There is freedom waiting for you,On the breezes of the sky,And you ask “What if I fall?”Oh but my darling,What if you fly?

Nobody knows the aftermath.

Everything has its poetry. 94

His writer’s words poured over her like poetry, and she couldn’t find a single wisecrack to put up between them.

I get a little poetic sometimes. The moonlight does that to me.

Until we say the truth, there can be no tenderness.As long as there is desire, we will not be safe

So dawn goes down today… Nothing gold can stay.– Robert Frost

Some people make tunes, but it is lines that run like moving messages through my head. Whatever else I am saying and doing often has no bearing on this inner, verbal life.

I played God todayAnd it was fun!I made animals that men had never seenSo they would stop and scratch their headsInstead of scowling.I made words that men had never heardSo they would stop and stare...

Time Out To Cry ©All alone at the end of the dayThe time, just a little past tenEvening has come for a short stayIt’s time for her sorrow againThe smile on her face she’s been...

A perfect poem owes its perfection to sounding the voice of the heart and the melodies of the conscience, as well as its ability to reflect the considerations, beliefs, opinions, and horizons of thought of...

Where had I heard this wind beforeChange like this to a deeper roar?What would it take my standing there for,Holding open a restive door,Looking down hill to a frothy shore?Summer was past and day was...

You cannot deny the struggle; the struggle denies you.

Spend all you have for loveliness,Buy it and never count the cost;For one white singing hour of peaceCount many a year of strife well lost,And for a breath of ecstasyGive all you have been, or...

What a strange thing!to be alivebeneath cherry blossoms.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,Such shaping fantasies, that apprehendMore than cool reason ever comprehends.The lunatic, the lover and the poetAre of imagination all compact:One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,That is,...

Poetry is nothing if it exists only in books. One has to find it in one’s own life.

I take thee at thy word:Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Poetry, like blood, runs through our veins.

Of all the days dropped in time’s pocketThis day will seek acknowledgement with a child’s shy asking, because the love between us used no word uncommoner than coffee, and was never traced by graphs of...

Poetry is alive because it is a medium of vision and experience. It is not necessarily comfortable.It is not necessarily safe.

From the union of power and money,from the union of power and secrecy,from the union of government and science,from the union of government and art,from the union of science and money,from the union of ambition...

I escape disaster by writing a poem with a joke in it:The past, present, and future walk into a bar—it was tense.

Literature is not a picture of life, but is a separate experience with its own kind of flow and enhancement.

When I Have Fears That I May Cease To BeWhen I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact’ry, Hold like...

Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her.

since words are all we have of wings.

No reprimand in the mirrorSlow walk to LiberiaSlow dance across the SaharaSlow unraveling of gray matter

I don’t know if I have ever truly believed that everyone deserves love. But if I had to take it one moment further into those shadowed valleys of heartfull, I would admit that I do...

Show me slowly what I onlyknow the limits ofDance me to the end of love

So this is love:the Sculptor’s chisel.And stone, which in its whole lifedoes not utter a single word,suddenly sings.

As if this great outburst of anger had purged all my ills, killed all my hopes, I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for...

I surrendered my identity in your eyes.Now I’m just like everybody else, and it’s so funny, the way monogamy is funny, the waysomeone falling down in the street is funny.I entered a revolving door and...

Stars ink your fingerswith a lexicon of flameblazing rare knowledge.

The stars will live for me, if not anything else

I used the word ‘prose’ in the Trans-Siberian in the early Latin sense of prosa dictu. Poem seemed to me too pretentious, too narrow. Prose is more open, popular.

Wherever we go we do harm, forgivingourselves as wheels do cement for wearingeach other out. We set this houseon fire, forgetting that we live within.(from “To a Meadowlark,” for M.L. Smoker)

THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood— Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping...

For you may palm upon us new for old:All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.

Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory.

In a fieldI am the absenceof field.This isalways the case.Wherever I amI am what is missing.

Considérez dans son martyre spirituel cet être qui gît les yeux clos, disloqué comme la victime d’un accident brutal qui ne nécessite plus ni attention ni secours. Dénombrez les coups de couteau de la hideuse...

Tiny GigglesSilly giggles of laughterI store upon a shelfI give some to otherI save some for myselfI am rich beyond all measureThough not with worldly wealthI store up these treasuresFor my heart and soulful health.

I cannot speak truth without poetry, because truth is beauty.

A Coy Aversion…a fluttertoo shyto be seen…

Wrath crawled out from the well,on direction from Hell,to get back what it once lost.With vengeance in mind,it set out to find,a specified soul to accost.When the Hell-well beckoned,Mother’s will now reckoned,her dead soul now...

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind....

I have found so much beauty in the dark,as I have found a lot of horror in the light.

At Blackwater Pond At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settledafter a night of rain.I dip my cupped hands. I drinka long time. It tasteslike stone, leaves, fire. It falls coldinto my body, waking the...

Nobody reads poetry anymoreSo who the hell are youI see bent over this book?