Best 1872 quotes in «poem quotes» category

True story This morning I jumped on my horse And went for a ride, And some wild outlaws chased me And shot me in the side. So I crawled into a wildcats cave To find a place to hide But some pirates found me sleeping there And soon they had me tied To a pole and built a fire Under me---I almost cried Till a mermaid came and cut me loose And begged to be my bride So I said id come back Wednesday But I must admit I lied. Then I ran into a jungle swamp But I forgot my guide And I stepped into some quicksand And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get out, until I met A watersnake named Clyde Who pulled me to some cannibals Who planned to have me fried But an eagle came and swooped me up And through the air we flied But he dropped me in a boiling lake A thousand miles wide And you’ll never guess what I did then--- I DIED

Trust taught me to die hard Love helped to reborn both makes lonely moon

Truth is not the secret of a few' yet you would maybe think so the way some librarians and cultural ambassadors and especially museum directors act you'd think they had a corner on it the way they walk around shaking their high heads and looking as if they never went to the bath room or anything But I wouldn't blame them if I were you They say the Spiritual is best conceived in abstract terms and then too walking around in museums always makes me want to 'sit down' I always feel so constipated in those high altitudes

Trying to remember you is like carrying water in my hands a long distance across sand. Somewhere people are waiting. They have drunk nothing for days.

Ultimately, we will lose each other to something. I would hope for grand circumstance—death or disaster. But it might not be that way at all. It might be that you walk out one morning after making love to buy cigarettes, and never return, or I fall in love with another … It might be a slow drift into indifference. Either way, we’ll have to learn to bear the weight of the eventuality that we will lose each other to something. So why not begin now, while your head rests like a perfect moon in my lap …? Why not reach for the seam in this … night and tear it, just a little, so the falling can begin? Because later, when we cross each other on the streets, and are forced to look away, when we’ve thrown the disregarded pieces of our togetherness into bedroom drawers and the smell of our bodies is disappearing like the sweet decay of lilies—what will we call it, when it’s no longer love?

unaccountably we are alone forever alone and it was meant to be that way, it was never meant to be any other way– and when the death struggle begins the last thing I wish to see is a ring of human faces hovering over me– better just my old friends, the walls of my self, let only them be there. I have been alone but seldom lonely. I have satisfied my thirst at the well of my self and that wine was good, the best I ever had, and tonight sitting staring into the dark I now finally understand the dark and the light and everything in between. peace of mind and heart arrives when we accept what is: having been born into this strange life we must accept the wasted gamble of our days and take some satisfaction in the pleasure of leaving it all behind. cry not for me. grieve not for me. read what I’ve written then forget it all. drink from the well of your self and begin again. Mind and Heart

Undeniable obsession of words that quickens my spirit.

Understand the poem not the poet.

UNDIVIDED I am for One world undivided. One world without fear and corruption. One world ruled by Truth and Justice. I am for One peaceful world for all, Where hate has been overcome by love, And everyone is guided only By their conscience.

Unfinished Poem If only you allow me to take the colors of the dusk that bounce off your clear eyes. If only you could allow me to build a rain house in your dreams. Are you still waiting for me to say hello to an old time, my Dear? Time is somehow never meet us. Cracked rock and fragile flower petals that begin to wither. Even though I once wanted to pick the moon to decorate your dress. Promises that just pull over in the corner of our heart. Promises that have never been said through our mouth. Because the glint of your eyes is already painful and my tongue suddenly unable to find words. Words that I've always been intended as a poem from the first beginning.

U nekim trenucima, cak i pisac pozeli da bude necija poezija.

Unfurl your muscles. Slip off your skin. Drop your guts in a heap on the floor.” I felt my airway constrict. Damn, this was profound. I continued. “Nuzzle inside the hollow of my bones. Let our breaths mingle as one. Turn liquid for me. Only for me. Bury your essence inside of my soul.

Un journal Incarnat de penser d'amour L'esprit rougeâtre d'un poison appelée sentiments. Mon encre diluée par deux moitiés encrées sur une île délabrée de penser pour se réconforter. Le coeur fauché comme le blé lacéré des deux côtés imprégné de stupidité par le mot aimé. Marchant devant sans jamais avoir, trouver une femme de confiance, as qui susurre le verbe aimé. Désert l'esprit sur terre, assis sur mon rocher je peux altérer ma pensée et continué as escaladé la montagne créée. Par un flaut d'eau retentissant, rugissants par cent beaucoup de personnes comme des dehiscent sur leur téléphone. Blessants d'être vue comme inconvénient, mais ce qui blesse le plus de l'intérieur est de ne pas s'effondrer et l'extérieur est la façade qui sert de pillier.et ce que tu as soudé, mes tout peut se fendre en une nuitée emplie d'obscurité et vil sournois ris marchent sans aucun dénié ne prend par aucun raccourci la vie n'a aucun repris suit un ami mais ne te laisse aveugler prend garde ton esprit est la clé ne sois jamais fourvoyé par une histoire falsifiée qui peut être mensonger pour t'utiliser. . Garde ton coeur vrai, reste vrai reste magique. Stay True, Stay Magic.

Unmask that face Let me see what lies beneath Unmask that face Let me see what’s not on the surface I no longer believe the smile on that face Hidden motives is all I see I no longer believe the sweetness of words A backstabber is all I see Dare to show your real face As coward is that masked face Dare to flaunt the inner you As respect, you might get Sharpen your knife Stab me in the chest I will admire you For not stabbing me in the back Unmask that face Let me see what lies beneath Unmask that face Let me see what’s not on the surface

unrequited love is like kneeling on uncooked rice and waiting for the boiling water of his kisses to soften the pain but he never comes.

Until we say the truth, there can be no tenderness. As long as there is desire, we will not be safe

Up on the Brooklyn Bridge a man is standing in agony, waiting to jump, or waiting to write a poem, or waiting for the blood to leave his vessels because if he advances another foot the pain of his love will kill him.

Truth is not a thing Or a concept. It is as multidimensional In its meaning As it is in its reflection. It is both invisible And visible. It carries tons of weight, But can be carried. It is understood first through the spirit Before science, And felt in the heart, Before the mind. Truth is not always heard by reason, Because reason sometimes Ignores Truth. Always listen to your conscience. Your conscience is your heart And reason is your mind. Your mind is simply there to reason With your heart. But remember, Truth is in your heart, And only through your heart Can you connect to the light of God. He who is not motivated by his heart Will not see Truth, And he who thinks only with his mind Will be blind to Truth. He who does not think With his conscience, Does not stand by God, For the language of light Can only be decoded by the heart. He who reads and recites words of God Also does not stand by God – If he merely understands Words with his mind But not his heart. Truth is black and white, And the entire spectrum Of colors in-between. It can have many parts, But has a solid foundation. Truth lacks perfection, For it is the reflection of all, Yet its reflection as a whole, Is more beautiful Than the accumulated flaws Of the small. Truth is the only brand Worth breathing And believing. So stand for truth In everything you do, And only then Does your life have Meaning. WHAT IS TRUTH? by Suzy Kassem

Tu ausencia es una casa de paredes arrugadas por los años

Twas a sheep not a lamb that strayed away In the parable Jesus told, A grown-up sheep that strayed away From the ninety and nine in the fold. And why for the sheep should we seek And earnestly hope and pray? Because there is danger when sheep go wrong; They lead the lambs astray. Lambs will follow the sheep, you know, Wherever the sheep may stray. When sheep go wrong, it won’t take long Til the lambs are as wrong as they. And so with the sheep we earnestly plead For the sake of the lambs today, For when sheep are lost, what a terrible cost The lambs will have to pay!

VALENTINE'S DAY POEM: What earth is to sky.. on the horizon.. What moon is to night.. no matter start studded ocean! What Love is to life.. above all give and take.. that you are to me.. a rhythm that soulful music would make! * Let's surrender to each other.. for a dream to be woven together!! You're my weakness and my strength.. wanna live with you till the end!! .. and beyond.. ;)!!! * Even a dent in the universe.. can't express my Love for you! My life is yours forever.. O girl, O girl.. O girl.. you be mine!! Not just for this time.. Everyday beyond.. Valentine, O O my heart, be my.. Valentine!

Very Like a Whale One thing that literature would be greatly the better for Would be a more restricted employment by authors of simile and metaphor. Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts, Can'ts seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have to go out of their way to say that it is like something else. What foes it mean when we are told That the Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold? In the first place, George Gordon Byron had had enough experience To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of Assyrians. However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and thus hinder longevity, We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity. Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wolf on the fold? In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy there are a great many things, But i don't imagine that among then there is a wolf with purple and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings. No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was actually like a wolf I must have some kind of proof; Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big red mouth and big white teeth and did he say Woof woof? Frankly I think it very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say, at the very most, Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host. But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them, With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers to people they say Oh yes, they're the ones that a lot of wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them. That's the kind of thing that's being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson; They're always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison, And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm. Oh it is, is it, all right then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of snow and I'll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical blanket material and we'll see which one keeps warm, And after that maybe you'll begin to comprehend dimly, What I mean by too much metaphor and simile.

Very possibly this was the night my white-knight complex, as Solange put it, would get me killed. Someone had better write a poem about it. It was only fair.

Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side— And then come back down. Singing: "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea. (from poem 'The Forsaken Merman')

Violinists wear the imprint on their necks with pride For they are the players of harmony. Pilgrims, too, wear the imprint on their foreheads with pride For they are the conductors of unity. And Lovers? Why, they are made humble by the imprint on their hearts For they are merely the instruments of rhapsody.

Wadsworth Moor Where the millstone of sky Grinds light and shadow so purple-fine And has ground it so long Grinding the skin off the earth Earth bleeds her raw true darkness A land naked now as a wound That the sun swabs and dabs Where the miles of agony are numbness And harebell and heather a euphoria

Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. The desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don’t go too early. You’re tired. But everyone’s tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Walk the midway and hear the carnival barker. Come see the freak named after his deceased father. Come see the prince who wants to abdicate his throne. Come see the son whose name is carved on a gravestone.

Walking with my doggy is so much fun! And she makes me laugh, she makes me run. Licking she likes to make some good new friends, Kindly enough with cyclists who spin with no end.

Wäre ich ein Zimmermann, würde ich dir ein Fenster zu meiner Seele zimmern. Wenn du hineinschauen würdest, sähest du dich selbst in der Scheibe gespiegelt. Und dann wüsstest du, dass meine Seele ein Spiegelbild von deiner ist.

Watch, how the sun slowly rises from behind my ear new lines, new countries spring up in my palms my rough hair become swaying silk and all the leaves in my body become lusher than fruits.

We all live but a hundred years. When I am with you, I live it in a matter of days.

We all wear masks to veil the truth. Truth is nakedness. Truth is fear. Truth is the gardener making you sit on his lap asking you to light his cigarette. Truth is father— with a limp cigarette on his lips —telling you to never use his matches to light it for him. Truth is father yelling: "It is not nice for little girls to do so”. Truth is a curious girl wanting to ignite a match like a woman. Truth is the maid watching from the kitchen, knowing. But knowing isn’t truth. Truth is the maid calling: Come. Come. Truth is the gardener understanding. But understanding isn’t truth. Truth is the maid saying, "Stay away!" Truth is a girl thinking she is in control. That nothing happened, nothing bad. But the truest truth is a girl knowing, a girl understanding that on that day someone stole a little piece of her truth.

We all wear scars, find someone who makes yours feel beautiful.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

We are all of life who stepped from the sea trading weightless journeys of the currents We are all of life who build and tear down and build again to find gold and silver to find scars that weep and bleed to step from the sea to stay with the sea

We are a pair of dice joined together in the game of fate, We never get along although we've rolled together for hundreds of years. Millions of people share this tiny light, The world belongs to you, The world belongs to me, The world belongs to nobody.

we are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an outdoor barbecue we are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted we are an unwanted burning as we sizzle and fry to the bone the coals of Dante's 'Inferno' spit and sputter beneath us and above the sky is an open hand and the words of wise men are useless it's not a nice world, a nice world it's not ...

We are never alone We are all wolves Howling to the same moon.

We are only allowed to live due to some colossal misunderstanding.

We are snowflakes, melting on the tongue of the universe.

We are the living whole of the fragments from the things we've experienced and people we've encountered. Each interaction changes us in a subtle or massive way. The masterpiece we are sheds it's weathered skin, becoming even more than it was before.

we are two like-minded creatures too well-matched, both equal halves of a whole not altogether wholesome

We can't go back, though we're apt to waver even as our wheels spin on.

We can't find the cat, We don't know where she's at, Oh, where did she go? Does anyone know? Let's ask this walking hat.

We did not know she was sick, but she has come to the fence, walking like a woman who is balancing a sword inside of her body.

We don’t find God in temples and cathedrals. We don’t find Him by standing on a prayer rug or sitting in a pew. God appears when we love someone other than ourselves. And we continue to feel His presence when we do good for others. Because God is not found in mosques and synagogues. He resides in our hearts.

We don't know how to say goodbye, We wander on, shoulder to shoulder Already the sun is going down You're moody, and I am your shadow. Let's step inside a church, hear prayers, masses for the dead Why are we so different from the rest? Outside in the graveyard we sit on a frozen branch. That stick in your hand is tracing Mansions in the snow in which we will always be together.

We grooved together with a rhythm so beautiful that I could feel the moment turned into poetry.

We have all seen them circling pastures, have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing, the fences of our own backyards, and have stood amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift. But I had never seen so many so close, every limb of the dead oak feathered black; and I cut the engine let the river grab the jon boat and pull it toward the tree... Then as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time its soft countenance the raw fleshy jowls, wrinkled and generous like the faces of the very old who have grown to empathize with everything. And I drifted away from them, reluctant, looking back at their roost, calling them what they are- transfiguring angels who pray over the leaf graves of the anonymous lost with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.