France is not poetic; she even feels, in fact, a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.
All through childhood, I wrote verses and mysteries. There is, for me, one connection: structure. My poetry is metrical, rhyming.
As far as I am concerned, poetry is a statement concerning the human condition, composed in verse.
Civil disobedience is not accepted by religion and the state does not accept it and there are many verses in the Holy Book that talk of following the ruler.
How many chapters have been written about love verses - and how many more might be written! - might, would, could, should, or ought to be written! - I will venture to say, will be written!
Well, I'll tell you, I don't know how aware teenagers are of me. I think it really depends on the teenager and how well-versed in music they are and what kind of music they like.
My spirit mirrors the radiance of a clear, blue sky. With closed eyes I lift my face and smile, warmed from the core and from above. All hopes and dreams compete with this endless expanse of heaven, desiring the clock of eternity. I reach with my han...
My world burns severe. Pockets of sweltering air attack every inch of me exposed, heated by fire spewed forth from the lungs of dragons. For defense I raise a glowing sword that shines by virtue of powers contrary to those I fight against. It is a ba...
Life works on the same principle as a boomerang. It's simple, really—what you send out you get back. A smiling face receives many smiles. Friendliness finds itself surrounded by friends. Giving hugs creates hugs. Offered help is reciprocated. In co...
A kiss says it all— I like you. I love you. I need you. I want you. I value you. I fancy you. I adore you. I prefer you. I missed you. I cherish you. I support you. I care for you. I long for you. I think of you. I treasure you. I hope for you. I c...
I've a habit of placing a happy-face or a frowny-face on my calendar, depending on what kind of day I've had. Often I slap a droopy circle in the box, discouraged by the things I failed to accomplish and the unpleasant encounters endured. But the...
In the library I search for a good book. We have many books, says Mrs. Rose, the librarian, and ALL of them are good. Of course she says that. It's her job. But do I want to read about Trucks Trains and Transport? Or even Horses Houses and Hyenas? In...
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished ...
The rain is falling all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea.
Time which none can bind, While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.
I am a butterfly poet birthed from pain flying with the freedom of my verses.
The verse is supposed to get you hard so the chorus can suck you off.
There is no mystery-- that's the beauty of it. We are entirely explicable to each other, and yet we stay. What a miracle that is.
My eyes meet his and I understand exactly what he's saying. He's my person. He's my home.
Did you mean what you said before? About the dead hanging around? You really believe it?
Chicago sounds rough to the maker of verse. One comfort we have - Cincinnati sounds worse.
