There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea

we’re lost where the mind can’t find usutterly lost

Distance, the dissonance insurmountable,would be not the end,but a magnet.When fingertips kiss,they imprint and cement something,that cannot be disintegrated. Time becomes a phantom,the wind becomes an anchor,and old dreams- blankets of warmth.Lull with me, Lady,there...

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

Places We LovePlaces we love exist only through us,Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time,Places we love we can never leave,Places we love together, together, together,And is this room really a room,...

Time past and time futureWhat might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.” (Four Quartets)

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the...

They went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields;Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well,And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. They knew not fear that...

Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you’re lagging,I may remember...

I breathe in…the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.

We wear many things, but that with greatest import is our expression.

when i speak to youi speak as thoughi am offering a rosein your hand.

[She was] the Judy Garland of American poetry.

Loneliness clarifies. Here silence standsLike heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken, Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken, Luminously-peopled air ascends; And past the poppies bluish neutral distance Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach Of shapes...

To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something beautiful, ready always to apprehend in the flow of language the sudden flash of poetry.

i immersemyselfin youlikei immerse myselfinto a beautiful story.

The BALLPOINT PENGUINS, black and white, Do little else but write and write.Although they’ve nothing much to say, They write and write it anyway….

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind...

I envythe cup of coffeethat getsto kissyour sleepy lipsawakeevery cold andbitter morning.

Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not...

forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,...

I will reveal you who I am. I am your reflection.

Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not. Forced...

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds – like those horses that...

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Poetry’s work is the clarification and magnification of being.

Every new dayOur children’s joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

The trick is to ride the wave,Fast, wide-open and in deep Now-magic.Free, burning fear for fuelGenerous, knowing there is always more where that came from.Cresting, spray of liquid jewels hanging, shining in the sun and...

Wisdomis in the insane asylums.The endis in the everyday-pale smiles

The most carefully crafted language in our culture tends to be poetry. And poetry at its finest moments subverts our best attempts at hiding from reality…The poetry of liturgy has just this power. The liturgy...

The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock treeHas given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued.

Always learn poems by heart,’ she said. ‘They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they’ll make your soul impervious to the world’s soft decay.

Must be going crazy—my favorite poet latelyhas been me!

The poet must always, in every instance, have the vibrant word… that by it’s trenchancy can so wound my soul that it whimpers…. One must know and recognize not merely the direct but the secret...

At NightLove said, “Wake still and think of me,”Sleep, “Close your eyes till break of day,”But Dreams came by and smilinglyGave both to Love and Sleep their way.

If I could describe myself, I’d say that I am a poetic gerd. (A geek and nerd combo) I love Shakespeare and romance, but sci-fi and action have a big slice of my heart. When...

There’s an old saying that applies to me: you can’t lose a game if you don’t play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)

Poetry can unleash a terrible fear. I suppose it is the fear of possibilities, too many possibilities, each with its own endless set of variations. It’s like looking too closely and too long into a...

I love, therefore I am.

That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. “It’s an art to read the stars, baby.”I never wanted to leave his side-my sure song for so...

I am a butterfly poetbirthed from painflying with the freedomof my verses.

Whom boasts about his happiness, cause doesn’t got it!

They’ve gone to bewith Jesus now”But we won’t talkabout how theycrucified Him, too

As wave is driven by wave And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead, So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows, Always, for ever and new. What was before Is left behind; what never...

Just look what happens to poets,” I used to tell my honors class on the first day of school. “Half the time they go mad. And you know why I think that happens? Too much...

In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander’s breath That love belongs to sin and death.

There is such a shelter in each other.