Poetry Quotes - Page 31

Mislaid flame of tender emotionsRekindled.Together we live to the point of tears,I wouldn’t want it any other way.

There can be no law of nature, no science,No aberrant infliction of human willThat unchained the soul cannot conquer,Simply sweep away, should it chose to.

Sacred space in whichTo distil, like amber,The best of your love.

Perhaps it was the way he'd look at me and smile,Perhaps it was the sound of his voice after being utterly defeated,Perhaps it was the warmth of his touch,Perhaps I've always been in love with you

I'm not your blue-eyed Czech,I'm just a brown-eyed girl, A little mix of rock your world,And now you'll never be the same. You grabbed me by the hand,I grabbed you by the neck. I changed the game, and your convictions.So is it criminal to steal a heart or two?I keep them on the shelf, Like only hunters do. I like it hardI like you highI love your mouthWhen it's on mine.I wanna hear you make that sound, Cause it's the greatest thing around. Take it off now,Take from here.Watch your head spin When I come near,And you will lose every time,Cause I won't stop until your mine.And they say who the hell is she?They either love me or they hate me. But still they never look away,This vixen's gonna give you everything.

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas,'the way one commits a crime.

Elizabeth Bishop

I stood there on the corner of the street,I held on to your hand,I looked into your eyes,And all you responded with was,"move on

How can you say you love mewhen you’ve never seen me cry?when you’ve never heard the pieces that keep breaking up insideOr when the sky is dark and I’m restless in my bed will you be the one to whisper that the sun will rise ahead?You’ve never seen the battle scarsthat lay across my skin the price I paid for love, and a joy that grew withinSometimes the weight I carry isn't always feather light will you pick it up and stand up straight, brave against the fight?There's always room for fun and laughs and a beauty to keep warm but I'd never sail away with you if you can’t survive the storm.

You were just another stranger in the room,In a room full of bodies, I was attracted to you,I became your tiny dancer,I became everything to you,Little did you know,That I'm just a dancer, Not your fool.

I am at the gates of my own destruction.(Or so I'm told.)

Some of us die long before our last breath. We perish in the fire of love, reduced to ashes in the consuming blaze. No, we do not die when our hearts cease to beat, but when they start beating the first timefor someone else.

Shakieb Orgunwall

Deep down,I lay dormant inside her head,Deep down,I lay the rules inside her head,Deep down,I lay inside inside her heart,Deep down,I know she will never move onBecause deep down, I am always there

How—I didn't know anyword for it—how "unlikely". . .How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?

Elizabeth Bishop

I did what I could,I tried to stay away,I told myself that I don't need you,I don't need to feel this way,But soon I realized that I am just a fishAlways falling as you're prey

Language is rich, and malleable. It is a living, vibrant material, and every part of a poem works in conjunction with every other part - the content, the place, the diction, the rhythm, the tone-as well as the very sliding, floating, thumping, rapping sounds of it.

The first stanza of Eyes In Moonlight Drown, a poem from DeadVerse.With your face framed in a halo of stars,your hair melts into trailing clouds,and your eyes in moonlight drown.A man could lose himselfin those freckled irises,reflecting the galaxies above;surely he could fall into their promiseof eternity, of Heaven, of love.Your lips glisten, part, and beckon,a smile of warm invitation,a suggestion of sweet intensity,a loss of self in addictive agony.For we translate these aestheticsinto something mystical;ideas of fantasy, of fiction,obscuring the clinical truthof chemical reactions,electric sparks, responsesas sure as gravity,measurable yet beyond cold,above philosophy and below truth.

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

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

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 --

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.

Every poem is unique to each person who reads it.

Salil Jha

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

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 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.

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

Have you sipped your poems today?

Helvy Tiana Rosa

The respect + love for humanity that's why I travel.We are all special and gifted beings, no matter our religious differences. The message should be peace,love and prosperity. There should be no adversity but solidarity.

Henry Johnson Jr

Anything is a poem if you say it often enough.

Catherynne M. Valente

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.

I adore forgotten words, long lost folk tales, and books with pages soft and crumbling. I am a collector of scents and memories. The things that others bury are the things I hold most dear.

Nichole McElhaney

You are a cool cemetery.You have the sinner’s graveYou have the saint’s earthcollidingYou have all the bedsnarrow as a knife;as if a rally of tombstones to defend death.But you can’t really postponethe inauguration of my burial,can you?From the poem - Few Words to Cemetery

I forgot to supannoyancefrom his glass full ofmingled dread and rageNow let me takea small draught of solacefrom my own little cupfull of predicaments!From the poem- Draught

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!O falling fire and piercing cryand panic, and a weak mailed fistclenched ignorant against the sky!

Elizabeth Bishop

I don't feel at home where I am,or where I spend time; only where,beyond counting, there's freedom and calm,that is, waves, that is, space where, when there,you consist of pure freedom, which, seen,turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone,to pebbles and sand . . . where life's mean-ing lies buried, that never let onecome within cannon shot yet.From cloud-covered wells untoldpour color and light, a feteof cupids and Ledas in gold.That is, silk and honey and sheen.That is, boon and quiver and call.That is, all that lives to be free,needing no words at all.

Oracle of Delphi:In my deep mystery I breatheyour fragrance swirling inyour odourless soulI return your mysteryrevealing your destiny deep inthe seed of your God Self

Ramon Ravenswood

I long fora little life,an everyday life,a splash of sunlightthrough a windowa smile from a stranger -a heart to hold in mine.

Menna van Praag

A rain like melting pillows…a rain so beautifulI could neverhave let go ofif not certainthat someday...it would find its wayinto my poem.

Sound.Noisethe air employs.Melodies sweet.Tweet, tweet, tweet.Soft. Loud.A roaring crowd.Cluck. Caw. Crow.Tet, tet. Tis, tis.Guttural growl.Harrowing howl.Drip, drip, drip.Tap, tap, tap.Moan and groan.Endless drone.Ding, dang, dong.A church bell song.Vibrations in my earto hear.Sound.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Shadow of Your SpiritAt night I see the shadow of your spiritMixing with my blood and soulDuring the day I see your photosThey tell me come to meCome to my world and romanceEven I don’t know by myselfHow I fell into your loveI cannot remove it from my heartYour love stabled my soul

Kamaran Ihsan Salih

I tossed a stone into the Sea To see what it would do for me And the ripples went out And became ocean waves To return to the Sea inside of me

Mark A.Y. Nunez

I slay dragons at night while you sleep. I see by the way your face contorts how they exist in your dreams. Willing a magic sword, I plunge into your deepest nightmares and swing at the beasts with all my might, dodging flames exhaled by monsters that would eat me alive to go on torturing the fair one I love. I see your face relax, eyes still drowsily closed, when the mighty dragon is slain. It may be that my fingers rub soft circles on your forehead as I imagine my brave fight as a knight reclaiming your dreams. You smile under the spell of my touch, and I am rewarded. And so, my love, as I await the dawn, I stand ready to slay dragons while you sleep.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.

Ged Thompson ~Poet

Dancing to the sounds of trees and stones and slow minutes ticking in our hearts and bones.

No. Not really red,but the color of a rose when it bleeds.

Those lips that Love's own hand did makeBreathed forth the sound that said, 'I hate'To me that languished for her sake,But, when she saw my woeful state,Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that ever sweetWas used in giving gentle doom,And taught it thus anew to greet:'I hate,' she altered with an endThat followed it as gentle dayDoth follow night, who like a fiendFrom Heaven to Hell is flown away.'I hate' from hate away she threwAnd saved my life, saying 'not you'.

William Shakespeare

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