Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

He left her a note in her right slipper that said when I was alone yesterday I was happy, and I wanted you to know. Because look at how much you've done in me.

Hello," Life says, "Remember me? We started out together here When you were just a bundle Of innocent amazement. Remember how you saw the world With nothing but wonder? We were such rowdy playmates then. We painted on the sky with clouds And made magic out of Clothespins and peanut butter. Remember, can you, how I became stained and heavy With trouble? Not safe now. Lots of no. They dressed me in painful clothes And made you wear them, too. You don't recognize me, do you But I've never abandoned you Or lost my wild, happy desire To show you Play with you Kiss you Hide and seek down twisty paths And always discover more. Want to run away with me again? Shall we elope without ever leaving Because that's possible, you know. I've never been anywhere but here Waiting for you To remember.

He loved her like a roaring lion, even when she was most unlovable, and there's a lot to be said for that...that kind of fierce, raging, omnipotent love.

He lost hair and yelled, but never hit Leanne. She was still his little girl. Memories of war could never change that.

He loved the curves on her body, her soft skin and pouty lower lip, her deep soulful eyes. He adored her voice; sometimes sultry, sometimes fiery. Her laugh, her playfulness... he adored it all. But what really turned him on were the curves in her mind, the twists and turns, the fire, the brilliance - and her compassionate heart; the beat of it harmonizing so sweetly and perfectly with the beat of his. The whole package was beyond thrilling... yet her mind, her heart, those were the immortal aphrodisiacs.

He loves me, he loves me not. How many flowers must I kill before he loves me?” ~He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Hemingway is overrated, Twain is even more lost at sea, And all truths point to the mouth of a woman, Where both her whispers and her screams, Are born. Pour another glass, Beer, wine, whiskey, I don't care, So long as its wisdom is sharp, And it tells lies instead of promises.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He must have laughed at me every single night, For I always missed the one who was never mine.

Henceforth an individual solace dear; Part of my Soul I seek thee, and thee claim My other half: with that thy gentle hand Seisd mine, I yielded, and from that time see How beauty is excelld by manly grace.

He never believed in miracles until he met her.

He permeated my heart with his adoring love he fed my body with his body, he doused my wanting desperate lips, my aching skin with sonnets and erotic intimacy.

He needed some sort of membrane between himself and experience, which, for him, became language.(Jeanette Winterson on T.S.Eliot)

He never loved you, but he loved the reflection of the man he saw in your eyes. But listen to me, my friend. You never loved him either. You just loved being the queen. You loved being the sun. You loved being the woman behind a great man. You never loved him. You loved having something to give. Someone to fix. Someone to please. You see, in love, you don't get what you want. You get what you think you get.

HER BARBED-WIRE SMILE LIFTED YOU TO HEAVEN BUT I HAVE TO ASK DID GOD LOOK LIKE HER VOICE

Her belly ruptures full of parasites, Her eyes sink back in her skull Her butchered wrists, dangle From the edge of the bathtub Her children cuddle against her Desperate for love she cannot give

Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a "Diver" - Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest, Her heart is fit for home- I- a Sparrow- build there Sweet of twigs and twine My perennial nest.

Her armor appears fragile – a delicate shell of silk and perfume. Life's troubles seem to find each chink. But try to touch that smooth shield and you will see it crumble in your hands. As the dust dissipates, you find she is gone.

Here dwell together still two men of note Who never lived and so can never die: How very near they seem, yet how remote That age before the world went all awry. But still the game’s afoot for those with ears Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo: England is England yet, for all our fears– Only those things the heart believes are true. A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane As night descends upon this fabled street: A lonely hansom splashes through the rain, The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet. Here, though the world explode, these two survive, And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

Here, in a seed, is a cyborg: A bleeding girl, dragging a knife through the sand. An imaginary girl who dreams of becoming trash.

her dream was dipped in honey; of a girl with hair like fire and eyes like the night sky

Here, illuminated at last, Nestles the ruddy glint of spiritual certainty; Sweet moments of passion and healing, Of sensual release.

Her close friends have gathered. Lord, ain't it a shame Grieving together Sharing the blame. But when she was dying Lord, we let her down. There's no use cryin' It can't help her now. The party's all over Drink up and go home. It's too late to love her And leave her alone. Just say she was someone Lord, so far from home Whose life was so lonesome She died all alone Who dreamed pretty dreams That never came true Lord, why was she born So black and blue? Oh, why was she born So black and blue? Epitaph (Black And Blue) Written by: Kris Kristofferson Note: "Epitaph" is about Janis Joplin.

Here, Earth-born, over the lilt of the water, Lisping its music and bearing a burden of light, Bosoming day as a laughing and radiant daughter… Here we may whisper unheard, unafraid of the night. Walking alone…was it splendor, or what, we were bound with? Deep in the time when summer lets down her hair? Shadows we loved and the patterns they covered the ground with Tapestries, mystical, faint in the breathless air.

He reclines in the hospital bed like a martyred king taking leave of his beloved kingdom, but all I see is a petulant, destructive child hiding in a dead man’s body.

Here in my country I’ll live and roam My spirit sings here - This is my home.

Here is a story that’s stranger than strange. Before we begin you may want to arrange: a blanket, a cushion, a comfortable seat, and maybe some cocoa and something to eat. I’ll warn you, of course, before we commence, my story is eerie and full of suspense, brimming with danger and narrow escapes, and creatures of many remarkable shapes. Dragons and ogres and gorgons and more, and creatures you’ve not even heard of before. And faraway places? There’s plenty of those! (And menacing villains to tingle your toes.) So ready your mettle and steady your heart. It’s time for my story’s mysterious start...

He remembers which sister I like least and asks how she is doing. (lines 9-11 of the poem 'Divorce')

Here’s a hand to the boy who has courage To do what he knows to be right; When he falls in the way of temptation, He has a hard battle to fight. Who strives against self and his comrade Will find a most powerful foe. All honor to him if he conquers. A cheer for the boy who says, “No!” There’s many a battle fought daily The world knows nothing about; There’s many a brave little soldier Whose strength puts a legion to rout. And he who fights sin singlehanded Is more of a hero, I say, Than he who leads soldiers to battle And conquers by arms in the fray. Be steadfast, my boy, when you’re tempted, To do what you know to be right. Stand firm by the colors of manhood, And you will o’ercome in the fight. “The right,” be your battle cry ever In waging the warfare of life, And God, who knows who are the heroes, Will give you the strength for the strife.

Here's another poem, like all others before and after, dedicated to you. There isn't anything left to be said but I will spend my life trying to put you into words. You who is every goodness, every optimism and hope. Your love is a better fate for me than anything I could wish for. If you are a part of me, then you’re the best part. And if you're separate from me, then you are my destination. But I’ve become a weary traveller, so please, let us never be apart.

here’s a toast to Alan Turing born in harsher, darker times who thought outside the container and loved outside the lines and so the code-breaker was broken and we’re sorry yes now the s-word has been spoken the official conscience woken – very carefully scripted but at least it’s not encrypted – and the story does suggest a part 2 to the Turing Test: 1. can machines behave like humans? 2. can we?

Here in this place, all souls resonate within a holy vibration.

Here is a greedy man who keeps to himself The beautiful pears ripe in his garden.

Here’s to the “so-so-ing” it. Here’s to the working since I was 14 in a smoke clouded day. Here’s to saying I could stay until the forms were faxed. Here’s to driving home past dark and dozing off the road. Here’s to no over time. Here’s to the long line to management. Here’s to ALREADY DONE THAT! Here’s to quitting, saying I’m through, saying I can’t compete for your leftover lean cuisine. Here’s to art. Here’s to freedom. Here’s to saying God gave me every penny and knowing it’s true. Here’s to the next 40 years with you. Here’s to the new. — Adrianna Stepiano

Here the children have a custom. After the celebration of evil they take those vacant heads that shone once with such anguish and glee and throw them over the bridge, watching the smash, orange, as they hit below, We were standing underneath when you told it. People do that with themselves when they are finished, light scooped out. He landed here, you said, marking it with your foot. You wouldn't do it that way, empty, you wouldn't wait, you would jump with the light still in you.

Here they have no time for the fine graces of poetry, unless it freely grows in deep compulsion, like water in the well, woven into the texture of the soil in a strong pattern.

Her eyes are like bruises, as though 2am punches her in the face every time they meet amid the faded glow of alarm-clock hands and the crumpled sheets of a sleepless night.

Her eyes hide a tenderness that is more sensitive than all the red roses of the world.

Her eyes spoke the unsaid words.

Her eyes were the color of whiskey and grace. Moments with her always felt like getting drunk on Sundays.

Here's to adrenaline. Here's to dramatic abandon of protocol. Here's to treasured pain and purple rain. Here's to chasing our souls, burning across to sky. Here's to drinking the ash as it falls, and not asking why.

Her eyes are classic novels and poetry.

Her eyes like two half-filled glasses of intoxicating wine and half with tears of mine

Here you are. Still standing. Fierce with the reality of love and loss. Wearing the truth of our hearts on your tattered sleeves. And yes, this one very nearly took you out. And yes, there were days when the darkness was heavy and the climb out of that rabbit hole required you to mine your depths for strength you didn’t even know you had. But here you are. Broken open by hope. Cracked wide by loss. Full of longing and grief and the burn of that phoenix fire. Warrior painted with ashes. Embers from the blaze still clinging to your newborn skin, leaving you forever marked with scars of rebirth. And just look at you. Heart broken but still beating. Arms empty but still open. Face raised to the sky and giving thanks for the light, even when it hurts your eyes. My god, you are beautiful.

Her eyes, full of ancient, sacred wisdom. Her bones, deposits of inherited bravery. She is a proud descendant of strong, courageous women who went to the stakes fighting for their truths.

Her heart was wild, but I didn’t want to catch it, I wanted to run with it, to set me free.

Her memories splashed my nights with a magical illumination. Her thoughts were my intoxication!

Her half-closed eyes were moist and tremulous and languid with desire. I began to drink love from them with thirsty kisses; which revived her spirits a litle.

Her kiss dissolves the universe. In that moment, I am unmade and then reborn.

Her love of words is a private passion - one she would rather not share. In the house of her childhood though everything had to be shared. If she tried to hold anything back, they would search and find the hidden places. Her written words, discovered, read were just the source of more pain and punishment. This was why she loved poetry. They did not always understand it so they left it alone.