Poem Quotes - Page 7

Determined, I riseand face the dawn with resolve.This time I will win.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Everything is temporary, almost like a passing fase, some of laughter Some of pain. What we would do, If we had the chance to explore What we had taken for Granted the very day before, Some would say I'm selfish, To hold a little sadness in my eyes, But they don't feel the sorrow When I can't do, all that helps me feel alive. I can express my emotions, but I can't run wild and free, My mind and soul would handle it but hell upon my hip, ankle and knees, This disorder came about,as a friendship said its last goodbyes, Soooo this is what I got given for all the years I stood by? I finally stand still to question it, life it is in fact? What the fuck is the purpose of it all if you get stabbed in the back? And after the anger fills the air, the regret takes it places, I never wanted to be that girl, Horrid, sad and faded... So I took with a grain of salt, my new found reality, I am not of my pain,the disability doesnt define me. I find away to adjust, also with the absence of my friend,I trust the choices I make, allow my heart to mend. I pick up the piecesI retrain my leg, I find where I left off And I start all over again, You see what happens... When a warrior gets tested; They grow from the ashes Powerful and invested. So I thank all this heartache,As I put it to a rest, I move forward with my life And I'll build a damn good nest.

The sweetest melody that playson starry nights and wintry days,most soothing to my listening earsand calming to beleaguering fears,I call a symphony on air―the song of sweet, still silence rare.

Richelle E. Goodrich

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like... like poems turned into landscapes.""'Poems turned into landscapes.'" he murmured with a slight smile. "And what of Vestenveld's gardens? Do you see poems in them?""Your gardens are like your country's poetry. Very frilly and organized.

Jaclyn Dolamore

It was soldier's went marching over the rocks,and still they came in watery flocks,because it was spring and the birds had to come,No doubt that soldier's had to be marching,and that the drums had to be rolling, rolling, rolling

Wallace Stevens

BucketI feel so dreamydreamy lazy, crazy sleepylike I want to be therein the doorway, the doorwayor the porch cornerbe sitting, be emptynotdoing not goingan old bucket left therein the porch corner is like I aman old empty bucket somebody left there.

Ursula K Le Guin

At childhood’s end, the houses petered outinto playing fields, the factory, allotmentskept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big earshe had! What big eyes he had! What teeth!In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry.The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods,away from home, to a dark tangled thorny placelit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake,my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazersnagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoesbut got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem.I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, forwhat little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf?Then I slid from between his heavy matted pawsand went in search of a living bird – white dove –which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth.One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said,licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the backof the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books.Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head,warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood.But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroomstoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birdsare the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolfhowls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out,season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axeto a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmonto see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolfas he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones.I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up.Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all

Carol Ann Duffy

To the Bullock RoserootWhat's the thought you thinkall your life long?It must be a great one,a solemn one, to make you gazethrough the world at it,all your life long.When you have to look aside from ityour eyes roll, you bellowin anger, anxiousto return to it, steadilyto gaze at it, think itall your life long.

Ursula K Le Guin

We live a moment at a time and this is unique.

Eduardo Medina Frías

You are to me,what wind is to dry leaves. The reason for me to fall,the reason for me to fly.

The Butcher’s ShopThe pigs are strung in rows, open-mouthed,dignified in martyrs’ deaths. They hangstiff as Sunday manners, their porky headsvoting Tory all their lives, their blue rosettesdiscarded now. The butcher smiles a meaty smile,white apron stained with who knows what,fingers fat as sausages. Smug, woolly cattleand snowy sheep prance on tiles, grazingon eternity, cute illustrations in a children’s book.What does the sheep say now?Tacky sawdust clogs your shoes.Little plastic hedges divide the trays of meat, playing farms. playing farms. All the way homeyour cold and soggy paper parcel bleeds.

I am happy Because, IFound someoneTo BlameFor mistakesThank God &You mate,You endedMy suffocation.Amen

imagine the desertmothers, with hair tangledtighter than their theologyand breasts that flowed milkand mystic wisdom. theyknew how to draw the singingsigils in the sand, how to digrough and bitten fingersinto desiccated dirt for waterto wet the lips of their young.women of hips and heft, wholearned how to burnbeneath the wild and searingsun, who made loud loveagainst the star-flecked threatof night, who knew that strengthis not always a matter of muscle.imagine your ancestresses,the prophetesses of the aridlands, before these starchedtraditions and pews too hardto pray from, who bled trueritual and birthed their own fiercesouls at creation's crowning --

Sitting on couch, lying legs apart Dark dirty naked. Smiling at me, Wicked lazy lusty eyes. I moaned, When saw movement inside his silent, The thick forest of pubic hair.

Delicious David

we have forgotten what night tastes like, salted by full moon silver rupturingthe dark. we have forgotten how the skin sings when the lunar fervor unfurls across its follicles.

we have forgotten how to press our fingers to the tilting planet's jugular and measure her pulse. we have forgotten symbiosis, that she is our mother.we have forgotten that when we rape our world we rape ourselves.

Death an absolute mystery. No one knows the day and the time, no one knows where and how. Death is an absolute mystery.

Euginia Herlihy

Identity the greatest thing that ever happened to all humanity on earth. Identity the source of knowing who you are and where you come from. Identity the source of understanding yourself and makes you proud to be the person who you are, the daughter, the son of the Most High God.

Euginia Herlihy

Every poem is unique to each person who reads it.

Salil Jha

To paint an image and to write a poem, is to reclaim the dignity and personal joy...it is an invitation for my creative contemplation of an opened mind...it is a storytelling venture on a blank page of paper and white canvases...it is reclaiming my life.

Isabella koldras

Read a poem at a time, or two, or all, but give them time to sink into your heart. Read them again, read a portion, and stop and ponder. Visualize. Take it slow; let the poem show you what lies in your own heart. Let it fuel the words from within.

Salil Jha

Look at mirror! What do you see in you? Do you see someone who can't amount anything in life or do you see a unique human being that was born to dream and conquer the world.

Euginia Herlihy

You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams

what is poetry if not seeing and feeling, and feeling, feelings running deepand okay – do I see, notice the gray pigeon feathers that heave by on drafts of passing cars reeking, leaking gasoline fumesand okay – do I feel?

Abba Father! Your love for me is transparent no hidden agenda, no ulterior motives because You are the Holy God. And the only thing abides us is the covenant of your love that will never be broken. In times of need I call unto You and You answer. When I feel alone you always beside me with Your loving and caring touch.

Euginia Herlihy

O Moon that rid'st the night to wakeBefore the dawn is pale,The hamadryad in the brake,The Satyr in the vale,Caught in thy net of shadowsWhat dreams hast thou to show?Who treads the silent meadowsTo worship thee below?The patter of the rain is hushed,The wind's wild dance is done,Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushedAbout the setting sun:And now beneath thy argent beamThe wildwood standeth still,Some spirit of an ancient dreamBreathes from the silent hill.Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokesThe Ancient Ones of night,Once more the old stone altar smokes,The fire is glimmering bright.Scattered and few thy children be,Yet gather we unknownTo dance the old round merrilyAbout the time-worn stone.We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell,Nor mourn our outcast lot,Treading the mazes of a spellBy priests and men forgot.

In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down,Whose bonnets touch the firmament,Whose sandals touch the town, ―Meek at whose everlasting feetA myriad daisies play.Which, sir, are you, and which am I.Upon an August day?

Emily Dickinson

I do not attachany exaggerated importance to my poetical works. Life isthere to be lived rather than to be written about. My aimis to search out the manifold experience that it offers,wringing from each moment what of emotion it presents.I look upon my writing as a graceful accomplishmentwhich does not absorb but rather adds pleasure toexistence. And as for posterity—damn posterity.

W Somerset Maugham

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose,Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver,Give unto the flying hartSpace to breath, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night-Goddess excellently bright.

RAINThunder skiesdewdrops fall,timeless motion.Heavy drizzles,blurred visionslumbering moon.

Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, stars. Goodnight planets, comets and... Mars. Yes, even you, Mars. And not only for the sake of the rhyme.

Paul The Astronaut

Damn, the good words are all asterisked!”“The men only understand the asterisks. My worry is if they understand the rest!

I am looking at this shiny star tonight,Wishing wishes could come true...I wonder if by any chance,He sees the same star too!!The overwhelming darkness tickles the lonely heart tonight,I wonder if he sees the star I am watching,May be he would stand within its light!There are many miles between us,but still our souls can meet...At this point when we look at this star together,May be our hearts could find their beat!Don't you feel the need for someone to come,Into your life...I am wishing for the same thing,As I watch this star tonight!This gentle light on my face,Cheers and comforts and holds me tight...I wonder if by some chance, I find you holding me with love and sitting by my side!But this remains a wish as he is still unseen and unknown,I wonder who he might be, to whom I would be prone!A hopeless or born romantic,Everyone is searching for true love,Wishing wishes in the darkness,To this magical star that hangs above!

If a muscleman like Hukum can write a poem, everyone can.

At the end of all things, why do lovers break up? Because love is magic. You have to believe, for it to exist.

A woman is a poem, a man is a report

Bangambiki Habyarimana

Amour, love, the dream of man,Woman’s deep devoted plan.AmourAmor means no hungry child,Begging, hair blowing wild.Searching amongst the rats and mice,Left-over food, contaminated rice.Eyes, the saddest soul sight,Hidden is the child’s plight.Bleeding feet, glass cut bare,Dirty rags for a child to wear.Clambering through the bin,Society’s senseless sin.Amor, love save this child’s life,Poverty is the nefarious knife,A child of poverty and strife,Deserves amour, love of life.Maureen Brindle from Beloved Isles[Inspired by H.H. Princess Maria Amor We Care for Humanity]

Maureen Brindle

Inside the woods is an abandoned hotel.Trees grow in the lobbyand up through the rooms.Limbs jut out through the windows.It looks like outsideinside.I climb the treesthrough 1000 rooms.I look for youin each of them.You’re a long shiny line.

Zachary Schomburg

and angle of vision, dust, gravity, solitude, and the part of the law which is the world's waitingand the part of the law which is my waiting,and the part which is my impatience—now; now?—though there are, there really arethings in the world, you must believe me.

The age old question, what is Love?Isn't it the greatest gift from the holy one Above?Is it pure and white like a new born Dove?Does it cuddle you up,Like a hand in a Glove?Answer this hard question that what is LOVE??the force that propels you ,through pain and despair,the benevolence,the blessings,from the heavens above, the ray of sunshine that pierces the clouds, a perennial hope, that's what is love;Its the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel,Its the mirth that ends melancholy's reign, A fountain of glee,the elixir of life,Its the drug that heals,and cures all the pain; Its an eternal promise, never meant to be broken,Its the bond that adheres two hearts together, People may die and their stories may end,But their love is immortal,it lives on forever; Its the river that cuts through boulders and rocks,and the stream that flows through our barren lives,And on its long course,it leaves behind a trail Of vivid fragrant flowers,and clear blue skies; Love is felt by the heart,relished by the soul,Blissful like the divine touch of the Gods, I yearn for more ballads and more metaphors,But i fall short of verses, can't bind love in words.

Blinking, twinkling, burning brightAre all the stars that light the night.Dippers, Ursa's and Orion too,But don't forget the star in you.

Paul The Astronaut

The atmospheric intensity of two electric lovers is the most righteous place I need to rediscover.

More than loud acclaim, I loveBooks, silence, thought, my alcove.Pangur BánPoem by Anon Irish Monk, Translated by Seamus Heaney

You are to me,what wind is to dry leaves.The reason for me to fall,the reason for me to fly.

Would it be enough to rock on a stormless sea with each our separate memories tuned to the state of the sinking sun?

Kristen Henderson

It is snowing and death bugs meas stubborn as insomnia.

People who are buried leaveBehind their memories.People feel sad for them andWorry, but for the living man,They are never sorry.This person, who is the sufferer,Will never be able to withstand,The chances snatched from him,He thinks, “Am I under a ban?”So he dies, and the world isForever in debtFor the man who facedDeath before his death.

Everything is like a wall. Said a scholar to the troll. Bang your head to go on through. Then you'll see, there is no queue.

… my words are lovewhich willfully parades inits room, refusing to move.

I found an empty chairand sat on itto find myself even emptier.I found a broken glassand looked at itto see my dissolved facea little prettierI found a steep doorwayand enteredin order to close my exit.From the poem 'Blue Stanzas

And what I said was I’ll miss you, What I meant to say was that I love you, What I wanted to say was that I meant what I said I miss you like I miss my own bedafter too many nights of sleeping on couchesor hardwood floors Or sitting silently behind the doors Of hotel rooms became wounds Breathing life in to this loneliness I miss youLike a burn victim must miss their own skinI miss you like a sad ending Must miss someplace new to beginBecause some say that the highway becomes a flat line if you travel it for too longI can’t tell if that’s true or false, But I’m racing down it towards you trying to find myPulse.

Shane L. Koyczan

I don't know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all the roses. Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

How muchI want you,I don't know.

Talentless and incompetent as I am, there are two things I can do, and two things only: walk, with my own two feet; compose, composing my poems.

Santōka Taneda

no time agoor else a lifewalking in the darki met christjesus)my heartflopped overand lay stillwhile he passed(asclose as i’m to youyes closermade of nothingexcept loneliness.

I scared a little porcupineand caught a quill in my behind.It hurt so badly in my tail,but tugging on it made me yell.The porcupine was still around,so I complained. He simply frownedand said, "Stop whining! Look and seehow many quills are stuck on me!

Richelle E. Goodrich

If perfection is absurd, why is tragedy common?

John Most

I only ever wanted to feel more human.

This earth is His, to Him belong those vast and boundless skies;Both seas within Him rest, and yet in that small pool He lies.

I find that the thoughts spoken between the lines are the most important parts of a poem or story.

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