poems

The sonnet, a lyrical poem, the beauty and magic... convey with our hearts the truth of the universe in a single moment briefly.

think think think until you blink

...some of the best love poems have been written by monks and nuns...

When I Read the Book"When I read the book, the biography famous, And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life? And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life? (As if any man really knew aught of my life,Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life, Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous pretensions. The poet was meant to be a seer; he was designed to run toward the intensities and magnificences of life, to bathe his hands in reality. But where the mystic ran toward Reality in silence and lost himself in it, the poet as soon as he had experienced it, ran back toward humanity crying the good news and putting it into shimmering webs of words.

Daddy-by Nancy B. BrewerWhen I used to say, speak up you are as good as they, You would just smile and say, let them have their way. When in my foolish youth, I so often disobeyed,He would just smile and say, let her have her way. When summer passed and winter overcame. He was not afraid, never once did he say. When in the moonlight his final hour came, He just smiled and said Lord I'll go your way.

The Old StoicRiches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn:And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!"Yes, as my swift days near their goal:__is all that I implore; In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure.

Why not fall in love with an artist? Otherwise there are no letters, pictures, paintings and songs for you when you wake up.

Poems are lenses, mirrors, and X-ray machines.

The machines are too dull when weare lion-poems that move & breathe.

Success"If you want a thing bad enoughTo go out and fight for it,Work day and night for it,Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for itIf only desire of itMakes you quite mad enoughNever to tire of it,Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for itIf life seems all empty and useless without itAnd all that you scheme and you dream is about it,If gladly you'll sweat for it,Fret for it,Plan for it,Lose all your terror of God or man for it,If you'll simply go after that thing that you want.With all your capacity,Strength and sagacity,Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity,If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt,Nor sickness nor painOf body or brainCan turn you away from the thing that you want,If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it,You'll get it!

The Ph.D is one of the chosen who know that some things can never be fathomed, no matter how hard you try. What good are explanations? There is no possibility of explaining how such a work [Mozart's Requiem, in the instance] could ever have come into being. (The same holds true for certain poems, which should not be analyzed either.)

An envy of that one consummate partSwept me, who mock. Whether I laugh or weep, Some inner silences are at my heart.

I will forever walk alone in a world overflowing with those that will never understand my meaning of __earning to See_ I__ always teaching myself to see beauty in all aspects of reality, yearning to learn the beauty in others, from their vision of everyday life to their deepest secrets of their dreams. As the sun rises I must smile, smile for those with the beautiful mind and soul. I__ so passionate for the visions I see, and the dreams I wish the world could be.

Poems are the chorus of our lives. the poet sets the words to the music of our souls. Each poem has its own rhythm that drums like a heartbeat.

a politician is an arse uponwhich everyone has sat except a man

You should gofrom place to placerecovering the poemsthat have been written for youto which you can affix your signature.Don't discuss these matterswith anyone.Retrieve. Retrieve.When the basket is fullsomeone will appearto whom you can present it.

No map to help us find the tranquil flat lands, clearings calm, fields without mean fences. Rolling down the other side of life our compass is the sureness of ourselves. Time may make us rugged, ragged round the edges, but know and understand that love is still the safest place to land.