How would you start to write a poem? How would you put together a series of words for its first line–how would you know which words to choose? When you read a poem, every word seemed so perfect that it had to have been predestined–well, a good poem. Ashley Hay
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every...
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Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.
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Jess C. Scott
When Great Trees FallWhen great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker downin tall grasses, and even elephantslumber after safety. When great trees fallin forests, small things recoil into silence, their senseseroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomeslight,...
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Maya Angelou
She was a beautiful dreamer. The kind of girl, who kept her head in the clouds, loved above the stars and left regret beneath the earth she walked on.
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Robert M. Drake
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may...
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Joyce Kilmer
More Quotes By Ashley Hay
---Sleeps through the washes of the morning's colors and the warm brilliance of sunrise. She sleeps in a world where she remembers, perfectly, every detail about her husband, this day, that sentence, another touch. She will remember it all in the deepest sleep, and lose...
Such fascinating things, libraries. She closes her eyes. She couldwalk inside and step into a murder, a love story, a complete accountof somebody else’s life, or mutiny on the high seas. Such potential;such adventure–there’s a shimmer of malfeasance in trying otherways of being.
There’s some comfort in seeing things go on; birds keep singing, buses keep running. But if you want those things to continue, perhaps you have to accept that the other kinds of things, unhappier, even horrific ones, will continue too. And that’s harder.
How would you start to write a poem? How would you put together a series of words for its first line–how would you know which words to choose? When you read a poem, every word seemed so perfect that it had to have been predestined–well,...
