Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

Do not wander in the deeps, Where the Shriker's shadow creeps. When he rises from beneath, Beware the Sharpness of his teeth.

Don't live each day as if it were your last, for you might break your back and breathe your last. Rather, live as if a hundred days left; oh, not so pressured, of tension bereft. We do work to live, not do live to work; always rushing is not fun but a joke. Live each day not so stressed nor so relaxed; it's in balanced way where joy's at the max.

Each moment is a poetic expression of the undefined. As long as it remains undefined, it has all the beauty of the world and it steps inside to nurture your dreams.

Early in her career, Muse engaged her skills for technical purposes, such as document translation and schematic visualizations for government entities. She continued to write and paint poetically, in secret, using her pen name, Muse. An inner compass is evident in her work. Pieces reflect both past and present dilemmas; while showcasing her victories in overcoming these obstacles ~ all from her faith based perspective. Light touches of modernism play hand in hand with old world strokes, offering highly visceral readings.

Er bestrich sich Stirn und Brust, unwissend, was er aus seinem Zustande machen sollte, und ein unsägliches Wonnegefühl ergriff ihn, als ein Westwind, vom Meere her, sein wiederkehrendes Leben anwehte, und sein Auge sich nach allen Richtungen über die blühende Gegend von St. Jago hinwandte.

Elles ont le corps pulpeux là où le regard mâle cherche du rebondi, quelque chose de ferme, doux et chaud pour remplir une paume rêche, rarement propre à cause des travaux manuels qui ne sont pas le lot des maîtres au village. Le type usé cherche un corps jeune pour essuyer ses mains crottées d'homme vaillant, un corps-torchon qui sent bon la vanille importée, la mauvaise gousse taillée, puis frottée entre les seins et à l'attache des bras qui n'a pas connu le fil du couteau sur la veine la plus apparente, celle qui pisserait rouge si on la tranchait dans le sens de la mort.

faces pressed against the pane, full of little, content with sawdust tears.

Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two litre bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom's night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke bars or Bolsi- the best place in town. For the food. For the folk. For the service. For the crema de papaya. And for that late night dawn's whiskey coffee.

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me, even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye: I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Every second from Life,is an experimental trip,that teaches the physics of our sadness or happiness, leaving a tempest blow.

Fairy tale about a little girl, who wasn’t afraid of death. Her fragile bones looked as white coffins where birds used to sleep.

Feelings and emotion ran through my veins like a hurricane. And that's when everything began to look like poetry. —You look like poetry

Felix had left his heart buried in the ground years ago, but he felt it crack apart.

Fracture lines etch the surface of the glass box as if a body fell from the sky and landed on it. He doesn't hear the impact, can't smell the blood.

Ha! no more dirges for the dead summer—and here,the shrills of that unpleasant months over, and new leaves start to shiver;as the winter smiled in her foggy bath!

Gargoyles sat on the battlements- lean they were and the same hideous damp grey as the stone. They looked at her with hollow eyes and rattled their silver chains. They had wings of bats or wings or birds, most of them, and licked their beaks or teeth with forked or double tongues. Two paced restlessly before their platforms; others whined or picked their claws or groomed their mangy fur or feathers or lizard skin or scales.

Have you been caring to all your children? Will they take you than be at old folks' den? Will they feel honored pushing your wheelchair? Will hearts break when your breath runs out of spare?

from under the ground, from under the waters, they clutch at us, they clutch at us, we won’t let go.

God designed love to make the world living; so if world's dying, we know what's missing. When missing, God designed another thing: "This one is hatred-to do repairing." Oh, how the world treats hatred as beastly; yet sans hatred, who'll fight depravity? Hatred used to correct is celestial; but when used to oppress, it is bestial.

He is in love with the land that is always over The next hill and the next, with the bird that is never, Caught, with the room beyond the looking glass. He likes the half-hid, the half-heard, the half-lit, The man in the fog, the road without an ending …

He liked the way the obsidian reflected his light, the way its slick surfaces caught fire as he passed. Of course, he did not consider how black it would be when he was gone. My father has never been able to imagine the world without himself in it.

Her voice was a hushed whisper against my ear. An audible smile.

His eyes are a midnight moment filled with memories, the only windows into my world.

His green eyes blazed with desire; such a different look than I'd known before. Chase had studied me, reading my feelings. Tucker was only trying to see his own reflection. Disturbing on several levels.

His stories were not always new, but there was in the telling of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men at once; whistle so like a bird that the birds themselves would come to him to hear what he had to say; and when when he imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise the hair on the backs of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their hearts like the depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and of wind and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling.

Aleksei with his impossible curls so very like her own, yet less seemly perhaps. Such hair is somewhat fairy-tale in a man. Poetic.

I am nothing but a book of fiction which is written in very poetic way.

I bounce to Creativity by selling myself for Imagination.

He was now working his way through the many shades of grief. Sadness made everything gray, he'd learned, but there were different types of gray, some darker than others. There were dark spots in his memories he wasn't brave enough to enter.

[H]is skin was the color of age and his features the shape of a saint’s.

Hope lies not in the light at tunnel's end; it's in the fact our life doesn't yet end. Till we can talk, walk, see, and comprehend, hope goes on for all things we want happen.

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.

How stark everything became, at the end, all the wishes for one's children distilled by the world's swift cruelty into the desperate hope that death would take them fast.

I am a daydreamer.. I daydream a lot, and thus is when my wicked imagination emerges to bleed upon my paper...

I'd like to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue"-all at the same time. Sometimes now I listen to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound.

if nothing ends where do we begin?

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood, neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eye I am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

If someone asks you why you're oppressing a world and you reply with a lot of poetic crap, no. I guess there can't be a meeting of minds.

If you are happily married for what you have highly devoured from your beloved wife,is however legal,the world clasps respectfully, without any means to disapprove,though jealous and you too had given your wife an Heavenly drink,many a time with her mind's consent in order to fill what 'Eternal Sexual Divinity' is all about.

If you ask a twenty-one-year-old poet whose poetry he likes, he might say, unblushing, "Nobody's," In his youth, he has not yet understood that poets like poetry, and novelists like novels; he himself likes only the role, the thought of himself in a hat.

I decided an Akubra did not a bushy make - Ellen Read - An Ordinary Man .

If you want the naked beauty of my vulnerability, you have to have the strength to share the burden of, the private pain, that makes me feel so tender and fragile. For i am as strong, as i am, weak. If you want me to come home to you, be the safe harbor, in which, i can seek refuge.

If you were destined to be a poet, then you won't brainstorm for lines that rhymes. If you were destined to be a celebrity, then you shouldn't start searching for fans. If you are truly a god, then let others worship you!

I found a night’s sky full of stars In your cinematic eyes And heard a symphony In your laughter.

I had no room now for this fear, or for any other fear, because I was filled to the brim with music. And even when it was not literally (audibly) music, there was the music of my muscle-orchestra playing — “the silent music of the body,” in Harvey’s lovely phrase. With this playing, the musicality of my motion, I myself became the music — “You are the music, while the music lasts.” A creature of muscle, motion and music, all inseparable and in unison with each other — except for that unstrung part of me, that poor broken instrument which could not join in and lay motionless and mute without tone or tune.

I have a few regrets. There was a girl I should have married, a war in which I should never have fought, a loaf of bread I should have shared, a lie to which I should never have listened. And there is a story I should have told.

I have woken up…quite sloshed from night-mingled rains a little drugged, by mountain fogs I have been kidnapped for years....by a mere kiss.

I knelt and locked the door. I locked the door locking the world and time outside. I stretched my body across the mattress and Saskia drew in close to me and placed her open hand on my chest, her mouth near my shoulder; her breath, my breath blew out the candle, and I held my lost Wanderess with tenderness until sweet sleep overcame us.

I knew that people said love should be unconditional, given like a dog gives to its master, but what Being could give that way? What could love though it had been kicked and beaten? What could go kissing the hand of its tormentor with upturned eyes? I didn't know. Perhaps Jesus, perhaps the Dalai Lama, but I couldn't. I had a condition, the way life has conditions to live, the body must have certain conditions to grow, and Cristien had to meet mine or I could not live. I could not.

I get a little poetic sometimes. The moonlight does that to me.