poetry

It__ January and I__ kicking snow off the ground. I just threw out the flower you made me promise to water, handle with care, because I was too careless, you said. Careless with things and people, around me and behindand I remember being still for just a second or two, thinking that it__ so much easier to leave and start anew, than take care of what__ already here.

Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.

_ and now and then we could look up and give each other a thought, because I think he could have beautiful thoughts,and we could just let each other be less lonely in our loneliness.

If I__ not around I hope you__l remember me and together we will hold on to our favorite song.

Walking with my doggy is so much fun! And she makes me laugh, she makes me run. Licking she likes to make some good new friends, Kindly enough with cyclists who spin with no end.

Each timewe bow to thefeet of anythingwe find riveting,the mind rises tobe surprised withnew crowningdiamonds ofcreativity.

I seek to be moved, my imagination reborn.Let me feast on poems that feed my hunger.

People Die...Beauty Fades...Love Changes...And You Will Always Be Alone

Of course! the path to heavendoesn't lie down in flat miles.It's in the imaginationwith which you perceive this world,and the gestureswith which you honor it.-from The Swan

Writing is the light of imagination playing over shadow of thoughts.

I could burn this place downAs many times as I'd like in my mind,Without any sympathy For the girl or her motherWho live beneath me

A poet has to be a bit childlike at heart, and in that sense all the romantic stereotypes about poets being "eternal children", etc, are all accurate. They believe, whatever they may say, that art and words can change the world.

Material creation begins in a tiny corner of a large island called imagination.

purple threaded evening. a torn goddess laying on the roof. milk sky. lavender hued moan against hot asphalt. the thickness of evening presses into your throat. polaroids taped to the ceiling. ivy pouring out of the cracks in the wall. i found my courage buried beneath molding books and forgot to lock the door behind me. the old house never forgets. opened my mouth and a dandelion fell out. reached behind my wisdom teeth and found sopping wet seeds. pulled all of my teeth out just to say i could. he drowned himself in a pill bottle and the orange really brought out his demise. lay me down on a bed of ground spices. there__ a song there, i know it. amethyst geode eyes. cracked open. no one saw it coming. october never loved you. the moon still doesn__ understand that.

It could be said that the lectures changed the way many people thought about myth, fairy story, and poetry, and even about the relationship of imagination to thought and to language. One of the brilliant but cryptic insights he expressed was: __o ask what is the origins of stories _ is to ask what is the origin of language and of the mind.

Imagination's better half can sometimes tilt it's heavy head and wink, as if to say, "That's the way!"And I'd be off at a trot wherever it led.

So much of love is imagination -- its over-activity, its over-ambition, its over-the-top faith.

Besides, a long poem is a test of invention, which I take to be the Polar star of Poetry, as Fancy is the sails - and Imagination the rudder.