Oh, what is brighter than the light?What is darker than the night?What is keener than an axe?What is softer than melting wax?Truth is brighter than the light,Falsehood darker than the night.Revenge is keener than an...

Bridge burned from end to end,and I don’t miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI’ve birthed freedom.

We can hear your voiceWe can hear it through the songs of praiseWe can hear it through the birdsWe can hear it through the windWe can hear your voice in our heartsWe can hear your...

I feel like shredded paper thrown to the wind, each poet took a piece of me and wrote a word or phrase…

POETRY HAS A PEPTIC PRESENCE. PRESENTLY.

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.

Some women marry houses.

Some of the greatest poetry is revealing to the reader the beauty in something that was so simple you had taken it for granted.

Venus TransiensTell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed...

…Thought lengths it, pulls an invisible world through a needle’s eye one detail at a time, …

once ruffle-skirted vanity table where I primped at thirteen, opening drawers to a private chaos of eyeshadows lavender teal sky-blue, swarms of hair pins pony tail fasteners, stashes of powders, colonies of tiny lipsticks (p.39)

Have I had two roads, I would have chosen their third.

Love life, Live Love

A book,a book fullof human touches,of shirts,a bookwithout loneliness, with menand tools,a bookis victory.

STAINSWith red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze.Her teeth, the keys of a piano.I play...

Love me like a wrong turn on a bad roadlate at night.

Superior poets say what they really feel. Mediocre poets say what they decide to feel. Inferior poets say what they think they should feel.

Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.

When a poet settled down to write a poem, could he foresee the lines he would write? Did his head constantly spin with riddles and rhymes and was his only job to put them down?...

You fit into melike a hook into an eyea fish hookan open eye

EpitaphDen Tigern ertrann ichDie Wanzen nährte ichAufgefressen wurde ichVon den Mittelmäßigkeiten.

Speak to the breeze cautiously during those lonely summer nights.

SELFBENEATH THE SURFACE,VEILED ON PURPOSE,ALL KNOWING AND GRAND,DIRECTED, GUIDED, BY THE ETERNAL HAND,SUSTAINED, FULFILLED, FULL OF LIGHT,REALIZATION ACHIEVED, BY WILLFUL MIGHT.

…freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin – inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night…

But the detail of the poem shows power akin to genius, and reveals to us that much neglected law of literary history — that potential genius can never become actual unless it finds or makes...

What a comfort to know that God is a poet.

Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.

When I/Don’t know/What to say,/Let me/Listen.

The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.

Making a FistFor the first time, on the road north of Tampico,I felt the life sliding out of me,a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.I was seven, I lay in the carwatching...

Wherever I go, I run into myself.

The mimicry of passion is the most intolerable of all poses.

I can see myself before myself—A being through dark scenery.

Force,” they make a barber’s block,Ready to put onMeanings most strange and various, fit to shockPupils of Newton….The phrases of last century in thisLinger to play tricks—Vis viva and Vis Mortua and Vis Acceleratrix:—Those long-nebbed...

Based on the law of probability Everything is possible because The sheer existence of possibility Confirms the existence Of impossibility.

We swallowed the chaos because we knew we didn’t want to be ordinary.

When there is noise and crowds, there is trouble; When everything is silent and perfect, There is just perfection and nothing To fill the air.

Excuse me, I feel interrupted and I think I’ve overdose from the idea of loving you.

I’ve got mixed feelings about poetry cause done well poetry is fantastic. But not many people are capable of doing it well. I think you should have some kind of license to perform poetry. A...

Live in the layers,not on the litter.”Though I lack the artto decipher it,no doubt the next chapterin my book of transformationsis already written.I am not done with my changes.

He confided his deepest secret to you; be always wary of his secret.

He welcomes the chance to do fatherly things with the little girl, and those ten morning minutes with dear little four-year-old Ruby, with her deep soulful eyes, and the wondrous things she sees with them,...

Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.

i see poets riding the red winds unchecked by the borders of time, wandering with light feet over the land mines and trip wires, barbed and barbarian, unfettered through the barriers that curtail the flows...

When the long bygone Lee Po wanted to say something, he could do it with only a few words.

Get out of my head,You’ve overstayed your stay,This head no longer can spare more thoughts,Leave my aching heart alone,You weaved your web all over my heart,Captured what was never yours,The aching in my chest can’t...

To heal, love.To understand, feel.To let go, forgive.To care, be kind.

Monsieur, you must be mad!Box Five can never be hadFor money, love or the world …

We all must face death and walk with it. But we also must love and live in it.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and...