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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #poetry
i am a little church(no great cathedral) far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities --i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest, i am not sorry when sun and rain make april my life is the life of the reaper and the sower; my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving (finding and losing and laughing and crying)children whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness around me surges a miracle of unceasing birth and glory and death and resurrection: over my sleeping self float flaming symbols of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains i am a little church(far from the frantic world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature --i do not worry if longer nights grow longest; i am not sorry when silence becomes singing winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to merciful Him Whose only now is forever: standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence (welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness) ↗
Though we tremble before uncertain futures may we meet illness, death and adversity with strength may we dance in the face of our fears. ↗
If you come as softly As wind within the trees You may hear what I hear See what sorrow sees. If you come as lightly As threading dew I will take you gladly Nor ask more of you. You may sit beside me Silent as a breath Only those who stay dead Shall remember death. And if you come I will be silent Nor speak harsh words to you. I will not ask you why, now. Or how, or what you do. We shall sit here, softly Beneath two different years And the rich earth between us Shall drink our tears. ↗
Final Disposition Others divided closets full of mother's things. From the earth, I took her poppies. I wanted those fandango folds of red and black chiffon she doted on, loving the wild and Moorish music of them, coating her tongue with the thin skin of their crimson petals. Snapping her fingers, flamenco dancer, she'd mock the clack of castanets in answer to their gypsy cadence. She would crouch toward the flounce of flowers, twirl, stamp her foot, then kick it out as if to lift the ruffles, scarlet along the hemline of her yard. And so, I dug up, soil and all, the thistle-toothed and gray-green clumps of leaves, the testicle seedpods and hairy stems both out of season, to transplant them in my less-exotic garden. There, they bloom her blood's abandon, year after year, roots holding, their poppy heads nodding a carefree, opium-ecstatic, possibly forever sleep. ↗
It’s not that we have to leave this life one day, it's how many things we have to leave all at once: holding hands, hotel rooms, wine, summertime, drunkenness, and the physics of falling leaves, clothing, myrrh, perfumed hair, flirting friends, two strangers' glance; the reflection of the moon, with words like, 'Soon' ... 'do you want me?' ... '...to lie enlaced' ... 'and sleep entwined' thinking ahead, with thoughts behind...?' Ô, Why! Why can’t we leave this life slowly? ↗
#dying #living #losing-a-friend #love #moon
Overmodulation By Charlotte M Liebel-Fawls You're a cavity in my oasis, You're a porthole in my sea, You're a stretch of the imagination every time you look at me. You're an ocean in my wineglass, You're a Steinway on the beach, You're a captivating audience, an exciting Rembrandt, A Masterpiece. ↗
#imagination #love #masterpiece #oasis #ocean
so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos... So ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in. ↗
The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. You’re in eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn't do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore. ↗
For me, the short story is not a character sketch, a mouse trap, an epiphany, a slice of suburban life. It is the flowering of a symbol center. It is a poem grafted onto sturdier stock. ↗
