Poetry Quotes - Page 20

Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.

it is to be savored like a seabreeze-whispereddream...in the mysteriousblue minutesbefore dawnlike a secretinfatuation.... like slowlanguorous sipsof green tea... like a lingeringglimpsea self-wrappedparadiselike his name upon my lips.

The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though “he was full of ideas.” “My dear Degas,” Mallarmé responded, “poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.

Stéphane Mallarmé

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, so what happens when the person's eyes are unavailable to look into? You read their words.

this life has been a landscape of painand still,flowersbloom in it.

...and so many colorsI will have seen...the menacing greysand pine greensthe soft pink and purplesof springand summer blueand so many otherswithout you.

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.

the moon is just another kind of clock

Kelli Russell Agodon

If you believe it, it is.

Dead tree branches rattled,the cold wind seethed, it prattled of abominations about to unfold.A lone wolf howled,the full moon it prowled,ready for evils untold.

Look, moonI turned silver for you.

I’m burning in despair Love which you distanced from me Return once again I’ll forgive you againReturn, Page 19

Delicious David

someday i will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.

I am just like you,Destined to play my part.And leave,In the nature of my departure at least,Some kind of sweet message behindIn the fathomless pattern I make.

We are merely ghost flowers under the shade of the moonMany shades of secret sorrows blanket our eyesWe spend our lives and our soulsSearching-Longing-Waiting-For a little light to shine and heal our broken halo’s

Steven A. Williams

Let bricks of truth fill the skies and send their walls of conformity crashing downAnd let the heavens echo with the blows of our liberation

Steven A. Williams

there have been morningsso quiet and tenderlike a poem, on Thursday's lipsthat I wonderedif I'd been kissed at all...

We keep asking where they have gonethose years we remember and wereach for them like hands in the night

I wonder at the starry pattern in the skyAre they little pieces of moon which want to fly..?

She was the unlucky lover,who loved everyone but herself

Now I think poetry will save nothing from oblivion, but I keep writing about the ordinary because for me it's the home of the extraordinary, the only home.

Poetry is –raw feelings as sunny summer,fiery turmoil as vibrant autumn,daunting revelation as stormy winter,intrepid hope as blooming spring.

Gloria D. Gonsalves

Poetry is the royal essence of beauty.

Kristian Goldmund Aumann

I want you to crave the crisp ocean breezeas much as I do.I want your soul to beas rain-swept as mine.

As the sky prepares to settle its tired, aching feetinto the night’s velvet slippersI settle, into my armchair, soaking the teabag,of my thoughts, into warm liquidy stars.

I live there...Far above the song-filled clouds,where the dewdrops touch my skin so bareI live there.

There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find

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

i can’t always tell what’s betterlong drivesin the star-spangled desertsor long walksalong winding tea gardens.

The edge of the sea masks a clock that marks the waves.

I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might I am not one, I am not two, but I am a million things entwined I am a piece, I am a slice, strung together by the yarns of time.

Loving you is kissing the night, exposing the scars, words in flames, for every drop and for every life.

Your smile is poetry to my soul igniting flames of old

Micheline Jean Louis

Give mea moon-blanket nightto keep me warma long-gone smileto comfort mea pair of rain-blue eyesto haunt mea simple soul...to love me.

let me diefrom having being drunk onindigo skies, my liver...overflowing with stars.

I live there...where the birds are infiniteeverywherewhere they fleeit's a place your eyes can wanderbut never seeWhere everyone accepts me,Without any pretenseIt's a place your mind can picturebut never really comprehend.

I blink January’s lashesand gush down December’s cheeks

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

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

the ocean mist engulfs me, like a lifetime’s friendship honored.

the sapphire depthof my own love...startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

Do not eat of this world,she warned as I left,unless you are willing to suffer.

How can I blame the cherry blossomsFor rejecting this floating world And drifting away as the wind calls them

Shunzei's daughter

I am going to hurt you.You are going to hurt me.But we will do it with practiced fingersand passionate mouthsand I swear to godit will be worth something.

At the end of the day all we ever need is something that helped pass the time and something that keeps time from passing.

Like a speeding trainI am passing by...I don’t knowwhere I’m headingwith whom or whyall I know is thatI will never, everpass from here againall I know is I’m skidding forwardon this track of life.

Some find freedom in comfortothers find comfort in freedom

What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.

Pray that the summer mornings are many when with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time

Constantinos P. Cavafis

Authority forgets a dying king

Alfred Tennyson

As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work is a friendship that never leaves you.

Jason E. Hodges

I was a poet. I had no expectations other than creating a world of art with words that would live on long after I was gone.

Jason E. Hodges

The gristle of the underneath stings in the air of responsibility.

Mark Ryan

They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?

Jason E. Hodges

As I have no form now, I will be recreated;into unknown new shapes, colours and forms distorted.the 'I' in me has faded, and passed on, to a distant land,

Poets, with no sponsors, no agenda, are the truest form of freedom today, bleeding out every drop of themselves for the world to either hate or devour.

Jason E. Hodges

Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.

Jason E. Hodges

Poetry is not difficult. If you possess one of the five senses, poetry is in it. If you can compose text message, tweet or Facebook status, you can write poetry. If you can rap a song, you can rhyme poetry. If you can memorise a prayer, you can recite poetry. If you struggle to make sense of formatted text, poetry is your call.

Gloria D. Gonsalves

The vertical manThough we value noneBut the horizontal one.

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