Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Grand Sky/Grand Prairie Both harbor the vastness of space. One holds the space Of starlight, thunder snow, rock and icy comets, scrolls Of clouds; the other the spaces inside see heart and ovum, Root webs, spider webs, budded blossoms. They lean together tightly day and night, pressing One into the other, each creating the horizon of the other. They exchange themselves. At evening one becomes The steady night in which the other lives. Yet witness How the moon first rises from the body of the prairie Into the height of the sky that then possesses it. Their horizons are persistent illusion.

Grand Canyon/West Human stories roll across the Landscape, demanding attention, voicing Their energy, responding to my questions; The land only vibrates in the wind. Or not. Rocks and lava, caught in the moment Of fall, of flow, expose fractured Innards and cooled heat, vibrate only rarely. These human voices and the tales they tell Deflect with looks,their gestures, Their act of giving me what it can feel Myself, or at least understand. I can’t Put myself in the pinyon’s place, trembling At the edge, growing at the upper end of a Human sized bowl, the lower end a slot i peer Through to see the river’s ribbon, its white flecked Trail through the deepest cleft of all. I can’t know The pinyon’s mind , though I try.

Grass doesn't strain to grow, birds didn't invent flight, and the Sun doesn't need a light switch.

GRASS The grass is spreading out across the plain, Each year, it dies, then flourishes again. It's burnt but not destroyed by prairie fires, When spring winds blow they bring it back to life. Afar, its scent invades the ancient road, Its emerald green overruns the ruined town. Again I see my noble friend depart, I find I'm crowded full of parting's feelings.

Gratitude without practicing maybe like practicing a faith without good work. A grateful heart is not enough without a grateful habit; because your joy is not produced by what you put in your heart but by habit you put in your life.

Great God, Great faith. Great faith, Great spirit. Great spirit, Great soul. Great soul, great life. Great life, great deeds. Great deeds, great blessings.

Great souls encouraged us to be great.

Great poets are great copy editors.

Greedy lovely beast who consumed my heart, devoured my soul, and left me with a madness; a wicked devil’s tongue. Now I write you in my 2 a.m. poems, and savor every fleshly word.

Great poems know more than their poets, but they cannot exist without them.

Great struggles make for great stories.

Greenery Juniper, Oracle Oak and Hop Tree, California Buckeye, and Elderberry. Pacific Dogwood and the pale green Eucalyptus, Quaking Aspen and Flannelbush. raw, sprouting, lush green love green with envy green with youth green with early spring olive, emerald, avocado, greenlight ready, set, GO! greenhouse, greenbelts, ocean kelp, cucumber, lizard, lime and forest green, spruce, teal, and putting green. green-eyed, verdant, grassy, immature green and leafy green half-formed tender, pleasant, alluring temperate freshly sawed vigorous not ripe yet promising greenbriar, greenbug, green dragon greenshanks running along the ocean's edge greenlings swimming greenlets singing greengage plums green thumbs greenhorns and greenflies- how on earth amid sage swells kelly hillsides and swirls of firs did I ever find that green of hers? holly, drake, and brewster green, pistachio, shamrock, serpentine terre verde, Brunswick, tourmaline, lotus, jade, and spinach green: start to finish lowlands to highs no field, no forest, no leaf, no blade can catch the light or trap the shade; no earthly tones will ever rise to match the green enchantment of her eyes.

Grief might be easy if there wasn't still such beauty--would be far simpler if the silver maple didn't thrust its leaves into flame, trusting that spring will find it again.

Grief is a nation of everyone, a country without borders. I roam the avenues of it out of habit.

Grliti znaci postati apsolutan, Dati sve od sebe, cak i mnogo vise.

Green trees against the sky in the spring rain while the sky set off the spring trees in the obscuration. Red flowers dot the land in the breeze's chase while the land colored up in red after the kiss.

Groomed and clean cut are fine and dandy, but I want to run with the mad ones; the ones comfortable playing in overgrown forests, rolling in leaves, dancing under a scorching sun. The ones not afraid of getting dirty. Not afraid of burning.

...gripping the rim of the sink you claw your way to stand and cling there, quaking with will, on heron legs, and still the hot muck pours out of you. (p. 27)

Growing older is a blurred birth certificate that only can take us to this world’s perplexed journey, but it cannot smear the letters of the epitaph

Growing up; the world was a tablecloth upon which countries were set like placemats; and I played Musical Chairs around the dinner table.

Had art indeed depended on experience as much as the critical profession wants us to believe, we'd have far more – and far better – art on our hands than we do. A poet is always the product of his – that is, his nation's – language, to which living experiences are what logs are to fire

Hades Where we go when he closes my eyes and under what country; some blue darkness, farther from hell; a landscape of absense and root and stone. There are no bodies here, we dream shapeless dreams-- a constant, cloudless storm. Mother, I'll never wake up from him. I have already traveled too far. My mouth is the color of his mouth and his arms are no longer his arms; they're mute as smoke, as my first white dress, and the spear of his name, once ferocious, dissolves on my tongue like sugar, like birdsong, I whisper it: Hades

Had a cold hummus with pita bread, Under a delicious food, yellow or red. Might just have the appetite to cook Urgent dinner by hook or crook. So that's just a humus humor spread.

Haiku does not express emotion from the inside out by displaying the mind of a character. Haiku builds the emotional thrust, makes the artistic statement from the outside in, from the physical world to the mind of the reader.

Had I known, I would not have left you, alone beneath those stars, on the night when I last saw you, not knowing it was the last.

Had I only known my letters Would be of such importance I’d empty myself on paper Every single morning’ And it was for such reason, as she read his little stanza, that she decided to stamp one final letter: ‘Every single morning I’d empty myself on paper You were my greater importance That’s why I wrote you letters.

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert.

Haleine contre haleine, échauffe-moi la vie, Mille et mille baisers donne-moi je te prie, Amour veut tout sans nombre, amour n’a point de loi Translated: Breath against breath warms my life. A thousand kisses give me I pray thee. Love says it all without number, love knows no law.

Ha! no more dirges for the dead summer—and here,the shrills of that unpleasant months over, and new leaves start to shiver;as the winter smiled in her foggy bath!

Halpin was pretty generally deprecated as an intellectual black sheep who was likely at any moment to disgrace the flock by bleating in metre. The Tennessee Fraysers were a practical folk - not practical in the popular sense of devotion to sordid pursuits, but having a robust contempt for any qualities unfitting a man for the wholesome vocation of politics.

Hanged" I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever, the point is I hanged myself today and I’m still hanging. I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that someone will come home and cut me down but then I keep remembering that if I knew someone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bit ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read somewhere that, like, anything funny is, in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it's funny or not. I don’t think my brain owns “funny”, you know? I feel taller. I like that. I’ve never been away from my shadow for this long. It had always clung to my feet, parting momentarily for a quick dive into the swimming pool. But never for five hours. I like it. There’s three feet of space between my two and the floor. I wanted something this morning. I may be stuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

Hak cihâna tolıdur kimseler Hakk’ı bilmez / Anı sen senden iste o senden ayru olmaz.

Hair tangled with the wind Sun kissed face Lover of the forest the sea the sky and anything wild and free She’s a gypsy goddess.

Happy New Year (31 Dec 2017) December 31. A wine fish was lost in your long cheeks of swallows. I looked up and discovered that the starry night was never so lonely. Yes! The night full of stars was never so lonely! How else can someone be alone, if not surrounded by his soul? How else can someone be alone, if not populated by his soul?

Happiness Makes Up in Height For What It Lacks in Length Oh, stormy stormy world, The days you were not swirled Around with mist and cloud, Or wrapped as in a shroud, And the sun’s brilliant ball Was not in part or all Obscured from mortal view— Were days so very few I can but wonder whence I get the lasting sense Of so much warmth and light. If my mistrust is right It may be altogether From one day’s perfect weather, When starting clear at dawn, The day swept clearly on To finish clear at eve. I verily believe My fair impression may Be all from that one day No shadow crossed but ours As through its blazing flowers We went from house to wood For change of solitude.

Happy Easter to you, my friend! This day’s light shall have no end. For Christ did rise In the golden morn And by His life are we reborn. Happy Easter to one and all! The night is over, the sun is tall. The day did break with a tiny beam And flooded life with Light supreme.

Hark, how the cheerful birds do chaunt their lays, and carol of love's praise.

Harold's Bow and Food Bowl bowl bowl bowl Food food food food The miracle of the heavenly restaurant I mouth this great dark sad evening Suddenly they come for me in a limousine How could I have believed I was vanquished I never lay slain I am the victor this parade is for me Now they have led me to the doors of God Long ago and forever I was in this place on the other side of eating where I am full and the empty bowl is beautiful -- from Unleashed: Poems by Writers' Dogs

Hate flows from a broken spirit.

Have you been caring to all your children? Will they take you than be at old folks' den? Will they feel honored pushing your wheelchair? Will hearts break when your breath runs out of spare?

...have I told you? - your eyes are a dark poem of dancing snow at midnight ...

Have you ever built a monument out of sadness? Have you ever had a monument built out of depression built on you?

Have you ever asked yourself this question "what can God do through me?" The preacher has no platform if the people has no sense of mission.

having been hurt before

Haunted by demons of the past, hounded by demons not yet met, the nevermore and evermore left her little peace.” ~A Tale of Two Women

Have you ever make out time to ask God if there is anything or anybody you need to drop in your life? Are you still holding on to offences? When is the right time to drop it? I am sure once you make this attempt He will show you. I declare that God is going to set some captives free.

Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately takes to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper no matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.

Havin loved enough and lost enough, I'm no longer searching, just opening, no longer trying to make sense of pain but trying to be a soft and sturdy home in which real things can land. These are the irritations that rub into a pearl. So we can talk for a while but then we must listen, the way rocks listen to the sea. And we can churn at all that goes wrong but then we must lay all distractions down and water every living seed. And yes, on nights like tonight I too feel along. But seldom do I face it squarely enough to see that it's a door into the endless berath that has no breather, into the surf that human shell calls God.

Having to explain to someone how they hurt you, always feels like an ass kicking... again.