One day I might feel Mean,And squinched up inside,Like a mouth sucking on a Lemon.The next day I couldFeelWhole and happyAnd right,Like an unbitten apple.

Concrete breathes sun’s heat.

In Blackwater WoodsLook, the treesare turningtheir own bodiesinto pillarsof light,are giving off the richfragrance of cinnamonand fulfillment,the long tapersof cattailsare bursting and floating away overthe blue shouldersof the ponds,and every pond,no matter what itsname is,...

mi rostro? un cero disimulado..

When Death ComesWhen death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like...

You and those shot-glass eyes, deep swirling pools of 80-proof firewater, with the depth and profundity of Saturn’s spinning pulsars…

Does something which exists on the edge have no true relevance to the stable center, or does it, by being on the edge, become a part of the edge and thus a part of the...

I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins, eyes and ears full of marijuana, eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the...

I die a little,In the echo of your silence.

I can look beyond the cloudsto feel your lovethe sun will rise againto end the darkness

Daisy, simple and discreet flower,That earned the heart of this poet.

IT’S NOT THE HONEY WHISKEY IN A FRIDAY NIGHT – IT’S THE MANIC SHOW OF POETRY TWEETS THAT TURNS ME ON.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return’d to me, And answer’d: ‘I Myself am Heav’n and Hell

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

Like the best convenience store in the world, / the mind is always open.

The WeaverMy life is but a weavingbetween my Lord and me;I cannot choose the colorsHe worketh steadily.Oft times He weaveth sorrowAnd I, in foolish pride,Forget He sees the upper,And I the underside.Not til the loom...

Well, now,if little by little you stop loving meI shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenlyyou forget medo not look for me,for I shall already have forgotten you.

there’s nothing todiscussthere’s nothing torememberthere’s nothing toforgetit’s sadand it’s notsadseems themost sensiblethinga person can doissitwith drink inhandas the wallswavetheir goodbyesmilesone comes throughit allwith a certain amount ofefficiency andbraverythenleavessome acceptthe possibility ofGodto help themgetthroughotherstake itstaight onand...

So many days, oh so many daysseeing you so tangible and so close,how do I pay, with what do I pay?The bloodthirsty springhas awakened in the woods.The foxes start from their earths,the serpents drink the...

Min ene sko knirker af mangel på stjerneskud

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where...

With red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze.

I shivered in thosesolitudeswhen I heardthe voiceofthe saltin the desert.

It’s the poet we love in Caeiro, not the philosopher. What we really get from these poems is a childlike sense of life, with all the direct materiality of the child’s mind, and all the...

I am awaitingperpetually and forevera renaissance of wonder

The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,Are what ten thousand envy and adore:All, all look up, with reverential Awe,At crimes that ‘scape, or triumph o’er the Law:While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry-`’Nothing...

A truth should exist,it should not be usedlike this. If I love youis that a fact or a weapon?

Professionally he declines and falls, and as a friend he drops into poetry.

A rose lay open in full bloomand, looking from my garden room,I watched the sun-baked flower fill with rain.It seemed so fragile,resting there,and such a silence filled the air,the beauty of the moment caused me...

The heart under your heart is not the one you shareso readily so full of pleasantry & tendernessit is a single blackberry at the heart of a brambleor else some larger fruit heavy the size...

…who would have known the dark eyes staring into mine would become our children’s eyes…?

In my more rebellious days I tried to doubt the existence of the sacred, but the universe kept dancing and life kept writing poetry across my life. (Beyond Religion, p. 81)

She has learned to love. To fear. To hate. And then to love again. Through it all, she writes.” ~Once Upon A Time There Was A Girl

To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge

Everyone calls him BlockheadNo one sings his praisesOr takes him to heart…That is the kind of personI want to be

Sound unbound by nature becomes bounded by art.

Always write exactly what you’re feeling at the exact moment when writing something like poetry or an emotional novel. Put yourself, pour all emotions into your work…make yourself cry, feel joy if you are writing...

Every man needs his Siren To check his courage and strength When he hears her song In his travels through the unknown.

And blue-lung’d combers lumbered to the kill.

He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.

It’s funny, for all it took was a broken heart and that alone was enough, enough for her to do everything she ever dreamed of.

To go where no one else has ever gone before is the secret of heroism.

She wildly burned for the one she loved and he stood there watching, hoping he too would catch a blaze from the violence stirring in her heart.

Even great men bow before the Sun; it melts hubris into humility.

I kept loving and loving and loving. Every waking hour, I marveled on how these moments would make made me feel. I wanted to love the world and be the change it so deliciously craved.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,and I wanted nothing morethan to be in the moment-but which moment?Not that one, or that one, or that one,

So it’s off with the shellsuit and on with the Armanis,Bring out the champagne and the caviar sarnies

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also call’d No-more, Too-late, Farewell

Poetry is more than a form of art. It’s a vibration and a pulsing heart. Whether it’s sour or whether it’s sweet. It can give you strength no one can defeat

We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.