Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

Inquiricide: the act of killing inquiry by vilifying the questioner or source of inquiry! RjS

In the absence of sleep, my restless nights have been fueled by my overactive imagination, weaving waking dreams onto the canvas of conception. Filling my head with lots of ideas waiting to be born into reality. I am eager to return to my beautiful mistress, Creation!

in the end it is words poetry. sunsets someone’s deep blue silk voice. mountain scents. someone’s smile. eyes. that we have no defenses against.

In the fall, she knew it was Death who sweetened the apples.

In the park, the bright colors of the children's clothing, the timbre of their young voices, lowered and darkened.

In the molten fire where he lay he could watch the slow machinations of eternity, the cosmic miracle of each second being born, eggshaped, silverplated, phallic, time thrusting itself gleaming through the worn and worthless husk of the microsecond previous, halting, beginning to show the slow and infinitesimal accreations of decay in the clocking away of life in a mechanism encoded at the moment of conception, withering, shunted aside by time's next orgasmic thrust, and all to the beating of some galactic heart, to voices, a madman's mutterings from a snare in the web of the world.

… in these new days and in these new pages a philosophical tradition of the spontaneity of speculation kind has been rekindled on the sacred isle of Éire, regardless of its creative custodian never having been taught how to freely speculate, how to profoundly question, and how to playfully define. Spontaneity of speculation being synonymous with the philosophical-poetic, the philosophical-poetic with the rural philosopher-poet, and by roundelay the rural philosopher-poet thee with the spontaneity of speculation be. And by the way of the rural what may we say? A philosopher-poet of illimitable space we say. Iohannes Scottus Ériugena the metaphor of old salutes you; salutes your lyrical ear and your skilful strumming of the rippling harp. (Source: Hearing in the Write, Canto 19, Ivy-muffled)

Its my sweet-lipped Passion:Art that drives me up to invent new smiles of Beauty,my wings are torn,and still it flies in search of Beauty.

It almost felt like we were driving in our own world--like we were inside a snow globe--and there was music and sunlight and smiles and laughter floating in the air. And it was all self-contained in a beautiful bubble filled with glittering water that made things seem a little unreal, a little dream-like and hazy.

I think, but I can’t, so I try, then I can.

It is in the more muddled moments of my life, that i become painfully aware of my issues. When nothing is going right, when life gets away from me. When i feel like life is living me, instead of me, living life. It's a difficult place be, but it's also where the seeds of change, often take root. And from those roots, a wellspring of hope and positive transformation, blooms.

Love can be so hauntingly beautiful, waking up past selves that have been wandering aimlessly through the corridors of our soul, for far too long. When someone else can take us from the ghost-town of our inner-selves, to exciting new landscapes, it's worth the risk, just to feel reborn.

I want to be intoxicated by the darkened ether of midnight, running through my fingers as sparkling stardust. I crave the taste of the ocean's salty tears, as her temperamental tides crash and break against the rocks. I yearn for the sweet scent of sun on my skin and the earthy musk of dirt giving way under my bare feet. I want to lay naked in golden fields, as i gaze up at an endless sky, dreaming my dreams, as Mother Nature's love washes over me like spiritual sunshine.

I wish my whispers are heard and requited as a storm... Because, the storm is that keeps me alive!

Listen,the Nature has her Mystic hands pressed on us to prove the wonders or sadness in a way that we let ourselves ponder about the clueless,yet clue giving, seen,yet seen,uninformed,yet informed,untouched yet touched characters using our normal human mind.

Living in the land of, "What if....?" leads to emotional paralysis. It sets the stage for doom and gloom thinking. It prevents us from experiencing the beauty of the present moment. Happiness resides in the here and now. It can not thrive in a prison of the past or in the worry of future outcomes that may or may not, happen. We need to trust that we have the divine wisdom within ourselves and through the support of others, to climb the treacherous terrain this human existence brings. It is worth the struggle. The view from the top is extraordinary. Onward and upward!

Love can be such a mysterious muse and seductress... spinning her magical web of stardust and emotional euphoria. True love sang her siren song and we wrapped that song around us like the sweetest melody.

I will love you like the desert burns along the sun when they are together, and when you will be gone, just like every one else, I will cry for you like the snow that melts at the first hint of summer... and hoping that you'll be back I will miss you like the clouds lose themselves when it rains...

Live a life abundant in love and rich in spirit, these are the seeds of a fulfilling existence. Be the safe harbor you seek in the world. Follow your dreams, not your fear. Go into the New Year with an open mind and hopeful heart. Don't let the chains of unforgiveness weigh you down. Life is too short to live in a prison of past hurts. The futures is yours for the taking and creating. Life is bittersweet, when we can let darkness and light co-exist as illumination, we can live in true happiness. When we live life at its best, it is a symphony of feelings, of high and low notes, of tragedy and comedy, love and loss, magic and the sublime. It can be quite a spectacular journey when we fully embrace and accept it.

Love encompasses so much, reaches so far, and heals so deeply, that any attempt to describe it, no matter how poetic, only dilutes it.

Love is not love which alters it when alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O no! It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out, even to the edge of doom." (Sonnet 116)

Markings in dry clay disappear Only when the clay is soft again. Scars upon the self disappear Only when one becomes soft within.

Man is not victim of environment that due to world's evil, life is torment. It's man who victimized environment that due to man's evil, world is lament.

Once there was an elephant, Who tried to use the telephant- No! no! I mean an elephone He tried to use the telephone- (Dear me! I am not certain quite That even now I've got it right.) Howe'er it was, he got his trunk Entangled in the telephunk; The more he tried to get it free, The louder buzzed the telephee- (I fear I'd better drop the song Of elephop and telephong!)

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

Medicinal Spirit, Inside Mirror Therapy becomes a harmony, and that harmony is built on levels, No one knows how to upscale another, for it has to come from the inside grails, Striking inflicts at the mirror and hatred to the being of creator, Causes hate in mirror too and abused flesh to the author, Changes come from its prudence and rationalism liberation, Not its pardon, A mirror is but a substance of a conscious, But identity says "let me fly" when journeying from the subconscious to the conscious.

Naked you are blue like the night in Cuba, you have vines and stars in your hair,

Mistress Creation keeps calling my name... i long for her, and she, for me... we will be reunited soon. In the interim, i bide my time dreaming of her, writing about her and stretching her across the vast landscape of my imagination. "Soon", i whisper to her, "Soon

My dream was to be a scientist, but it turns out to be poetic scientific awakener.

Nobody must question your right to smoke, but I've right, too, not to inhale your smoke. First of all, health abuse is not a right; use of right ought to lead to life, not blight. You have right to party with unchecked noise, but I've right, too, not be pained by your noise. In short, a right can't be claimed as a right, if it violates other people's right.

Our house is quiet, small and plain, and yet its rooms run far and wide. A hundred pencils, swift as rain, writing on sheets of beaten gold would not be quick enough to hold the strange adventures shadows hide...

One of the most connective things we can do for ourselves, is to become world travelers of our own internal landscapes. What i love about creating art, is the excitement of turning that landscape inside out for all to see. And the kind of courage that takes, when i don't know what the outcome will be...

Parched by the deprivation of your love for so long made me forget what a cup brimming with love, on my lips, felt like. Everything that now wets it, only wrinkles it with a bland taste.

Pain is subtle. He has cold grey fingers. His voice is horse from crying & screaming... When people try to avoid him, he follows them silently & turns upas the bartender, or the bus driver... Pain has an elaborate filing system for keeping track of everyone... Pain respects people who are willing to take risks. If you... face him directly, he will give you a special ointment so your wounds don't fester.

She is too perfect to be known by fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building of my palace.

Pram wasn't told the story of her birth. But even as a very small girl, she felt deep in her chest that she was alive and dead at the same time.

REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man’s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.

Scatter as a prayer escaping my lips... as orchids blooming in clouds.

Peace is the greatest state that Human minds ever longed to find Delight,Peace is as well the secret act that makes a Creative Heart renowned.

Poetry is inspired by the elements of random thoughts, an overflow of gazing at the unseen.

Poetry is the articulation of emotion through language.

Settle your perfect hips here and the bow of wet arrows loosens into the night the petals that form your form let your clay limbs climb the silence and its pale ladder rung by rung taking off with me in my dream. I can sense you scaling the shade tree that sings to the shadows. Dark is the world’s night without you my love,

Shake those stars from your hair, pretty Moonchild. It's time to dance with the noonday sun!

She knew that the dead hid pieces of themselves in the world. They buried organs in the living. They stuffed memories into trees and clouds and other innocuous things.

She pulled away, his grip no stronger than the strands of a spider web.

She was a drawing that hadn't been colored.

She was the sky full of surprises. Her dreams were blue and breathtaking as a bright day and her secrets were dark and poetic as a cold night. Either way, she was the most beautiful mess that one had ever come across.

She wished that when her heart was beating double, she could give one of those hearts to him and then press her ear to his chest and feel it beating.

Smokers always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. They claimed they loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between their fingers. That was all well and good, but there was nothing quite like actually smoking it: Leigh loved inhaling. To pull with your lips on that filter and feel the smoke drift across your tongue, down your throat, and directly into your lungs was to be transported momentarily to nirvana. She remembered- every day- how it felt after the first inhale, just as the nicotine was hitting her bloodstream. A few seconds of both tranquility and alertness, together, in exactly the right amounts. Then the slow exhale- forceful enough so that the smoke didn't merely seep from your mouth but not so energetic that it disrupted the moment- would complete the blissful experience.

..so Grandpa turned the rusty latchkey of his magnificent remembery and set free a symphony of stories