Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

STONE Let my heart turn to stone. Maybe then I can sleep without nightmares. May be then I can eat without a stomachache. Maybe then I can read without fear of an unhappy ending. Take the knife out of my heart and,please, let it turn to stone.

stimulus: relevant cry (if then therefore) say: cry. say: knife o knife o knife

Stone Seeking Warmth Look, it's usually not a good idea to think seriously about me. I've been known to give others a hard time. I've had wives and lovers— trust that I know a little about trying to remain whole while living a divided life. I don't easily open up. If you come to me, come to me so warned. I am smooth and grayish. It's possible my soul is made of schist. But if you are not dissuaded by now, well, my door is ajar. I don't care if you're in collusion with the wind. I wouldn't mind being diminished one caress at a time. Come in, there's nothing here but solitude and me. I like to keep the house clean.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Stop praying to God to change your marriage or your finances because you might end up seeing that you are the one that need the change not your marriage or finances.

Stop the bleeding! Gauze the wound!" And his voice became much softer, "Those are the words... I've yet to write." He died with that exhale. He died in a steaming carmine pool of unwritten stories that incredibly cold night. He always thought his work would take the form of ink, pen and paper, but as the last glow dimmed in his eyes, he realized his most meaningful words were sloppily spilled and patched together using blood, bullet holes and concrete.

Stories I read and people I love, conversations I have had, dreams I’ve lost and found, these all become part of me, embedded in my DNA, and if they are lucky, eventually, these things I cherish will be stitched into patchworks of poetry.

Strange as it may seem today to say, the aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem.

Storm Ending Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, Rumbling in the wind, Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . . Full-lipped flowers Bitten by the sun Bleeding rain Dripping rain like golden honey— And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.

Straight between them ran the pathway, Never grew the grass upon it

Storm Warnings The glass has been falling all the afternoon, And knowing better than the instrument What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of grey unrest is moving across the land, I leave the book upon a pillowed chair And walk from window to closed window, watching Boughs strain against the sky And think again, as often when the air Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting, How with a single purpose time has traveled By secret currents of the undiscerned Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction. Between foreseeing and averting change Lies all the mastery of elements Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time, Nor shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise, We can only close the shutters. I draw the curtains as the sky goes black And set a match to candles sheathed in glass Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture. This is our sole defense against the season; These are the things we have learned to do Who live in troubled regions.

Story of my life I have a story, story of my life, Once a small boy, whose problems was rife, Of those long days, of those short nights, Fighting with my pals, studying in candle lights, Of that vunerable kid, whose life wasn't stable, who always believed in magic, and life is a fable, Of those small boy, who refused to weep, Even when it hurts, the pain was deep, Of those little eyes, of those big ears, Who hide behind his smile, his desires and his fears, Of those forgotten games, and lost toys, That once was his treasure, reason for rejoice, Of that empty corridoors and broken walls, That once was filled with stories and footfalls, Of that small boy, who now understands, Whatever happened was good, and with tides of time he withstands.

Streets paved with opal sadness, Lead me counterclockwise, to pockets of joy, And jazz.

Stretched and skewed Tap of the 8-ball and the cue Scratches fall through They are the scars of you

Strange to feel in flesh weaker than the skin of water hung over the long bones of the shoreline To feel as though drowning, still breathing, moving into logical tides and daybreaks

Strategy for a Marathon I will start when the gun goes off. I will run for five miles. Feeling good, I will run to the tenth mile. At the tenth I will say, Only three more to the halfway." At the halfway mark, 13.1 miles, I will know fifteen is in reach. At fifteen miles I will say, You've run twenty before, keep going." At twenty I will say, Run home.

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me, And never kissed at all. Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.

Epidermal Macabre Indelicate is he who loathes The aspect of his fleshy clothes,- The flying fabric stitched on bone, The vesture of the skeleton, The garment neither fur nor hair, The cloak of evil and despair, The veil long violated by Caresses of the hand and eye. Yet such is my unseemliness: I hate my epidermal dress, The savage blood's obscenity, The rags of my anatomy, And willingly would I dispense With false accouterments of sense, To sleep immodestly, a most Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

Struggle is not about fighting. struggle is something which will convert your bad days into your better days.

~Stuck~ And yet, here I am again, flat on my face. I feel like a disgrace. I stand here at this crossroad and wait. I know what I must do. I just cannot move. My feet, they are glued.

stumbling around I speak to keep from betraying a secret

stronger than mountains. a place where my heart feels the safest- underneath his shirt.

STUFF POETS STILL LIKE: POETRY

Sturdy swimmers afloat on water-couch Beneath the heavy bill their treasured pouch Fishes pray for them to fly far away Inland lakes toast to the Pelican’s day

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need.

Success is counted sweetest by those ne'er succeed.

Such, nearly, was the state of the French theatre before the appearance of Voltaire. His knowledge of the Greeks was very limited, although he now and then spoke of them with enthusiasm, in order, on other occasions, to rank them below the more modern masters of his own nation, including himself still, he always felt himself bound to preach up the grand severity and simplicity of the Greeks as essential to Tragedy. He censured the deviations of his predecessors therefrom as mistakes, and insisted on purifying and at the same time enlarging the stage, as, in his opinion, from the constraint of court manners, it had been almost straitened to the dimensions of an antechamber. He at first spoke of Shakspeare's bursts of genius, and borrowed many things from this poet, at that time altogether unknown to his countrymen; he insisted, too, on greater depth in the delineation of passion—on a stronger theatrical effect; he called for a scene more majestically ornamented; and, lastly, he frequently endeavoured to give to his pieces a political or philosophical interest altogether foreign to poetry. His labours hare unquestionably been of utility to the French stage, although in language and versification (which in the classification of dramatic excellences ought only to hold a secondary place, though in France they alone almost decide the fate of a piece), he is, by most critics, considered inferior to his predecessors, or at least to Racine. It is now the fashion to attack this idol of a bygone generation on every point, and with the most unrelenting and partial hostility. His innovations on the stage are therefore cried down as so many literary heresies, even by watchmen of the critical Zion, who seem to think that the age of Louis XIV. has left nothing for all succeeding time, to the end of the world, but a passive admiration of its perfections, without a presumptuous thought of making improvements of its own. For authority is avowed with so little disguise as the first principle of the French critics, that this expression of literary heresy is quite current with them.

Sudden. Lust is. But long in waiting. Like a bullet from a gun locked in my father’s chest since the day I was born. And even, perhaps, before then. Resting in wait. Since the day Adam woke to his first sun. Outside of Eden.

Such hungry desperation in a single kiss when it's enamored in love and bathed in bliss.

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

Suddenly I remembered that laugh, it told a different story, our story.

Sugar cane reach up to God And every baby crying Shame the blanket of my night And all my days are dying

Sunrise, Grand Canyon We stand on the edge, the fall Into depth, the ascent Of light revelatory, the canyon walls moving Up out of Shadow, lit Colors of the layers cutting Down through darkness, sunrise as it Passes a Precipitate of the river, its burnt tangerine Flare brief, jagged Bleeding above the far rim for a split Second I have imagined You here with me, watching day’s onslaught Standing in your bones-they seem Implied in the record almost By chance- fossil remains held In abundance in the walls, exposed By freeze and thaw, beautiful like a theory stating Who we are is Carried forward by the x Chromosome down the matrilineal line Recessive and riverine, you like Me aberrant and bittersweet... Riding the high Colorado Plateau as the opposing Continental plates force it over A mile upward without buckling, smooth Tensed, muscular fundament, your bones Yet to be wrapped around mine- This will come later, when I return To your place and time... The geologic cross section Of the canyon Dropping From where I stand, hundreds millions of shades of terra cotta, of copper Manganese and rust, the many varieties of stone- Silt, sand, and slate, even “green River rock...”my body voicing its immense Genetic imperatives, human geology falling away Into a Depth i am still unprepared for The canyon cutting down to The great unconformity, a layer So named by the lack Of any fossil evidence to hypothesize About and date such A remote time by, at last no possible Retrospective certainties... John Barton

Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear

Suohon uponnut puu ei kukkinut koskaan. Nyt minä kannan ainoan hedelmäni: menen itse kuolemaan.

Sufilere sohbet gerek Ahilere ahret gerek Mecnunlara Leyla gerek Bana seni gerek seni

Sunbathe from within.

Sully suffers from a stutter, simple syllables will clutter, stalling speeches up on beaches like a sunken sailboat rudder. Sully strains to say his phrases, sickened by the sounds he raises, strings of thoughts come out in knots, he solves his sentences like mazes. At night, he writes his thoughts instead and sighs as they steadily rush from his head.

Sun shines above making diamonds of light Tink-tinkling, tap dancing and bright. from Atlantic Ocean, My Old Friend by Mommy Moo Moo

Superarse a uno mismo es un beso con lengua al amor propio

Sun is a hearthstone, a merry-go-round of extinguished hearthstones.

Sun-struck, stuck in mid tropic strut, it sometimes stands as if considering how to cool avian plastic, dive into the mown lagoon of lawn; how take flight on dayglow flap- doodle wings, no matter if it is ball-bald going nowhere fast.

Sure, we thought the acres That we tilled were sacred, But how could we have known That wheat can haunt like ghosts

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Sure there are times when one cries with acidity, 'Where are the limits of human stupidity?' Here is a critic who says as a platitude That I am guilty because 'in gratitude Sherlock, the sleuth-hound, with motives ulterior, Sneers at Poe's Dupin as "very inferior".' Have you not learned, my esteemed communicator, That the created is not the creator? As the creator I've praised to satiety Poe's Monsieur Dupin, his skill and variety, And have admitted that in my detective work I owe to my model a deal of selective work. But is it not on the verge of inanity To put down to me my creation's crude vanity? He, the created, would scoff and would sneer, Where I, the creator, would bow and revere. So please grip this fact with your cerebral tentacle: The doll and its maker are never identical.

Surprised by joy- impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport-- Oh! with whom But thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind-- But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? -- That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Surrounded by enemies, surrounded by evil, surrounded by darkness, injustice......."don't be afraid , those who are with us are more than those who are with them" 2 Kings 6:16

Survive the day, Another day and then, Another. Believe that, one day You will live your life to the fullest!

SWEAR If this time the eggs don't break, freckling the sidewalk with yolk splatter, coating the coffee and the paper towels, dripping all over my white shoes, I will never again swing the groceries back and forth all the way home from the store, singing and jumping the puddles, until the bag hits my thigh and I hear something inside of it crack.

Survive, because of the fire that burns within It sits inside you and melts through pain And lights the shadows with embers of love Survive because your heart makes you great It beats the rhythm to your bones And sings lullabies to your soul Survive because your strength lies in all you overcome It shakes you to lift you and take you bravely home