#poe

I want to write a poem about "Truth," "Honor," "Dignity," and whether the toilet paper should roll over or under when you pull on it. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#honor #life #poem #toilet-paper #truth

Nexus I wrote stubbornly into the evening. At the window, a giant praying mantis rubbed his monkey wrench head against the glass, begging vacantly with pale eyes; and the commas leapt at me like worms or miniature scythes blackened with age. the praying mantis screeched louder, his ragged jaws opening into formlessness. I walked outside; the grass hissed at my heels. Up ahead in the lapping darkness he wobbled, magnified and absurdly green, a brontosaurus, a poet. ↗

— Rita Dove

#age

An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, ↗

— W.B. Yeats

#poem #poet #yeats #age

I think poor poetry writing skills are excused when you’re simply trying to flush out emotions. ↗

— Katie Kiesler

#poetry #writing #age

The first time I saw hundreds of fiddlehead ferns boiling in an enormous pot I realized what an odd person I must be to hear tiny cries from the mouths of cooking vegetables. ↗

— Maureen Seaton

#vegetables #age

Time moved for you not in quotidian beats, but in the slow rhythm the ages keep – ↗

— Aldous Huxley

#villiers-de-l-isle-adam #age

I once saw a small child go to an electric light switch as say, "Mamma, can I open the light?" She was using the age-old language of exploration, the language of art. It was a sort of metaphor, but she was not using it as ornamentation. ↗

— Ezra Pound

#language #poetry #age

Mrs. Spock: He's in his 80's now His face is showing his age Not quite the trim figure That he had on the old show But I've grown older too, Wider, and more creaky bones And "Bones" has travelled on But, still, "Live long and prosper!" Back when I was little Was always Mrs. Spock when Ever we played "Star Trek" With my sisters, as a child ↗

— Debby Feo

#age

As if this great outburst of anger had purged all my ills, killed all my hopes, I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world- and finding it so much like myself, in fact so fraternal, I realized that I’d been happy, and that I was still happy. For the final consummation and for me to feel less lonely, my last wish was that there should be a crowd of spectators at my execution and that they should greet me with cries of hatred. ↗

— Albert Camus

#poetry #anger

Anger's like a battery that leaks acid right out of me And it starts from the heart 'til it reaches my outer me ↗

— Criss Jami

#anger #battery #control #heart #inner