Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Dreaming of getting you I loosed everything Cheerfulness of smile And all the dreams of life

Dream of the Tundra Swan Dusk fell and the cold came creeping, cam prickling into our hearts. As we tucked beaks into feathers and settled for sleep, our wings knew. That night, we dreamed the journey: ice-blue sky and the yodel of flight, the sun's pale wafer, the crisp drink of clouds. We dreamed ourselves so far aloft that the earth curved beneath us and nothing sang but a whistling vee of light. When we woke, we were covered with snow. We rose in a billow of white.

Dream by making and make by dreaming.

Dreams may be a fool's game But only fools can see What the world fails to believe

Dreams. They start in your beautiful mind. Think of beautiful things and it will manifest into actions because your body will listen to you. Like it always does.

Drop jewels from the top of these clouds, a drop top John F. Kennedy head shot. It's secrecy hidden in sight of these bars in hip-hop. A compass and square ruler, the pencil is the fueler, 33 degrees below and my mind is fire that keeps me cooler. It's a building of mind, a freezing of time, reverse history back to the garden, the story of the first Atom to be divine.

Drink from the ethereal philosophy of Heaven and you may see life as no more no less than a dream made of pure poetry from divine source. AA

Drunk on imagination, that’s my kind of intoxication.

Drink wine in new cities. Forget that you were ever intoxicated by the vowels of his name.

Drop by drop I will fall On your body and soul And find a home in you!

Drugs to me have always been a pretty girl with a sly smile beckoning me with a finger down the dark path of a fork in the road.

Drops of rain fall on my naked skin They clean my spirit and awake my conscience They cry with me in a cathartic release They scream, they fight, they hurt, they heal (Excerpted from Healed by rain, chapter Resilience)

During the 1924 controversy over ownership of the word “surrealism,” Breton’s most vocal opponents were Ivan Goll and Paul Dermée who, like Epstein, defined surrealism via cinema.

During the hours when which our souls should be taking flight... Dancing almost endlessly with our hopes and dreams... As if only to aspire some sort of clarity prior to the morning light... Yet, be it as it may, regardless as to how long one waits... Sleep has yet again eluded me... Leaving me alone once again with my thoughts ~

Each and every words count. Each and every thoughts count.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Is that all?

Dying is a universe of its own.

dzeja ir valoda kurā visu var sarunāt

DYING IS NOT HOT By Celia the Dark Cool is no longer cool because cool is now hot, and school isn't school if you are skipping. Then the neighborhood is school and John, the creepy dropout guy is teaching. And it isn't cool because the cool kids stay in school, where the other cool kids tell them them how hot they are and they wouldn't want to miss a dance for cutting. Kids who skip school were never cool or hot but already dumped into the trashcan with leftover lunch pizza, bruised into a locker, asking their parents for extra lunch money so they can smoke and act like they never cared anyway. And skipping school's not cool but it is school because that's where they learn what the uncool learn about life and dying.

Dying only means moving into a nicer house. We have only gone into the next room. We still are what we have always been. We aren’t far away. We are only on the other side of the pathway.

each morning we’re born again of yesterday nothing remains what’s left began today

Each night they left the balcony door open so they could hear the surf lapping against the sand. And, once when the wind was high, and the waves pounded against the beach, he'd smoothed her hair and whispered, after having proved it so, 'Sex is like a storm; it gathers, it roars. And then it settles into stillness.

Each form is inadequate, like a graft to be rejected by its intractable and unrelenting host and thus can only serve a brief and momentary purpose coherent to a context rooted in contiguous reason. This unbridled brash Spirit is, to itself, burdensome, yet dynamic, for it sees no flaw in working within the confines of a closed system to achieve ends that extend beyond it. This Spirit is, in fact, self-deceptive for to achieve such ends, it becomes necessary to bound manipulable fragments of the Self with a twine by which these parts can be joined indissolubly and maneuvered adroitly with the skill of a marionettist.

Each week, I plan an assignment. Students, interrogate form down to the last comma. Students, broadcast the crimes of history.

Eager to see the colours of life The darkness giving away to light I set my soul ablaze By books at candlelight And my heart on fire By decisions under sunlight.

Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it.

Each word is you begging to utter it. Each word is the long invitation to memory.

Each time we bow to the feet of anything we find riveting, the mind rises to be surprised with new crowning diamonds of creativity.

Eager to please I submit to your moulds, your forms, dimensions, turned into a monolithic figure I silence my objections because love is the ending goal.

E andando nel sole che abbaglia sentire con triste meraviglia com'è tutta la vita e il suo travaglio in questo seguitare una muraglia che ha in cima cocci aguzzi di bottiglia.

Eagle's flight of loneliness soars so high Around its sigh, no more alone the sky Other birds remain away, clouds pass by Between shrouds of life and haze sun rays die

Earth is crammed with heaven, and every bush is aflame with the glory of God. But only those who see take of their shoes; the rest just pick the berries.

eat, baby. eat. chew. please. I know it hurts. I know it doesn’t feel good. please. I know your hunger is different than mine. I know it doesn’t taste the same as mine. imagine you could grow up all over again and pinpoint the millisecond that you started counting calories like casualties of war, mourning each one like it had a family. would you? sometimes I wonder that. sometimes I wonder if you would go back and watch yourself reappear and disappear right in front of your own eyes. and I love you so much. I am going to hold your little hand through the night. just please eat. just a little. you wrote a poem once, about a city of walking skeletons. the teacher called home because you told her you wished it could be like that here. let me tell you something about bones, baby. they are not warm or soft. the wind whistles through them like they are holes in a tree. and they break, too. they break right in half. they bruise and splinter like wood. are you hungry? I know. I know how much you hate that question. I will find another way to ask it, someday. please. the voices. I know they are all yelling at you to stretch yourself thinner. l hear them counting, always counting. I wish I had been there when the world made you snap yourself in half. I would have told you that your body is not a war-zone, that, sometimes, it is okay to leave your plate empty.

Early Summer, loveliest season, The world is being colored in. While daylight lasts on the horizon, Sudden, throaty blackbirds sing. The dusty-colored cuckoo cuckoos. "Welcome, summer" is what he says. Winter's unimaginable. The wood's a wickerwork of boughs. Summer means the river's shallow, Thirsty horses nose the pools. Long heather spreads out on bog pillows. White bog cotton droops in bloom. Swallows swerve and flicker up. Music starts behind the mountain. There's moss and a lush growth underfoot. Spongy marshland glugs and stutters. Bog banks shine like ravens' wings. The cuckoo keeps on calling welcome. The speckled fish jumps; and the strong Swift warrior is up and running. A little, jumpy, chirpy fellow Hits the highest note there is; The lark sings out his clear tidings. Summer, shimmer, perfect days.

Earth is the source of light.

Easter blessings All life’s sacrifices like autumn leaves awaken our senses and power to love and be whole Our Mother Earth, Our Father Sky embraces our happiness and laughter Praise be to freedom and life’s seasons Praise be to Christ’s freedom song

Eastern Standard Time Poetry speaks to all people, it is said, but here I would like to address only those in my own time zone, this proper slice of longitude that runs from pole to snowy pole down the globe through Montreal to Bogota. Oh, fellow inhabitants of this singular band, sitting up in your many beds this morning— the sun falling through the windows and casting a shadow on the sundial— consider those in other zones who cannot hear these words. They are not slipping into a bathrobe as we are, or following the smell of coffee in a timely fashion. Rather, they are at work already, leaning on copy machines, hammering nails into a house-frame. They are not swallowing a vitamin like us; rather they are smoking a cigarette under a half moon, even jumping around on a dance floor, or just now sliding under the covers, pulling down the little chains on their bed lamps. But we are not like these others, for at this very moment on the face of the earth, we are standing under a hot shower, or we are eating our breakfast, considered by people of all zones to be the most important meal of the day. Later, when the time is right, we might sit down with the boss, wash the car, or linger at a candle-lit table, but now is the hour for pouring the juice and flipping the eggs with one eye on the toaster. So let us slice a banana and uncap the jam, lift our brimming spoons of milk, and leave it to the others to lower a flag or spin absurdly in a barber's chair— those antipodal oddballs, always early or late. Let us praise Sir Stanford Fleming the Canadian genius who first scored with these lines the length of the spinning earth. Let us move together through the rest of this day passing in unison from light to shadow, coasting over the crest of noon into the valley of the evening and then, holding hands, slip into the deeper valley of night.

Easter Contemplations It does not concern me If this life is all I have. I do not need a resurrection Or reincarnation Or to live with the gods. It is enough to live With you here In the days of your presence. When my breathes Are complete, Lay me by your side In the dust. As in life, so in death. Let us become one With each other again.

Eating Fruit at the Grand Canyon- A song to make death easy Since this great hole in earth is beyond My comprehension and I am hungry, I sit on the rim and eat fruit The colors of the stone i see, Strawberries of iron cliffs, sagebrush melons, white sand apple, grapes The barely purple of the stonewashed slopes, And every color I eat is in my vision, Colonized by my eye, by me and everyone I have known, so vast, so remote, That we can only gaze at ourselves, wondering At our reaches, eat fat fruit while we Grow calm if we can, our folded Rocky interiors pressed upwards through Our throats, side canyons seeming almost Accessible, the grand river of blood Carving us even as we sit, devouring Color that will blush on our skin Nourish us so that we may climb The walls of the interior, bewildered, Tremulous, but observant as we move Down in, one foot, another, careful not to fall, to fall, The fruit fueling us in subtle Surges of color in this vastly deep Where birds make shadow and echo And we have no idea Why we cannot comprehend ourselves, Each other, a place so deep and bright It has no needs and we wonder What we’re doing here on this fragment Of galactic dust, spinning, cradled, Awestruck, momentarily alive.

Education is liberation, knowledge is power.

Eché mi esperanza al mar: y aún fue en el mar, mi esperanza verde-mar...

Écoutez le monde blanc horriblement las de son effort immense ses articulations rebelles craquer sous les étoiles dures ses raideurs d'acier bleu transperçant la chair mystique écoute ses victoires proditoires trompeter ses défaites écoute aux alibis grandioses son piètre trébuchement Pitié pour nos vainquers omniscients et naïfs !

Edges I am a child throwing rocks into the stream. Challenging the rushing water. Raising my fist and daring fate to do it worst. I am a dancer in the waves of the ocean. Swaying in time with the tide. Pirouetting, the current my only friend. I am the sun, rising across the canyon Ascending, and shinning down. Giving the illusion of perception and motion. I am thoughts like a rolling river. Water cascading over the rocks of my soul. Shaping, forming, conforming. I am the peace of the rain forest. Basking in solitude Tranquil, serene, transfixing angles. Reflecting from within. Dripping and dropping. Shaking it off. I am the dust of the galaxy. Yearning to know itself. I am the wind. Wandering. Searching. A storm brewing from within.

Eighteen. The realization That the world Is a horrible place Full of suffering And no one is Prepared for it's Show and tell.

Eight centuries have passed like a nap in the late afternoon my throat is choked with words I cannot speak (from The Last Soldier's Words to Saladin)

Electric interaction arose from our skin. I was learning him, he was discovering me.

El olvido está tan lleno de memoria / que a veces no caben las remembranzas / y hay que tirar rencores por la borda / en el fondo el olvido es un gran simulacro / nadie sabe ni puede / aunque quiera /olvidar

El intruso Amor, la noche estaba trágica y sollozante Cuando tu llave de oro cantó en mi cerradura; Luego, la puerta abierta sobre la sombra helante, Tu forma fué una mancha de luz y de blancura. Todo aquí lo alumbraron tus ojos de diamante; Bebieron en mi copa tus labios de frescura, Y descansó en mi almohada tu cabeza fragante; Me encantó tu descaro y adoré tu locura. Y hoy río si tú ríes, y canto si tú cantas; Y si tú duermes duermo como un perro á tus plantas! Hoy llevo hasta en mi sombra tu olor de primavera; Y tiemblo si tu mano toca la cerradura, Y bendigo la noche sollozante y oscura Que floreció en mi vida tu boca tempranera!

Embrace this destiny, it's a quality of beauty, duty and divinity. Enriched with something more valuable than a sparkling rock of pure carbon or gold but is such simplicity. Explicitly speaking, it's a God-like experience.

EMILY SPARKS Dov'è il mio bambino, il mio bambino - in quale remota parte del mondo? il bambino che a scuola amavo più di tutti?- Io, la maestra, la vecchia zitella, il vergine cuore, che li sentivo tutti miei figli. M'ingannai col mio bambino a giudicarlo uno spirito ardente, attivo, mai pago? Oh bambino, bambino, per cui pregai e pregai in tante ore di veglia la notte, ricordi la lettera che ti scrissi sulla bellezza dell'amore di Cristo? E che tu che l'abbia ricevuta o no, bambino mio, dovunque tu sia, opera per la salvezza dell'anima tua, che tutto il fango, tutta la feccia in te, ceda finalmente al fuoco che è in te, finché il fuoco sia solo luce!... Solo luce!