You touched my heart…ever so softlyand I realizedtears had never been…merely saltand the rainOh the Rain!had never been merely water.

I regret to say I’munable to reply to your unexpressed desires.

Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.

Don’t ask me what it means; ask me how it felt.

Pain, too, comes from depths that cannot be revealed. We do not know whether those depths are in ourselves or elsewhere, in a graveyard, in a scarcely dug grave, only recently inhabited by withered flesh....

..giving power to negative thoughts or fears was bringing ideas to life in physical world,idea in mind became emotion in heart,emotion turned into words spoken,written,painted,strummed across guitar strings,or vibrantly held note by Tibetan singing bowl,...

Life is unbearable pain.

Poetry is a bit like a prayer, you’re speaking to the universe. The universe made you, and the only way to describe the relationship between you and it is by breathing out the words that...

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am...

You are not worthless. Even if you’ve been called that your entire life.

Unlike the bough that shook off her dead leaves violentlylike a wet terrier,unlike the beating of the butterfly, her wings, against the cocoon, some dreams never made a move.

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like… like poems turned into landscapes.””‘Poems turned into landscapes.'” he murmured with a slight smile. “And what of Vestenveld’s gardens? Do you see poems in them?””Your gardens are...

I am just like you,Destined to play my part.And leave,In the nature of my departure at least,Some kind of sweet message behindIn the fathomless pattern I make.

Ted: A fucking good poem is a weapon. It’s– and not like a–a popgun or something.- It’s a bomb.It’s like a bloody big bomb. Sylvia: That’s why they make childrenlearn them in school.They don’t want...

Stars in the night,’ he said. ‘Something something something something, some delight

Thirsty for being, the poet ceaselessly reaches out to reality, seeking with the indefatigable harpoon of the poem a reality that is always better hidden, more re(g)al. The poem’s power is as an instrument of...

A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.

I sit in my treeI sing like the birdsMy beak is my penMy songs are my poems.

WisdomWhen I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things, And learned that compromises wait Behind each hardly opened gate, When I can look Life in the eyes, Grown calm and very...

winter plumbnot plumb

alfrescothe sommelier decantsa red sunset

A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called “The Road Less Traveled”, describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used. The poet found that the road...

A lover goes toward his beloved as enthusiastically as a schoolboy leaving his books, but when he leaves his girlfriend, he feels as miserable as the schoolboy on his way to school. (Act 2, scene...

I primarily use poetry as a purge, a self-medication device when I’m in the depths of loneliness, anxiety or in the throes of depression. When I’m lost in the darkness of mental illness, I spill...

O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast;Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.O, learn to read what silent love...

The future says:Dear mortals;I know you are busy with your colourful lives;I have no wish to waste the little time that remainsOn arguments and heated debates;But before I can appearPlease, close your eyes, sit stillAnd...

And this is when I knew I was black for real.This is when I knew black was a citywhose walls were constantly under siege….

Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia’s mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I’d understand how it’s the little things that pull you under.

Many CastlesOn My Travels i have been A guest in Many castles Yet the Monument Which i Find Divine Is the oasis Where the heart And the silence Intertwine.

permission” to be creative and to be a creator too.

Old age doth in sharp pains abound;We are belabored by the gout,Our blindness is a dark profound,Our deafness each one laughs about.Then reason’s light with falling rayDoth but a trembling flicker cast.Honor to age, ye...

Language has not the power to speak what love inditesThe soul lies buried in the Ink that writes

One ventures, commits one’s self, and if readers are not pleased, one can perhaps please one’s self and earn that slender right to persevere.

i found god in myselfand i loved heri loved her fiercely

Dear friend, I have searched all nightthrough each burnt paper,but I fear I will never findthe formula to let you die

because two bodies, naked and entwined,leap over time, they are invulnerable,nothing can touch them, they return to the source,there is no you, no I, no tomorrow,no yesterday, no names, the truth of twoin a single...

Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary,imperial joy and sorrow of human existence,the dreamed as well as the lived—what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?

If you heard your lover scream in the next roomand you ran in and saw his pinkie on the floor, in a small puddle of blood.You wouldn’t rush to the pinkie and say, ‘Darling, are...

The birth of a true poet is neither an insignificant event nor an easy delivery. Complications generally begin long before the fated soul carries its dubious light into whatever womb has been kind enough to...

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts.

Nothing conceivable is so petty, so insipid, so crowded with paltry interests, in one word, so anti-poetic, as the life of a man in the United States.

I say every dog looks like no otherbut that isn’t true. Not entirely.Difference is slippery.

Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.

The piano is kind of like a dance floor for our thoughts you know? A very woody foundation so that we can really focus on the poetry.

Language signifies when instead of copying thought it lets itself be taken apart and put together again by thought. Language bears the sense of thought as a footprint signifies the movement and effort of a...

At any time, and under any circumstances of human interest, is it not strange to see how little real hold the objects of the natural world amid which we live can gain on our hearts...

And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shallot.

That is what love does, it upstages fear.

We don’t know how to say goodbye,We wander on, shoulder to shoulderAlready the sun is going downYou’re moody, and I am your shadow.Let’s step inside a church, hear prayers, masses for the deadWhy are we...

Out of love,No regrets–Though the goodnessBe wasted forever.Out of love,No regrets–Though the returnBe never.