Time, so majestically fine, was passing by when I asked him to stop, a while, and lay his imprint upon the spaciousness of feelings: his face, reflected in the mirror of my memories, his smile,...

The moon twangs its silver strings;The river swoons into town;The wind beds down in the pines,Covers itself with stars.

So very lovely His blood on her swollen lips His first vampireSo very lovely He would have to remember Each salacious cutHe took her slowly Bled her of secrets and screams He smiled contemplating That...

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shore,There is society, where none intrudes,By the deep sea, and music in its roar:I love not man the less, but Nature...

But writing poems and letters doesn’t seem to do much good.

Decades from now, my grandchild is going to be a poet… And she’s going to write about how she’s a living testament to how her grandmother made love to hurricane and calmed the storm.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor...

Each person you meetis an aspect of yourself,clamoring for love.

Your war drum ain’t / louder than this breath.

My heart’s scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed inthe moon and breathed out the world.

It is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem,—a thought so passionate and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an animal it has an architecture of its own, and...

I’ve learned to lickmy own foul woundsand prize the taste of ache.

Brother, It would hurt, And make me the motherOf every living thing.But, Fire Boy, you ain’t lifting my grass skirtUntil you burn me a ring.

Consider the difference between the first and third person in poetry […] It’s like the difference between looking at a person and looking through their eyes.

But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony, Up-starting from the fiendish crowd Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me: A lurid light, a trampling throng, Sense of intolerable wrong, And whom I...

Enjoy a life of poverty. Become a poet.

It is not our job to remain whole.We came to lose our leavesLike the trees, and be born again,Drawing up from the great roots.

Haiku does not express emotion from the inside out by displaying the mind of a character. Haiku builds the emotional thrust, makes the artistic statement from the outside in, from the physical world to the...

My love is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June: My love is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. How fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love...

Inside your heartA golden flower blossoms;Inside of meAnd inside of youNever dying . . .This flower of your soul

For the blind poor, Rx: bleed. For yourself; Rx: love nothing.Sow rows of onions only. Plant turnips in the dark of the moon.

children of the mist” – they must dwell apart from men and contemn their kind, or they fear they shall be only taken for common-place characters. They forget that poetry is the language which speaks...

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows, Are proud and implacable, passionate foes;It is always the same, wherever one goes.And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people saythat they do not like fighting, will...

I was the first Chicano to write in complete sentences.

Late FragmentAnd did you get whatyou wanted from this life, even so?I did.And what did you want?To call myself beloved, to feel myselfbeloved on the earth.

This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

the onewho will jolt awakeall the unwrittenthe unsungand the unlived in me. i am waitingfor him.

kisses happenwhen my morning blueberry muffin sails slowly upon my savoring tongue.

A touch so tenderBliss of sweet words fills of desire Open Hearts of sweet surrender Nightly poison gas the fire. A quite place to romance Touches as we held hands. No loud words spoken, but...

Dear, I can’t write, it’s all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.

I searched for my own heartand long after I had lost my wayin the days trailing past with their foliagein the aloof sky blue with distanceI thought I’d find my heartwhere I’d kept your eyes...

Often one spends weeks trying to write a poem out of the conscious mind that never comes to anything – these are sort of ‘ideal’ poems that one feels ought to be written, but don’t...

En la tarde lluviosami corazon aprendela tragedia otonalque los arboles lleuven.

I want to have a romance so grand,it would have made Shakespeare fumble for words.

EndymionThe rising moon has hid the stars;Her level rays, like golden bars,Lie on the landscape green,With shadows brown between.And silver white the river gleams,As if Diana, in her dreams,Had dropt her silver bowUpon the meadows...

i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.

LatelyI’ve been dreaming about youAbout usSharing our secretsTalking, even if we arguedKept talking, till we sleptMaybe I woke upOn the wrong side of bedMaybe I thought about youJust a little too much

I do not want to sleepfor fear I might miss the twinkle of the brightest starfor fear I may never knowhow the moon glimmers, in the darkest hour.

What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow.What are brief? today and tomorrow.What are frail? spring blossoms and youth.What are deep? the ocean and truth.

Crystal ball and candle light, I want your dance tonight. Show me the power of love as we stand together in the middle of the night.

After the first glass of vodkayou can accept just about anythingof life even your own mysteriousnessyou think it is nice that a boxof matches is purple and brown and is called La Petite and comes...

If only youcould see me as the Devil does: palatable & raw; chasing a chance blue moon

Poetry is not the most important thing in life… I’d much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.

You better dust off your etiquette, better sit like you did back at whatever grade that made it clear to you that your teachers are not your parents, and that any mess you made remains...

Wine is bottled poetry”- from The Night Circus

In this life at least,Our fate is rarely epic.Maybe just as well,Impervious heroes we are not…

That’s the thing about love It can take you up to the mountaintop and can drop you And the impact will either kill you or make you a new person

In past wars only homes burnt, but this timeDon’t be surprised if even loneliness ignites.In past wars only bodys burnt, but this timeDon’t be surprised if even shadows ignite.

I’ll enjoy today while it’s here, using the time wisely. Each day is a gift that soon becomes a memory.

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on TheeAnd I’ll forgive Thy great big one on me.