If you can’t beat em: Poem.

The summer in youcalms the winter in me.

Change the world so that nothing else is changed.

The rain to the wind said,You push and I’ll pelt.’They so smote the garden bedThat the flowers actually knelt,And lay lodged–though not dead.I know how the flowers felt.

Loving you is kissing the night, exposing the scars, words in flames, for every drop and for every life.

One difference between poetry and lyrics is that lyrics sort of fade into the background. They fade on the page and live on the stage when set to music.

I have nothing to say And I am saying it And that is poetry

I almost gave my life long ago for a thingThat has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes—It is strange how often a heart must be brokenBefore the years can make it wise.

She was the unlucky lover,who loved everyone but herself

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

I’ll Die For Your Sins If You Live For mine.

But that so many scholars are barbarians does not much matter so long as a few of them are ready to help with their specialized knowledge the few independent thinkers, that is to say the...

She didn’t do anything at allexcept arrived without warningin the middle of the night(right when I least expected it)She walked by me, with a strut in her stepsmelling like summercausing me to turn my head(even...

If there is passion, let me feel its heat.I want my heart to beat fast,my breath raspy, my skin to burn.

… unfools of unbeing … means quite clearly people who are too stereotyped to be eccentric – people who are too dead spiritually to exist at all and who call alive individual fools

I have brushed my teeth.This day and I are even.

I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.

So sweet and delicious do I become,when I am in bed with a manwho, I sense, loves and enjoys me,that the pleasure I bring excels all delight,so the knot of love, however tightit seemed before,...

Tis the witching hour of night,Orbed is the moon and bright,And the stars they glisten, glisten,Seeming with bright eyes to listenFor what they listen?

I’m going to Hell in a basketWeaved in from my sinsLike wickerWith little Wiccan tiesAs if I’m a witchAccused

An aged man is but a paltry thing,A tattered coat upon a stick, unlessSoul clap its hands and sing, and louder singFor every tatter in its mortal dress

One can not understand language because language cannot understand itself; does not want to understand

Because Of You, My Heart Exploded Into Stars

At first first nothing will happen to usand later on it will happen to us again.

On LivingLiving is no laughing matter:You must take it seriously.So much so and to such a degreethat, for example, your hands tiedbehind your back,your back to the wallor else in a laboratoryin your white coat...

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.

Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.

The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

He will one day meet his true love… A fellow traveler on the road… Her eyes will be his ocean… In her ocean he will sail forever….

It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far...

How shall we distinguish that whichis good in pleasure from that which is not good?”Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is thepleasure of the bee to gather honey...

A litany of headlights blinding her, she stands unsteady on the dotted traffic line, takes timid steps toward rolled up windows behind which any horror could crouch….

At the round earth’s imagined corners blowYour trumpets, angels, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberless infinitiesOf souls, and to your scattered bodies go ;All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,All whom war, dea[r]th,...

I remainMistress of mine own self and mine own soul

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

As the future ripens in the past,so the past rots in the future –a terrible festival of dead leaves.

There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.

It’s just me throwing myself at you,romance as usual, us times us,not lust but moxibustion,a substance burning closeto the body as possiblewithout risk of immolation.

White IrisThe iris danced acrossthe ancient Grecian skiesgliding with her embossedsatiny milken sides …

The appropriation of the creativity-procreativity metaphor by women is a conscious challenge to traditional poetics and beyond that to traditional metaphysics, for the gynocentric vision is not that Logos condescends to incarnate itself, but that...

Believe it not-it is not so!

Una mujer desnuda y en lo oscuro tiene una claridad que nos alumbra de modo que si ocurre un desconsuelo un apagón o una noche sin luna es conveniente y hasta imprescindible tener a mano...

Once upon a timeI fell in loveLost myselfAnd find another one.

Sometimes I dreamthat everything in the world is here, in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly,and I am here too, in front of it, hardly able to see for the flash and...

The lights became stars, which became streaks in the grayspace, and then networks of fading shimmers

A man who knows how little he knows is well, a man who knows how much he knows is sick. If, when you see the symptoms, you can tell, Your cure is quick.A sound man...

Oh, precious losing streak,you’re too cute for your own good. I try to laugh about itbut my face is made of wood.

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

From heart to hearta heartbeat staggers, looking for a haven.Bereft. It is easier to enter heaventhan to pass through each others’ eyes

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.