“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind in never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.”
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A little of this. A little of that.
“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind in never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.”
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.
‘We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,’
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.”
~ Oliver Herford
When dark December glooms the day,
And takes our autumn joys away;
When short and scant the sun-beam throws,
Upon the weary waste of snows…
~Walter Scott, Marmion, 1808
Source: Quote Garden
early morning
coffee in hand
pounding the pavement
saying hi to everyone
yet no plan
as to where he is going
Oh happy days
Etched in clay
Oh happy days
In a loving way
For even bad poetry has relevance for what it does not say for what it leaves out.
~Lawrence Ferlinghetti
“To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.”
~ William Blake ‘Auguries of Innocence’ (c. 1803)
To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie –
True Poems flee –
~Emily Dickinson, c.1879
“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.”
~ Robert Frost
October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came–
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
-George Cooper, October’s Party
“January cold and desolate;
February dripping wet;
March wind ranges;
April changes;
Birds sing in tune
To flowers of May,
And sunny June
Brings longest day;
In scorched July
The storm-clouds fly,
Lightning-torn;
August bears corn,
September fruit;
In rough October
Earth must disrobe her;
Stars fall and shoot
In keen November;
And night is long
And cold is strong
In bleak December.”
~ Christina Rossetti
Wild is the music of autumnal winds
Amongst the faded woods.
~William Wordsworth
No spring nor summer’s beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face….
~John Donne, “Elegy IX: The Autumnal”
I want to hear the simmer
Of the old coffee pot;
I want to hear it hummin’
When it’d gettin’ good and hot;
I want to see the vapor rise,
Like incense in the room,
And float about a-fillin’
Every corner with perfume.
~John W. Fellows, “The Old Coffee Pot,”
in The People’s Home Journal, July 1903
“As for me, I know nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under the trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love,
Or sleep in bed at night with any one I love,
Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon…
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown,
Or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring…
What stranger miracles are there?”
– Walt Whitman
“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.”
– Edgar Allan Poe
Like butterflies in Spring
Poetry awakens the Spirit,
stirs the imagination and explores
the possibilities with each stroke of its rhythmic wings.
~Jamie Lynn Morris
See without looking,
hear without listening,
breathe without asking.
~W.H. Auden
“Poetry is a naked woman, a naked man, and the distance between them.”
– Lawrence Ferlinghetti
To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie –
True Poems flee
~Emily Dickinson, C.1879
The wind blew very hard that day
And snatched her petticoat away.
~Gustave Flaubert
Pt III, Ch. VIII – Madame Bovary (1857)
Poetry is a naked woman, a naked man, and the distance between them.
-Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry, music without the idea is
simply music; the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness.
Edgar Allan Poe, Letter to Mr. B-
Poetry is the rhythmical creation
of beauty of words.
Edgar Allan Poe
I have been told be a few
followers of my blog, and
mention they like my poems.
When I was a boy of school
age, I detested poetry,
hated reading and listening
to it.
Back in the 1990s, I bought
an Edgar Allan Poe book with
all of his poems, and short
stories. A friend tried to
nudge me into writing poems,
but found it a struggle, so
I threw in the towel.
Now, its the 21st century
and recently started what
I am tagging them as “Thoughts”
and never consider some of
the posts as being poetry.
What I write is short
snippets of whatever comes
to mind, and if it sounds
like “poetry,” I shall
accept it as poetry.
If anyone says that
I should consider to
put them in book form,
well … that is not
going to happen.
Don’t use the phone.
People are never ready
to answer it. Use poetry.
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