poem

Your flesh is not a reflection of your soul. So when you look in the mirror, remember that your light outshines your flaws.

My heart's scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed inthe moon and breathed out the world.

Life is so beautiful and so short that anything that makes me feel less than too much is nothing at all.

I am in awe of flowers. Not because of their colors, but because even though they have dirt in their roots, they still grow. They still bloom.

What is the finding of love, but a voice answering a voice?

Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesn__ belong to time. That__ why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.

TO A GIRAFFE If it is unpermissible, in fact fatal to be personal and undesirable to be literal__etrimental as well if the eye is not innocent-does it mean that one can live only on top leaves that are small reachable only by a beast that is tall?_ of which the giraffe is the best example_ the unconversational animal. When plagued by the psychological, a creature can be unbearable that could have been irresistible; or to be exact, exceptional since less conversational than some emotionally-tied-in-knots animal. After all consolations of the metaphysical can be profound. In Homer, existence is flawed; transcendence, conditional; __he journey from sin to redemption, perpetual.

ROSEMARY Beauty and Beauty__ son and rosemary_ Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly_ born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary_ since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers__hite originally_ turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when thirty-three_ it feeds on dew and to the bee __ath a dumb language_; is in reality a kind of Christmas-tree.

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO __ven when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.___ICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow_ Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow __as wings,_ however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso __orvo,_ although con dizionario io parlo Italiano_ this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too_ my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow_ gioièllo mio_ I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a

In the days of Prismatic Colornot in the days of Adam and Eve, but when Adam was alone; when there was no smoke and color was fine, not with the refinement of early civilization art, but because of its originality; with nothing to modify it but the mist that went up, obliqueness was a variation of the perpendicular, plain to see and to account for: it is no longer that; nor did the blue-red-yellow band of incandescence that was color keep its stripe

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

A rural Venus, Selah rises from thegold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweepspetals of water from her skin. At once,clouds begin to sob for such beauty.Clothing drops like leaves."No one makes poetry,my Mme.Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,__ whisper. She smiles: __e__l shape it withour souls.__esire illuminates the dark manuscriptof our skin with beetles and butterflies.After the lightning and rain has ceased,after the lightning and rain of lovemakinghas ceased, Selah will dive again into thesunflower-open river.

Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved,Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened,Thee, my serenity,A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear,Seeing thee wail, whine, cry,Like a gloomy, mourning brume,Thee, my serenity,Soared through fervor and delight,To the crown of heavens, the Almighty Myth,One can not bear, Seeing thee prostrate, razed, demure,Upon the dimmed streets, crawling, for a sight of the lune,Thee, my birdy in love, What befall to thy song, The very chant of my life, Cut short, stopped, along with all I gasp,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear,Seeing thee, caged in thy own night, Encumbered, through thy own heart,Lean on my shoulders now,My beautiful, wonderful Lily,That thee shall not fear, the sorrow of,Of being lonely, apart, not having a peer,As I promise, to my most dear,The girl to my heart, always near,Come what may, don__ age a year,That I will be, forever here,

Line in nature is not found;Unit and universe are round;In vain produced, all rays return;Evil will bless, and ice will burn.

Of everythingI have ever endured,YOUareMy Favourite Tragedy.

The artistic creation of the poet, painter, photographer, and writer is a reflection of the artist__ inner world. The agenda of consciousness that spurs all forms of art is not to represent the outward appearance of things, but to portray its inward significance to the creator. A great poem, painting, photograph, and written composition fully express what the creator feels, in the deepest sense, about the distinctively depicted image that captured their imagination.

Whatever is produced in haste goes hastily to waste.

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.