Love’s language starts, stops, starts; the right words flowing or clotting in the heart.

My heart was full of softening showers,I used to swing like this for hours,I did not care for war or death,I was glad to draw my breath.

The poem has a social effect of some kind whether or not the poet wills it to have. It has a kenetic force, it sets in motion…elements in the reader that would otherwise remain stagnant.

There is only beauty / and it has only one perfect expression / poetry. All the rest is a lie /except for those who live by the body, love, and, that love of the mind,...

You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed.

To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for...

Love leads us to write poetry because love improves our hearing; like prayer, poetry is every bit as much about listening as it is about speaking. To ‘get’ the poem is to hear the eloquence...

A violent order is disorder; and a great disorder is an order.These two things are one.

An artist must be passionately in love with her art. Obsessed or possessed ― go mad for what you believe in.

How they are all about, these gentlemenIn chamberlains’ apparel, stocked and laced,Like night around their order’s star and gemAnd growing ever darker, stony-faced,And these, their ladies, fragile, wan, but proppedHigh by their bodice, one hand...

And you might try to hide or protect yourself, or compare the different states of love,but you must not grow up, must not act wise when it comes to love.You must stay foolish and fall...

How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?

I’m a peasantI’m the muzhikA pest you’re destined to play the musicAnd yes it’s pleasant to say it’s beauty I’mIndebted to rest respecting it truly

If you can’t focus then how do you expect to make your dreams come true?

…although her mouth uttered fond words, her eyes spoke only venom.

I act as the tongue of you,… tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

He had not been able to see it in himself, but looking at Hungerford, he was able at least to speculate on the possibility that fear, raw, physical fear, had a kind of gift to...

Pirate Captain Jim”Walk the plank,” says Pirate Jim”But Captain Jim, I cannot swim.””Then you must steer us through the gale.””But Captain Jim, I cannot sail.””Then down with the galley slaves you go.””But Captain Jim, I...

Don’t be afraid of Pain. Pain only comes down to a certain point… beyond that, it can’t reach you and the love you have inside.

We met last fall, and dreamt of summer days together. Winter came, and when you left, Winter stayed.

This is the hour I hide everythingBehind my eyesTo see if you can seeAll the trouble my brain’s been brewing. Yes, I feel I am the worst and you are the bestAnd yet, and yet,...

When she left me I stood out in the thunderstorm, hoping to be destroyed by lightning. It missed, first left, then right.

Poetry is the beauty of life.

The sidewalks flash silver with mica.Skyline smeared with geese.By way of recognitionI lost the sound of your voice.

Gazing from the moon, we see one earth, without borders, Mother Earth, her embrace encircling one people, humankind.

One eats in holiness and the table becomes an altar. Martin Buber

A poem must be authentic. It could be flowery, it could have the most brilliant metaphor, it could be bursting with onomatopoeia and alliteration, assonance and consonance, hyperbole and paradox, from every end, it could...

I shall be your poet! I do not want to be a poet for others; make your appearance, and I shall be your poet. I shall eat my own poem, and that will be my...

Take each day in your open palms and close your fists around it. This life is not done with you yet.

Language is fossil Poetry.

I have no words — alas! — to tellThe loveliness of loving well!

You know what I do? I listen to other people, stumbling about with their half thoughts and half sentences and their clumsy feelings that they can’t express, and it hurts me. So I go home...

love as a passion—it is our European specialty—must absolutely be of noble origin; as is well known, its invention is due to the Provencal poet-cavaliers, those brilliant, ingenious men of the “gai saber,” to whom...

Les rêves sont seuls les réalités de la vie.

Love is as iffy as Kipling.

J’étais si près de toi que j’ai froid près des autres. (I was so close to you that I feel cold near others.)

TonightA parapet of breezetonight on which to leanmy melancholy

And the Spring arose on the garden fair,Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breastRose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

Love is bitter, death is sweet.

Children’s SongWe live in our own world,A world that is too smallFor you to stoop and enterEven on hands and knees,The adult subterfuge.And though you probe and pryWith analytic eye,And eavesdrop all our talkWith an...

She’s all the blood I’ve ever shed. She’s every time I’ve ever thought of death. She’s every time I’ve ever looked at happiness and thought, ‘That’s not meant for me.

Till Human voices wake us, and we drown.

Ah youth, youth! That’s what happens when you go steeping your soul into Shakespeare

The thing is to sift outthe important sounds, little syllables and vowels that bringhints of their lost words, and not to mistake the fossil forthe life, or the kiss for the love, not to mistake...

She dealt her pretty words like Blades –How glittering they shone –And every One unbared a NerveOr wantoned with a Bone –She never deemed — she hurt –That — is not Steel’s Affair –A vulgar...

in a worldfull oftemporary thingsyou area perpetual feeling.

Woman with known intentintending to exploreWoman with her senses on the edgeedging for some more…”From my poem, “Known Intent” – The Poetic Art of Seduction – Volume 1©Clarissa O. Clemens

leave me some musicthat’s chocolate for the heart.

The Lone Star of Africa Land of the free, on your beach and sacred forests loves flourished. You, Liberia, you my love to echo, the scream of freedom, holding tight and will never let go....

what ismore beautifultears, in someone’s eyesfor meor in my eyesfor them.