man acīs cērt saule rokā guļ zvārgulītis bez mēlesun es gaidu kad tajā iespers zibens

Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)

Inside these letters, the eye will seeNearby are your friends, and VFD.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have...

Now that Karen has been resurrected, I can travel beyond the black mirror. I can discover who I have lost with thefloating hearts and severed heads of my medicine. I must now whisper my other...

Discovery’s friend is creativity

the poet I saw once…but whose words have long beenin my mind, windows of invincible candles…

The fury of confession, at first,then the fury of clarity:It was from you, Death, that such hypocriticalobscure feeling was born! And nowlet them accuse me of every passion,let them bad-mouth me, let them say I’m...

I don’t believe we should carry backupplans in life’s suitcase—they’re too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spreadinto new timezones…

I heard a bird congratulating itselfall day for being a jay.Nobody cared. But it was gladall over again, and said so, again.

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at...

Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rudeAnd fled to the silence of sweet solitude.

In the final analysis it is between you and God, it was never between you and them anyway.

Living together/ is one move closer/ to living apart

Gargoyles sat on the battlements- lean they were and the same hideous damp grey as the stone. They looked at her with hollow eyes and rattled their silver chains. They had wings of bats or...

life is other, always there,further off, beyond you andbeyond me, always on the horizon,life which unlives us and makes us strangers,that invents our face and wears it away

It is true that there is not enough beauty in the world. It is also true that I am not competent to restore it. Neither is there candor, and here I may be of some...

I love to feel the temperature drop and the wind increase just before a thunderstorm. Then I climb in bed with the thunder.

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massiveinsect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the endof a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurtin...

Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly

The most racket time of the year for those that don’t know, is the warmest of the four seasons and the winter as it is so cold and felt in your heart.

Nay, sorrow is the greater.”But I say unto you, they are inseparable.Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Hombre pequeñito que jaula me das. Digo pequeñito porque no me entiendes, ni me entenderás. Tampoco te entiendo, pero mientras tanto ábreme la jaula que quiero escapar. Hombre pequeñito, te amé media hora, no me...

The Good-MorrowI wonder by my troth, what thou, and IDid, till we lov’d? Were we not wean’d till then?But suck’d on countrey pleasures, childishly?Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?T’was so; But this, all...

Sully suffers from a stutter,simple syllables will clutter,stalling speeches up on beacheslike a sunken sailboat rudder.Sully strains to say his phrases,sickened by the sounds he raises,strings of thoughts come out in knots,he solves his sentences...

Always our wars have been our confessions of weakness

the bouquetBetween me and the worldyou are a bay, a sailthe faithful ends of a ropeyou are a fountain, a wind, a shrill childhood cry.Between me and the worldyou are a picture frame, a windowa...

I don’t think all writers are sad, she said.I think it’s the other way around—all sad people write.

Listen,” Francois said. “Yonder is Paris –laughing, tragic Paris, who once had need of a singer to proclaim her splendor and all her misery. Fate made the man; in necessity’s mortar she pounded his soul...

At Times I Am A Flower…at times I am a flower ~singularly defined …

The world and the friends that lived in it are shadows: you alone remain real in this drowsing room.

Ode to the Chamber…linger here amidst the chamberin which we embrace our lovetalk to me of sonnetsand call me turtledove…

Here we go mother on the shipless ocean.Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

In your handsThe dog, the donkey, surely they knowThey are alive.Who would argue otherwise?But now, after years of consideration,I am getting beyond that.What about the sunflowers? What aboutThe tulips, and the pines?Listen, all you have...

When the lad for longing sighs,Mute and dull of cheer and pale,If at death’s own door he lies,Maiden, you can heal his ail.Lovers’ ills are all to buy:The wan look, the hollow tone,The hung head,...

Reading a stranger’s words and finding yourself in them.

The parts of me that hurt the worst want me to write something for them, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say. I’m lost in all this sadness, and so are they.

A certain person wondered whya big strong girl like mewouldn’t keep a jobwhich paid a normal salary.I took my time to lead herand to read her every page.Even minimal peoplecan’t survive on minimal wage.A certain...

Always be a poet, even in prose.

…as we are endowed. …with rhetorics. …none will deny. …of innocence. …towards scribbling. …of love lines. …and of lust. …to what seems like male. …to what seems like female. …in those days. …I mean nothing....

When I stand strong in youI can look beyond the cloudsWith your wordsThe sun will rise again

Every time your work is read, you die several deaths for every word, and poetry is like being flayed alive.

And here face down beneath the sunAnd here upon earth’s noonward heightTo feel the always coming onThe always rising of the night

The fear of love can be replaced by the love of fear

sometimes when everything seems atits worstwhen all conspiresand gnawsand the hours, days, weeksyearsseem wasted – stretched there upon my bedin the darklooking upward at the ceilingi get what many will consider anobnoxious thought:it’s still nice...

Si anak serta merta melempar bongkahan tanah yang digengamnya, kematian menyalak galak diantara sepi, angin dan senja yang bersorak. Ia bangkit kemudian balas memukul meninggalkan luka di pelipis mata si anak. Tendangan telak juga mendarat...

See–two who dreamed that dream, and you were one.