Carl Rakosi
The thing that sits self-conscious in the intellect and longs to be great is not the soul. The soul wants only a gentle planet. ― Carl Rakosi
Category: Unknown Publication
Unknown
Grief never ends. But it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, It is the price of love. – Often attributed to Queen Elizabeth II, it’s also associated with a passage, though not verbatim, from a work by Dr. Parkes. In truth, the real author is… Continue reading Unknown
Grover Helatino
Your warm fingers softly caressed my spinal bridge; a place where it is solemn and quiet, beneath my midnight hair, and sleeping at the top of my vertebrae. —Grover Helatino
Richard Jackson
If I Can’t Love You If I can’t love you, then I want to live on some blind sea,Wherever the freighters squint along the horizon,Wherever it is your look arrives from, that is, whereverThe branches dream of rain, wherever your goodbyeGrasps the stems of stars, someplace where the dayLearns to live leaf by leaf,… Continue reading Richard Jackson
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I have been here before,But when or how I cannot tell:I know the grass beyond the door,The sweet keen smell,The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before,—How long ago I may not know:But just when at that swallow’s soarYour neck turn’d so,Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.… Continue reading Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Travis Grandt
I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word. — Travis Grandt
jhlumyk
I wish I were not more than this, a written pulse, a hushed whisper of thought, braced against the great nothing. For what am I but an elaborate case for my consciousness? — jhlumyk, section I of “Sunday as it was”
Deliaha Hicks
Don’t worry and don’t hurry and your days will be long. ― Deliaha Hicks
Walter Inglis Anderson
The first poetry is always written againstthe wind by sailors & farmers who sing with thewind in their teeth. The second poetry is written by scholarsand wine drinkers who have learned to know a goodthing. The third poetry is sometimes never writtenbut when it is, it’s by those who have broughtnature and art together into… Continue reading Walter Inglis Anderson
Richard Miller
You come like a soft whisper Riding the crest of an autumn breezeThrough an indigo drenched morning Breaching my eardrumsPenetrating my aching blood vessels Pouring into my heart Like a river to the sea You bloom like a supernova Blazing radiant in a neon vacuumA juvenescent surge of electricity Pulsing through this weary machineRupturing my… Continue reading Richard Miller
The Vale of Soul-Making 