Poetry Quotes - Page 45

The sea, the sea…Man alone,Passive, unawareIn his elemental sadness.

Be as audaciousAs you wish.By all means look to the heavens.

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

A permanent pathThat, once illuminated,Goes ever onward – a way home…

We too can repair our cracks with goldAnd glow again.Crazed by life,More beautiful than ever before.

Everyday can be extraordinaryAnd ripe,Like a flower burst,If the will is there.

Ultimately not one amongst usWill ever be denied that,The glimmer of a chance to shine.

Once spun,The silken thread of all our aspirationsRemains intact,It can never be broken.

Nothing that truly mattersCan ever evaporate,Be excised,Burnt out of your soul.

I think poetry without metaphor is like husband and wife living in separate bedrooms.

Real Martial Arts is Mathematics, Physics, Poetry; Meditation in Action

Soke Behzad Ahmadi

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

Give me a moment I am preparing to drawback to screamLouder than a train overhead below a railroad bridge

John E. Wordslinger

A thinker builds his castle of thoughts inside a garden of roses and it loses its relevance among the roses. He builds it along the shore and it’s trampled by the fury of waves eventually. He builds it on a cliff high enough and it becomes impregnable but out of reach. Such is the fate of that castle

I won't be stuck in traffic 'til I see how rugged my path isAnd right now I'm loving how fast my troubles are fastingNo they don't bother me oh realizing I'm psychopathicA wild beast, baby I'm gladly running afterYes a thing called peace outlasting any madnessThe devil fears me oh he's feelingLike a fragment of a fractionNo he won't come near me'Cause his hat trick's out of practice

Dance,' they told me, and I stood still,and while I stood quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.'Pray,' they said, and I laughed,covering myself in the earth's brightnesses,and then stole off gray into the midst of a revel,and prayed like an orphan.

A writer will divine a metaphor from a pattern on a dress, or a gesture, because sunsets have been done before.

Brandi L. Bates

Strike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with Apollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlit waves, and charm the lovers wandering 'mid the vine-clad hills. But know, your sweetest strains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh—the laugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. O rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary line between the beasts and men; and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some fretful fiend of care. O Laughter, rose-lipped daughter of Joy, there are dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of grief.

Robert G. Ingersoll

But tears are an indulgence. Memory sings.

I see the life with your sight,O" the love; you're my light.

Debasish Mridha

Some of you say, 'Joy is greater thar sorrow,' and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'But I say unto you, they are inseparable.Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

I will not stop singingthe Muses who set me dancing.

My tears of joyhear the raindrops crying,as the rain never wants to pourdown on my cloudy dayswhen I makeour love-dreamsfor the sun to dreamonly for you....(From the poem "Only For You" By Munia Khan)

Every pain, addiction, anguish, longing, depression, anger or fearis an orphaned part of usseeking joy, some disowned shadow wanting to returnto the lightand homeof ourselves.

Life has sadness, joy, beauty, like poetry.So be passionate and write a great story.

Debasish Mridha

Good poetry reveals the beauty of joy and tragedy.

Debasish Mridha

Dig Deep! When the task at hand seems to be very difficult. Dig Deep! Whenever you feel you're drifting away from your intended course. Dig Deep! When others doubt you and say it can't be done. Dig Deep! Whenever you feel like giving up. Dig Deep! When life throws you a curve ball. If you quit, you'll never hit that homerun

Amaka Imani Nkosazana

The Inner Self...What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

Muse

Tiny GigglesSilly giggles of laughterI store upon a shelfI give some to otherI save some for myselfI am rich beyond all measureThough not with worldly wealthI store up these treasuresFor my heart and soulful health.

Muse

... ancient days of sorrowancient days of pain-heartaches of the pastslowly began to wane ...(from gleaning granules)

Muse

Lollypop...the passion contained merely kissesplaced upon lips, neck and cheekthese young lovers of the castleof which our fairytale speaks...

Muse

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

For every moment of suffering,Others will arriveThat will instead pierce you with joy.

In the Light of your Wisdom, You Shine. In the Midst of your Truth, Your Faith is Evident. From inside your Spirit, You are Love.

Amaka Imani Nkosazana

Such is true joy’s absolute certainty,Its slow lit fuse that burns holesIn the shabby shroud of death forever.

how can i everbreathe normally againafter having been cradledby the kind of sorrowso silent, that it nourishesafter having been sweptby the kind of joyso absolute, that it wounds.

Poetry is Life. We experience poetry from the time we awake each morning and inhale that fresh breath of air. You are living poetry. Poetry is not defined by the laws of man. Inspiration is the key.

Amaka Imani Nkosazana

She cries,I laugh,She becomes numb,I become filled with joy,She slowly crumbles,I feel on top of the world,Yet somehow in the end,Out of the ashes,She rose like a Phoenix,As if nothing had ever touched her

Let us be the joy to find the joyLet us be the love to find the loveLet us be kind to find kindnessLet us be happy to find happiness.Let us be simple to find simplicityLet us be modest to find modestyLet us feel to comprehend Let us listen to understand Let us live our life to beLet us close our eyes to see.

Debasish Mridha

Love frees us of all pain, or of any restraint. Once a circle that ever widens without end. Various colors it shines in our lives to paintExcelsis, glorious manifestation to befriend.

Ana Claudia Antunes

I believe in Aphrodite, I believe in insane thinkers, I believe in roaring free-spirits, I believe in full-throated poetry, I believe in feverish sex and moony love with all its facets.

There's a story here.A catastrophic silence where our thoughts and feelings collide ...Where your sweetness overrides my senses and our bodies move to the same tune.The same song.The same melody.The same stroke.The same rhythm.It's our story, Trinity, and it's just begging to be told.

Nadège Richards

thighs made of hymns, I read 'em like I'm reading runes. Now tell me where my future lies...your neck, can I Savion on it?

Brandi L. Bates

can't even sleep through the night without you and those sun-dried ginger ale complected limbs crocheted into my thighs...

Brandi L. Bates

THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape.When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man.She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street.For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit.She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.

Brandi L. Bates

That was not sex. That was naked poetry.

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 is no greater escape.Love and war, even when buttered on toast,still makes for the breakfast of champions.

In the hours waking,when we're still all still,and you can hear the floorboards creaking,and you can feel the shades blow in,the night we slept with,we'll never kiss like that again.Our lips, will sever, our memories, will dissipate,and our shadows will be swallowed by the sky.

I see specks of the Universe in your eyes.A body of stardustthat gives me a high.And when we make lovethe stars shine brighter than usual.When we lie there holding each other, I see love making us.

Saiber

She is emerging (she has no choice) / into a place / like sex or childbirth, / one thing to the observer, something very different to the participant.

But damn if there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.

With each kiss in the cold house  we swallow clouds of breath – exhaled spirit, speech bubbles  we’d rather lick away  than fill with words. We run naked from room to room,  keeping the walls warm.  Our bodies blur through the halls  of your house, its winter circulation.

we are born into this world on the tailcoats of a scream. born into gritted teeth and a shock of red across the pristine. born into a solemn hush. are you evil? you, who tore into this world on a steed of crimson… are you a monster? we are born as angels, toothless, a mouth a gurgling brook. and as we grow, so do our wings, until we are high enough to see that our church is no more than a small forest and the altar a tree. are you a monster, angel with fangs? all teeth, thick with teeth, you can’t even close your mouth anymore. it rains and it’s like drowning. corn husk skin and we’re born again. into a time of being tied down, to a person, to a bed. a time of clipped wings. of holy cries out to a void. your wildness a convenience store in the desert, pale pink, dusty, arid. your wildness staring longingly at the screaming horizon and flicking another cigarette butt into the dirt, a lone oscillating fan its only company. we’re born into this concrete world, where sanctuary is to be alone or to pretend to like it. this world of broken bottles instead of leaf crunch. roadside motels proclaiming vacancies. inside and out. that pluck your heartstrings. a new church, a fresh sin. the altar now a white railing against a muted matte pink wall. you lean against it, hips jutted to the side. some of the eighties still lingers. you see a man in a leather jacket kissing a girl’s neck purple. he looks up. teeth are everywhere. hundreds of glistening teeth. you turn away. your wings shush against an old telephone booth, door forced closed. you’re calling your mother to say you’re sorry for hurting her, but when she answers you hang up.

When the two become the oneAnd the inside outside, the outside inSo that the male be not male nor the female femaleThen will you see me.

if god is real, she put all of herself into this girl. she vowed to unleash a woman so violently herself, the sky would collapse every time she came to orgasm.

Writing poetry is like having sex with the universe and the language is just a condom.

TRIPURARI

If you have a strong stomachread on.

The more formidable the contradiction between inexhaustible life-joy and inevitable fate, the greater the longing which reveals itself in the kingdom of poetry and in the self-created world of dreams hopes to banish the dark power of reality. The gods enjoy eternal youth, and the search for the means of securing it was one of the occupations of the heroes of mythology and the sages, as it was of real adventurers in the middle ages and more recent times. . . . But the fountain of youth has not been found, and can not be found if it is sought in any particular spot on the earth. Yet it is no fable, no dream-picture; it requires no adept to find it: it streams forth inexhaustible in all living nature.

. . . I suppose one starts out, as a child, being romantic and dreaming of adventure. Poetic. Then reality comes along, and with it, a whole lot of prose.

When flying dreams hit the soil of reality, all that remains are the imprints of experience.

Soar

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