Best 33 quotes of Kristen Henderson on MyQuotes

A giant motherboard of geese, unruffled by the state police, swarmed in unison, in harmony...

And no matter what closet we were thrown in, up what river we were sold for an embarrassment, or worse, traded for a bottle of gin-- we’d carry on in playful stitches, friends ‘til the end…which came sooner than wished.

As a woman still, without the right kind of mouth, my tongue’s of no use.

Editors keep pushing deadline strain while people sleep on benches and subway grates; a welter weight boxer dances on the platform at 125th Street station, commuters look unfazed...

Even the bees I'd swear were sent to protect us in the delicate business of hives and honey are stung to silence by the news that something winged has lost its flight.

He may take long walks in the raining dark almost aimlessly to a spot of soaked grass in a neighbor’s open field. He’s decided this is the place for you and him to meet again.

He utilizes form for a striking lecture; young poets shiver inexperience, but thaw over their own work, fertilize magic.

I dream for an absentee and oft maligned device—the accident-maker, the soul-taker, my camera; its factory guaranteed third eye, without which I am duly dim and memory denied. No pictures for my contrived Arbus to declare, excepting some stitch of Sexton manages these sentences of despair.

If in poetry court she was called to testify on matters where I was condemned to imprisonment: parking my ego at a broken meter, line violations, forced rhyme, dealing stanzaics to children, shooting off my mouth, getting cute, for even this latest attempt at verse, she would tell the whole truth, she would admit from the pit of her unsung brilliance, from all of the paintings and poems she herself has been making and storing in the vast empire of her singing soul, your Honor, my daughter is guilty of plagiarizing my cells.

If you knew you were going to lose your memory but you could choose five things you’d never forget, what would they be— a certain face, a taste, a scent, a touch; how deep in this, the middle of your life?

In history, the bleeding from arbitrary beatings, forced breedings, and choked-heat breathing could almost be withstood by soul-feeding songs sung, or listlessly hummed just to go on.

I offer a duo of free-range monosyllabics: one being “wow” and the other being “cool,” often said in sequence, spoken without drawl. Take them, leave them, or show me to the Dewer’s--

I tell you once and for all— in front of the angel pictures on the wall, that I am not a host to load-bearing ghosts or heady entities, and if I was ever holy, I have fallen far into the dense atmosphere of the living.

It was as if someone had left the bird there as a kind of telegram of feathers, oily feathers that looked like they’d struggled, shuttered a little before letting go into flight forever.

I wonder what became of you, your Johnny Rotten skin, no Emerald City eyes. You'd have been a beauty if you let inferiority steam your glasses with its candor, sans laughter.

I write for pages, get lost in the mezzanine hidden from stages.

Oblong stones sink slow and sideways. Shaped by the weight of waves, dutifully vibrating nature’s lunar-bound graces, they wash ashore only for closed palms to forsake them. The cheerful will cherish them, place them on windowsills, or on graves.

Once, I took the penny whistle you gave me and discovered a spot by the roaring falls where I could play as loud as I wanted. I lay in the bifurcated trunk of a low-slung birch tree. The sun peeked through applauding leaves, high overhead.

Once lively peonies now wind-weary, and ragged at the edges, hang their heavy crowns; rain on their backs, one final act, before detaching from the stem and falling down.

She was so cool, as she knew, ankles crossed at the puckered hem of granite gray sweatpants, and she also knew I was watching from the open door of the B train—watching her pose in apparent comfort at the girder of this city thoroughfare.

Such is a community of inviolable immunity, protected from tampering or harpooning mutiny. Every better thinker’s impulse to shrink us (at the shoreline from our lifeblood’s deep pulse) uses disparaging scrutiny to sink us.

Sure, I watched the workmen come and lower large pieces of rotten sheetrock and lift new clean panels on a pulley from that same window months ago, and I could have written then, but I must have sensed her coming, the smoker, so I waited.

The outfit, tight in places, and loose in some, says as much in the buttons as it does in cuffs.

there’s no way I can sleep in any position with so much still unwritten about the glory of basements, where, with all the promise in crock pot boxes, small animals go to die, piles of laundry hide the machines, rusted tools fall into other rusted tools giving way to unsung sculpture, soiled playing cards and unmatched socks strewn atop a punched-out screen door make a shaggy parquet; and a famished, leggy fluorescent tube barely winks on the entire scene.

Think of the Christmas present of gashes you opened when, in an attempt to be Superman, you slid in stocking feet on a slippery wood floor and crashed half way through a window. Hopes of heroism dashed on the heels of no clear sighting of Santa.

Through a trick lighting technique the skyline was made and faded with the care of a pointillist— maybe aiding us to think nothing was missing. We traded verbs about what was happening in the metropolis, realizing, in the scorched plum of dusk, actual human infinity was occurring on an island before us....

Time’s relativity is considered and abandoned, for the more revelatory experiences of starlight in strands, and pearly floors that span as far as absolute compassion...

Up past the old lime kiln built into the side of a hill we take a hard right at a clearing lined by brittle apple trees still willing to bear fruit. I snap sticks beneath my feet and steal pictures of the view while you reach for something sweet, as much as it bows to you.

...we’re not even really hiking, more like meandering in cinematic light.

Who is so fancy, esoterica saves the day? Who is the Yogi, Namaste?

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

...you hold a poem that functions half as personal note and half as telescope to the heights awaiting us all.

You think it’s a game? Unintelligible? Ha! Envision no spoons. This is serious. It is a matter of joy versus emptiness.