Photo by Ryan Wick

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. — Marcel Proust

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Photo by Ed Brownson

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

More about Margaret Atwood

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Photo by Timo Mistler

Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it. –Confucius

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Photo by Parée Erica

At least I’ve learned this much:
Life doesn’t have to be
all poetry and roses. Life
can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,
electric bills, dishwashing,
chapped lips, dull stubby pencils
with the erasers chewed off,
cheap radios played too loud,
the rank smell of stale coffee
yet still glow
with the inner fire of an opal,
still taste like honey.

More poems by Julie Hill Alger

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Photo from Jewish Women’s Archive

We have focused only on the negatives, and not enough on incredible stories of the human spirit and of rebirth and rebuilding. That’s equally important as the tragedy. –Steve Perry (singer, songwriter, musician)

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Photo by Yuwen Teo

If there was no poetry
then what would become
of my fledgling thoughts
unbaked as they are
raw

this mish-mash of words
words
words
words I’ve barely stirred

i have made them presentable
readied them to be penned
they all wait proudly
showing their finest
how versatile they can be
wanting to be chosen

metaphors so clever
phrases perfectly turned
runes waiting for attribution
clichés anticipating new life

would my gift for schtick
never get the chance to evoke
the laughs I so crave
oh! what a terrible curse
to have my pen stilled

where would I put the
clatter in my head
if not into poetry
each precious word a chick nudged
from its nest
all my babies: some fly, some fall flat
splat!

i am mother to these fledglings
watchful, hopeful, shaping them
helping them fulfill their potential
and when they take flight
avoiding the fate of Icarus
they save me
for a moment
they save me
from the madness
of
the world

More poetry by Tess Norton on PoetrySoup.com

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Photo by Dan R

It Doesn’t matter how many people tell you no. — Seattle Seahawks quarterback, Russell Wilson

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I tried balancing a bowl of hot oatmeal on my lap and reading his poems in my tired
and
worn, green chair.

On the back cover of a collection, a reviewer wrote “Simic may end a poem with a
kiss
or a bludgeon.”
The reader will never know.

Blackjack Fresno Johnny sent me a big box of books of Simic’s poems. The books
were sent
in a cardboard box inside of another cardboard box, thoughtfully packed. The address
label
read:
To Tom Pitre, Poet.
It is my first affirmation as a poet.

I am always surprised when I read his work. Sometimes I think I have my finger on his
secrets, and then it slips away when I read another one. They are simple. He can
write
about an earthworm in the mud, and you will be enchanted.

Thomas Pitre blogs on 5th Coffee.  You can find his poetry on Poetry Soup.

The post Reading Simic appeared first on Healing Hamlet.

Photo by Sarah Chilcott

It’s not an easy journey, to get to a place where you forgive people. But it is such a powerful place, because it frees you. — Tyler Perry

Learn more about actor, director, producer and writer, Tyler Perry, on his website

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Photo by David Restivo, NPS

A man staring at a small lake sees
His father cast light line out over
The willows. He’s forgotten his
Father has been dead for two years
And the lake is where a blue fog
Rolls, and the sky could be, if it
Were black or blue or white,
The backdrop of all attention.

He wades out to join the father,
Following where the good strikes
Seem to lead. It’s cold. The shape
Breath takes on a cold day is like
Anything else–a rise on a small lake,
The Oklahoma hills, blue scrub–
A shape already inside a shape,
Two songs, two breaths on the water.

More about the Poet Ralph Burns

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