Best 750 quotes in «poems quotes» category

My poems are my prayers for my Love, And in this way only, I have chosen to worship Him in this life. O you, witness of my joys, And follower of my madness. Will you read them aloud every time, So may He hear my grievances, That how much I have yearned Him in this life.

My soul is crushed under the weight of tears I can’t spill.

My uncle read me Omar Khayyam. In Arabic. Not Turkish or even English. I tried so hard to understand it. I would ask him what it all meant but he always said the pleasure was in the finding out... the discovery. He said you can keep some poems by you your whole life and they will only reveal parts of themselves to you when you are ready to hear them. (Ottmar)

My Voice Dreamt a dream of dreams,lucid One word birthed another,others Still deeper beyond time,infinite space One bled into another,one danced Twisted tight, for dear life, embraced winds Darkness, out of sight burned, wept my mind Into a new frontier, frameless portraits In defiance, out of the ash, rose my voice Kaleb Kilton (c) 2016

Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.

Nails that claw by a beautiful mind. A pretty face can leave you blind - Poem 'Small Pain' from 'The B Word: The B in LBGTQ Poetry'.

Never leave your feelings with someone who can not answer them to the fullest.

Night after night on starry wings Night lovers soared so high Miles apart, across the oceans Their love forgot to sigh In heavenly flight’s timelessness That highest height treasured Into the deepest of all blues Their depth of love measured. From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers

No amount of words, No haiku, poem, or novel, Can tell of our love

No baby, you didn't hurt me. You wrecked me. Know the difference.

No body is a looser either he is a Winner or a Learner

NO" made him angry but set her free.

No matter how many romantic poems you recite, no matter how many glorious tales of love you read, how can you really understand the condition if you've never found yourself in it?

No matter how right or how beautiful your path is, never try to impose your path on others! Remember that flowers by no means pull bees by force to their world! Your path is your poem; if people like your poem, they will fondly join you in your path!

No matter what goals you set to accomplish always remember there is a thing known as Life which you should never forget to live and enjoy

No matter how much struggle you face in your journey towards success, someday you will look back and realize your struggles changed your life for the better.

Nostalgia dies in the pit of my throat from lack of exercise and I buried the word six feet under the pronunciation of hopeful tomorrows.

Non parlavo mai - se non sollecitata. In quei casi - brevemente - a voce bassa. Non mi riusciva di vivere nella confusione. Mi vergognavo del chiasso.

Non of us really knew, it was never about solving the mystery, it was about keeping it.

No one could say the stories were useless for as the tongue clacked five or forty fingers stitched corn was grated from the husk pathwork was pieced or the darning was done... (from 'The Storyteller Poems')

Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someone who will fall in love with your silence.

Ntozake Shange tells us it's not so good to be born a girl. She does not object to being born a girl. She objects to what it means when you are born a girl. She objects to the way that girls are treated. She objects to the way that our dreams are stifled. She objects to the way that we are not taken seriously, we are there as some sort of plaything,

Now the poet has to embrace his destined sadness in life,by entering into this ecstatic world of imagination to unroll the heart secrets with his muse,and to happily fulfill her musky moist dreams of Romance.

Oft When Somber shadows veil the human laughter,and lowly made depression its doom above us sink,from agonal mind with grief that drive's and batter mark'd by the sails of lonely hours that steep to think.

Often, in death, everything else fails. We are left only with the music and the meaning of poetry.

Oh, we were so wrong for each other, but the things we did to each other felt so right.

Oh that's right Keep away from me Please give me a push Don't let me understand you Don't realise me Or we might tumble together Depersonalized Identical Into the terrific Nirvana Me you --- you --- me

oh. she heard it too-no waters coursing, canyon empty, sun soundless- and the beast your life nowhere hiding (p. 103)

Oh, there are no living poets, Miss Van Damn. We're not entirely sure there ever were. They've found some shreds of sonnets in England and, embedded in a chalk wall of a cave in France, some yet undetermined thing which might be the legendary inward eye. But all evidence, such as it is, suggests that, if there ever were poets, they were all burned into extinction during the interglacial period of despair.

O Lord of lights! Will you fill my heart with joy? That I can dance every day in your love. O Lord of stars! Will you fill my soul with love? That I can cry every day in your love. O Lord of heavens! Will you fill my mind with thoughts? That I can write songs every day in your love. O Lord of love! Will you fill my spirit with courage? That I can die every day in your love. O Lord of day and night! Will you fill my breath with life? That I can live every day in your love. O Lord of all lords! Will you fill me with you? That I can be you every day in your love.

Once in a while i am struck all over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enough to bruise a heart.

Once, we were a mighty nation Our people came from strong foundation Until cursed with darker days A dragon red came from skies blue Came and stole the things we once knew Making us humble, unknown But we were told one day of old That we’d give our throne of ancient gold To a prince and dragon slayer’s son For us to regain the ancient throne He will fight and bleed for our mountain home This dragon prince of Bowen’s line He will kill the drake that broke us He will remove the Witch who cursed us And become our King some glad day So now we wait ever patiently We wait for the one promised to make us free We wait for this prince to come

Only Boiled Seeds are afraid of failure.

One of poetry’s great effects, through its emphasis upon feeling, association, music and image — things we recognize and respond to even before we understand why — is to guide us toward the part of ourselves so deeply buried that it borders upon the collective. "Staying Human: Poetry in the Age of Technology

One day I’ll paint the perfect sunset-- if I can only find the words.

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock!

On the ocean of feelings Poetry lies like a princess fairy When the current is opposite, she strives When in rhythm, she is merry…

Ordinary days deliver joy easily again & I can’t take it. If I could tell you how her eyes laughed or describe the rage of her suffering, I must admit that lately my memories are sometimes like a color warping in my blue mind. Metal abandoned in rain. My mother will not move. Which is to say that sometimes the true color of her casket jumps from my head like something burnt down in the genesis of a struck flame. Which is to say that I miss the mind I had when I had my mother. I own what is yet. Which means I am already holding my own absence in faith. I still carry a faded slip of paper where she once wrote a word with a pencil & crossed it out. From tree to tree, around her grave I have walked, & turned back if only to remind myself that there are some kinds of peace, which will not be moved. How awful to have such wonder. The final way wonder itself opened beneath my mother’s face at the last moment. As if she was a small girl kneeling in a puddle & looking at her face for the first time, her fingers gripping the loud, wet rim of the universe.

Or, so I thought it could all make sense if I felt it all the way through, no matter which direction or sense of purpose. What started me on this insane path to begin with? Women, death or luck; perhaps all three I knew that much, this nuke dream filled with silver wet screens. California was on fire, my heart was racing and I thought it was still about to make sense at any moment until I was a tidal wave of matrix information approaching the beach I stood upon.

O Sailor! It’s the way I want to be It’s beyond the pale for me It’s what being unknown is all about It’s the path I choose to take It’s the destiny I make It’s my life now – the only way out Out of circulation in another dimension I carry you right inside my heart As we’re one, moulded together Always and forever, never apart It’s a world where I’m alone It’s a place where I can atone It’s a severing of all ties I know I feel so free and yet I’m bound I’m invisible and yet around I know I’ve got to go with the flow My life now is like a sailboat ride, Destiny is the wind – with you by my side, I’m the sailor, who sets the course, Empowered by an incredible force.

Opportunity comes to everyone it depends on you whether you take it or leave it. Learn to take risks and play hard because at the end you'd be thankful for your struggle.

Or, so I thought it could all make sense if I felt it all the way through, no matter which direction or sense of purpose. What started me on this insane path to begin with? Women, death or luck; perhaps all three. I knew that much, this nuke dream filled with silver wet screens. California was on fire, my heart was racing and I thought it was still about to make sense at any moment until I saw a rouge tidal wave of matrix information approaching the beach I stood upon and prayed to every phantom near to save me from myself on this full moon wine and instructions .

Our past sins, our fractured lives--soon nothing but drowned stars in dark skies.

Overmodulation By Charlotte M Liebel-Fawls You're a cavity in my oasis, You're a porthole in my sea, You're a stretch of the imagination every time you look at me. You're an ocean in my wineglass, You're a Steinway on the beach, You're a captivating audience, an exciting Rembrandt, A Masterpiece.

Outside, the meadows - dewy and golden are cloaked in summer blooms. My heart, scorching and desolate sighs and sings sad songs of despair And while I gather hundreds of broken pieces of my heart Outside, the meadows - dewy and golden are cloaked in summer blooms.

Pages burnt, memories buried, I wake or think I'm awake. Or dreaming still?

Our songs live longer than our kingdoms.

Passion + Vision +Skill + Mentoring = Success.

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