideBe polite at the reception desk.Not all the knives are in the museum.The waitresses know that a nice boyis formed in the same way as a deckchair.Pay for the beer and send flowers.Introduce...