Best 1872 quotes in «poem quotes» category

a man was found floating dead in the San Francisco bay. a note in his pocket read: I won't jump if someone smiles at me today.

Amends Regret lingers, niggles. Yellow lilies on the table, gone brown in the vase. The garden we talk about, endlessly, but never begin, deterred by tough sod. On the edge of the walk, the wheelbarrow full of stones waits like an undelivered apology. Within, the floor needs scrubbing and only hands and knees will do the job. I know that forgiveness is a simple meal— a salad, a boiled potato, a glass of tea. Easy to prepare, to offer. That the silence afterward will satisfy, perhaps even nourish.

America, the plum blossoms are falling.

A million tears fall from my eyes; I can't continue with this life; I don't know why I fall in love If love is only meant to hurt me

Am I still a hero if the only person I save is myself? Am I still a villain if the only person I hurt is myself?

Am learning every day that there are more threads to me That I have been rising and changing, rediscovering who I am becoming who I want to be putting the broken pieces back together and becoming an arrow continuing to rise into the light.

Amour, love, the dream of man, Woman’s deep devoted plan. Amour Amor means no hungry child, Begging, hair blowing wild. Searching amongst the rats and mice, Left-over food, contaminated rice. Eyes, the saddest soul sight, Hidden is the child’s plight. Bleeding feet, glass cut bare, Dirty rags for a child to wear. Clambering through the bin, Society’s senseless sin. Amor, love save this child’s life, Poverty is the nefarious knife, A child of poverty and strife, Deserves amour, love of life. Maureen Brindle from Beloved Isles [Inspired by H.H. Princess Maria Amor We Care for Humanity]

and angle of vision, dust, gravity, solitude, and the part of the law which is the world's waiting and the part of the law which is my waiting, and the part which is my impatience—now; now?— though there are, there really are things in the world, you must believe me.

an axiom of sorcery: If you come to know yourself no one else can know you

And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth's noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night

And I died As the thunder crashes -in an empty sound. (It turned my soul into a wound) My life is destroyed Without you My mind is destroyed Within me I know a place where flowers bloom Please take my hands into the woods Please distract me from my pain It cries loudly into my veins.

And I knew then that I would have to live, and go on living: what sorrow it was; and still what sorrow ignites but does not consume my heart.

And in a mad trance Strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings We decay Like corpses in a charnel Fear & Grief Convulse is & consume us Day by day And cold hopes swarm Like worms within Our living clay

And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.

And I Said To My Soul, Be Loud Madden me back to an afternoon I carry in me not like a wound but like a will against a wound Give me again enough man to be the child choosing my own annihilations To make of this severed limb a wand to conjure a weapon to shatter dark matter of the dirt daubers' nests galaxies of glass Whacking glints bash-dancing on the cellar's fire I am the sound the sun would make if the sun could make a sound and the gasp of rot stabbed from the compost's lumpen living death is me O my life my war in a jar I shake you and shake you and may the best ant win For I am come a whirlwind of wasted things and I will ride this tantrum back to God until my fixed self, my fluorescent self my grief–nibbling, unbewildered, wall–to–wall self withers in me like a salted slug

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived  in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where  it came from, from winter or a river.  I don't know how or when,  no they were not voices, they were not  words, nor silence,  but from a street I was summoned,  from the branches of night,  abruptly from the others,  among violent fires  or returning alone,  there I was without a face  and it touched me.

and love is a word used too much and much too soon.

And life goes on like this, an uncomplete poem.

And now, for something completely the same: Wasted time and wasted breath, 's what I'll make, until my death. Helping people 'd be as good, but I wouldn't, if I could. For the few that help deserve, have no need, or not the nerve, help from strangers to accept, plus from mine a few have wept. Wept from joy, or from despair, or just from my vengeful stare. Ways I have, to look at stupid, make them see I am not Cupid. Make them see they are in error, for of truth I am a bearer. Most decide I'm just a bear, mauling at them, - like I care.

And now what will I do with all this time that forms my life with all these people who care nothing for me now, that you've left all these nights why, for whom and this morning for nothing returning my heart banging for whom why banging gravely, gravely, and now how to face up to that nothingness my life slipping o friends be gentle you know well we have nothing to do with it And now what will I do now that you . . .

And now when I delete your iMessages, they show up in an 'Archive'. They live on in 'The Cloud', floating somewhere up there in space. It is hard to move on with the knowledge that somewhere up there in space: we are alive amongst the satellites.

And now we who are writing women and strange monsters Still search our hearts to find the difficult answers, Still hope that we may learn to lay our hands More gently and more subtly on the burning sands.

And now dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

And once the ripples still and the water returns to its unwavering calm, even the pebble that broke its surface will be forgotten. And the world will go on.

And then I feel the sun itself as it blazes over the hills, like a million flowers on fire -- clearly I'm not needed, yet I feel myself turning into something of inexplicable value. -from The Buddha's Last Instruction

And the pebbles fight each other as rocks/And my father bends among them/Two hands outstretching up to me/Not that I can hear.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

And then, There was a love Shining so bright, That even the darkest part Of our hearts Felt the warmth

And there you sit. My eyes burning a hole on the side of your face while the stars are being captured in your eyes from the prolonged, there's-plenty-of-time, full attention you're giving each one. And there you sit. And I'm wishing I could give you every ounce of what you give the stars.

And was it his destined part / Only one moment in his life / To be close to your heart?

And they danced with laughter and tears. They swung each other round and round, the first and last time in years.

And though they fell as ashes, their shadows drifted as leaves.

And under the cicadas, deeper down that the longest taproot, between and beneath the rounded black rocks and slanting slabs of sandstone in the earth, ground water is creeping. Ground water seeps and slides, across and down, across and down, leaking from here to there, minutely at a rate of a mile a year. What a tug of waters goes on! There are flings and pulls in every direction at every moment. The world is a wild wrestle under the grass; earth shall be moved. What else is going on right this minute while ground water creeps under my feet? The galaxy is careening in a slow, muffled widening. If a million solar systems are born every hour, then surely hundreds burst into being as I shift my weight to the other elbow. The sun’s surface is now exploding; other stars implode and vanish, heavy and black, out of sight. Meteorites are arcing to earth invisibly all day long. On the planet, the winds are blowing: the polar easterlies, the westerlies, the northeast and southeast trades. Somewhere, someone under full sail is becalmed, in the horse latitudes, in the doldrums; in the northland, a trapper is maddened, crazed, by the eerie scent of the chinook, the sweater, a wind that can melt two feet of snow in a day. The pampero blows, and the tramontane, and the Boro, sirocco, levanter, mistral. Lick a finger; feel the now. Spring is seeping north, towards me and away from me, at sixteen miles a day. Along estuary banks of tidal rivers all over the world, snails in black clusters like currants are gliding up and down the stems of reed and sedge, migrating every moment with the dip and swing of tides. Behind me, Tinker Mountain is eroding one thousandth of an inch a year. The sharks I saw are roving up and down the coast. If the sharks cease roving, if they still their twist and rest for a moment, they die. They need new water pushed into their gills; they need dance. Somewhere east of me, on another continent, it is sunset, and starlings in breathtaking bands are winding high in the sky to their evening roost. The mantis egg cases are tied to the mock-orange hedge; within each case, within each egg, cells elongate, narrow, and split; cells bubble and curve inward, align, harden or hollow or stretch. And where are you now?

And we don't point our fingers at the leaves; we don't curse at the sky. We do not ask them why they are as they are. We do not sit them down on dirty chairs in detention rooms in crowded airports and make them feel inferior; no. We tell our children: Climb trees. Reach for the sky. We accept strong wind and summer breeze; why do we discriminate against our own species?

And what I said was I’ll miss you, What I meant to say was that I love you, What I wanted to say was that I meant what I said I miss you like I miss my own bed after too many nights of sleeping on couches or hardwood floors Or sitting silently behind the doors Of hotel rooms became wounds Breathing life in to this loneliness I miss you Like a burn victim must miss their own skin I miss you like a sad ending Must miss someplace new to begin Because some say that the highway becomes a flat line if you travel it for too long I can’t tell if that’s true or false, But I’m racing down it towards you trying to find my Pulse.

And what was really mine? A handful of rupees and a mind packed tight with rage.

and when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are silent we are still afraid So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive

...and when we die we die alone I cry, I cry alone Like a piece of stone I am thrown into the wavy ocean of life to atone...to atone Only to atone...

... And when the giant clam opened you were standing there dressed only in kelps and weeds of the ocean. And you held in your hand a starfish, and you said, 'Take, my Queen, this is for you. I bring you the stars, the stars from the borderless sea.

And you know what the worst thing was? The worst thing was that nobody ever believed how hard we tried.

And you’re a tall drink of water because we’re so fucking thirsty

an English girl might well believe that time is how you spend your love.

Angel of Mercy Speaks: Angel of Mercy may your stone flesh awaken with my garland of love so once again your love fills my heart with peace

And you’ll know the fairytales were wrong when they required a happy ending.  Because it’s all about the story, love, And the joy comes in the telling.

Angels don’t live in hell “ He whispered “And devils are not welcome in heaven though, but I found a way to let you in “ She said out loud “It’s all about effort “the sky ended their argument. And she won again …..

An orphans curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! How more horrible that that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!

Animals, birds, and fish confirm Your power and Your existence.

A no hurts but a broken promise hurts more, Listening to a no is not easy but a shattered wish stabs more! Don't ever promise anything that you will not be able to give, BECAUSE THE HEART BREAKS INTO A ZILLION PIECES WHEN PEOPLE PROMISE BUT DON'T GIVE .

Another breath, left to translate

An intricate string made up of infinite knots and curls. Taking a step back, it really did seem so fragile. As if the smallest breeze of opportunity would cause it to snap. It held strong though, fastened to me and you as a line of steel.