Halloween Poem Quotes

A pumpkin lives but once a year
when someone sets its soul afire
and on that night it stirs up fear
until its flame is snuffed.
But e'en one night of eerie light is fright enough. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

The Harvest Moon glows round and bold,
In pumpkin shades outlined in gold,
Illuminating eerie forms,
Unnatural as a candied corn.
Beware what dare crawls up your sleeve,
For 'tis the night called Hallows Eve. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

The coldest day in fall
is at the Hallows Evening ball
where ghoulish fun
avoids the sun
as monsters mingle wall to wall. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

It was Halloween eve,
And I was yearning alone waiting for my soul mate Ethan,
He was expected by now for the celebrations in our bedroom,
We planned for this, many months back, and now I was getting restless,
My dick was erect and making a pole in my boxer - tough to handle 9 inches long of yearning all alone. ~ Delicious David

Treats and tricks.
Witch broomsticks.
Jack-o-lanterns
Lick their lips.

Crows and cats.
Vampire bats.
Capes and fangs
And pointed hats.

Werewolves howl.
Phantoms prowl.
Halloween's
Upon us now. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

A Halloween flower,
if ever there was one,
would smell like an onion,
have thorns like a rose.
With charcoal black petals
and vines that entangle,
t'would grow under moonlight
in mud, I suppose. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Go put on your mask.
Say 'trick-or-treat' in costume.
It's All Hallows Eve. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Witches cackle.
Goblins growl.
Spectres boo,
And werewolves howl.
Black cats hiss.
Bats flap their wings.
Mummies moan.
The cold wind sings.
Ogre's roar.
And crows, they caw.
Vampires bahahahaha.
Warlocks swish their moonlit capes.
Loch Ness monsters churn the lake.
Skeletons, they rattle bones
While graveyards crack the old headstones.
All the while the ghouls, they cry
To trick-or-treaters passing by.
Oh, the noise on Halloween;
It makes me want to scream! ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Amour, love, the dream of man,
Woman's deep devoted plan.
Amour

Amor means no hungry child,
Begging, hair blowing wild.

Searching amongst the rats and mice,
Left-over food, contaminated rice.
Eyes, the saddest soul sight,
Hidden is the child's plight.
Bleeding feet, glass cut bare,
Dirty rags for a child to wear.
Clambering through the bin,
Society's senseless sin.

Amor, love save this child's life,
Poverty is the nefarious knife,
A child of poverty and strife,
Deserves amour, love of life.

Maureen Brindle from Beloved Isles
[Inspired by H.H. Princess Maria Amor We Care for Humanity] ~ Maureen Brindle

How does a poet know when a poem is ended? Because it lies flat, taut; nothing can be added or subtracted. How does a woman know when a marriage is over? Because of the way her life suddenly shears off in just two directions: past and future. ~ Carol Shields

Tomorrow she'd look up tattoo removal. They were doing big things with lasers now. When Cal was just a little more stable, she'd break up with him, gently, and then she'd begin her project of helping everybody she could help, and after that she'd head out on a great long journey to absolutely nowhere and write a gorgeous poem cycle steeped in heavenly lavender-scented closure and also utter despair, a poem cycle you could also actually ride for its aerobic benefits, and she'd pedal that fucker straight across the face of the earth until at some point she'd coast right off the edge, whereupon she'd giggle and say, Oh, shit. ~ Sam Lipsyte

The assignment was to fall in love.
The details were up to you.
The second part was
to include in the poem certain words,
words drawn from a specific text
on another subject altogether. ~ Louise Gluck

'Love' is so short of perfect rhymes that convention allows half-rhymes like 'move.' The alternative is a plague of doves, or a kind of poem in which the poet addresses his adored both as 'love' and as 'guv' - a perfectly decent solution once, but only once, in a while. ~ James Fenton

Roses are red, violets are blue, I have five fingers, the middle one is for you. ~ Gena Showalter

To me, a poem that's in rhyme and meter is the difference between watching a film in full color and watching a film in black and white. Not that a few black and white films aren't wonderful. So are certain successful pieces of free verse. ~ X.J. Kennedy

This is a Personal Poem

My self's self is thinking about itself.
Trying to sell its self a new self.

Don't worry, reader,
I'm not trying to fool you with language,

I have eyes to do that with.
I have forgotten our history,

I have forgotten how we met.
Reader, are you upset at how fast we're moving?

I'm likely with you in your bed,
between your hands, somewhere

in your mouth before
whatever it is you'll say next.

Say yes and now and love too.
Say what did Judith Butler say when saying,

" … one is undone, in the face of the other,
by the touch, by the scent, by the feel,

by the prospect of the touch,
by the memory of the feel."

I want to know you, reader.
I want to know a lot of things.

Can we ever truly forget about ourselves?
Is every self a self that makes itself available to love?

Like death. And its kind availability.
Like language, reader,

would we still be so unhappy if we could escape it?
To name the namelessness that is love,

in what we read, and what we see,
and what are feelings really?

Facts or flaws,
or something tells me now

that I must leave you, reader.
It's not you, it's me.

We guess at why things end,
we ruin things, we start and stall,

and all all all we do
is want. ~ Alex Dimitrov

Janitorial"

All morning he drifts the spacious lawns
like a gleaner, picking up this and that,
the summer clouds immense and building
toward afternoon, when the heat drives him
under the shade of the oak trees in the quad
and then along cool corridors inside
to pull down last term's flyers

For the chamber recital, the poetry reading,
the lecture on the ethics of cloning,
the dinner with some ambassador,
the debate between Kant and Heidegger,
the frat party, the sorority party, the kegger,
the weekend Bergman festival, the Wednesday
screening of Dumb and Dumber. He says
hello to fine young ladies, and tries
not to dwell on their halter tops,
their tanned thighs, shorts up to here.

At five he climbs into an old, dumpster-colored
olds, lights up and heads home
across the barge-ridden river in its servitude
to East St. Louis, where you know
this poem - glib, well-meaning, trivial--
grows tongue-tied, and cannot follow. ~ George Bilgere

Sometimes you have a poem that you really want to write and it never happens. ~ C. K. Williams

Then her face tilted up to his, and he was looking into her eyes again. He had heard of drowning in a woman's eyes in some poem or story, and thought it ridiculous. He still thought it ridiculous, but understood it was perfectly possible, nonetheless. And she knew it. He saw concern in her eyes, perhaps even fear. ~ Stephen King

You have the greatest soul, the noblest nature, the sweetest, most loving heart I have ever known, and my love, my reverence, my admiration for you, you have increased in one evening as I should have thought only a lifetime of intimate, loving association could have increased them. You are more wonderful and lovely in my eyes than you ever were before; and my pride and joy and gratitude that you should love me with such a perfect love are beyond all expression, except in some great poem which I cannot write. ~ Woodrow Wilson

That's what a poem is," Leslie said, "a feeling about some special time or place or happening, pressed into as few lines as it will go. ~ Eleanor Cameron

They find me odd, and whisper behind hands…And my brutal desires sink hooks into their lips… ~ Arthur Rimbaud

They held each other close and turned their backs upon the end.
The hills that split asunder and the black that ate the skies;
The flames that shot so high and hot that even dragons burned;
Would never be the final sights that fell upon their eyes.
A fly upon a wall, the waves the sea wind whipped and churned -
The city of a thousand years, and all that men had learned;
The Doom consumed it all alike, and neither of them turned"
―Tyrion Lannister and Jorah Mormont, quoting a poem about the Doom ~ George R.R. Martin

His love for his wife and son was not beautiful - no one would ever write a poem to the passion of a man who balled his socks before his wife - but it was sturdy and unswerving. ~ Stephen King

Like sunlight under their skins, they want to be loved from the poem STAY in RidingTheEscalator ~ Jay Woodman

My poetry is often criticized for a failure to communicate, but I take issue with this; my intention is to communicate and my feeling is that a poem that communicates something that's already known by the reader is not really communicating anything to him and in fact shows a lack of respect for him. ~ John Ashbery

As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night,
Let loose upon the Earth till it be light ... ~ Nick Gordon

Poem for Liu Ya-tzu I cannot forget how in Canton we drank tea and in Chungking went over our poems when leaves were yellowing. Thirty-one years ago and now we come back at last to the ancient capital Peking. In this season of falling flowers I read your beautiful poems. Be careful not to be torn inside. Open your vision to the world. Don't say that waters of Kumming Lake are too shallow. We can watch fish better here than in the Fuchun River in the south. ~ Mao Zedong

When a person listens to a good song, and they can look out at the world and their lives and see the dark and the light, the negative and the positive, all the different elements, all come together in one holistic poem, that is a very healing and very reductive thing, and that's what my music is about. ~ Matisyahu

Dreaming of another time,
Dreaming of clasping your hands so tight,
Dreaming of another time,
Dreaming of the shipwreck that is in my heart would end ~ Tanzy Sayadi

A poem is something sacred. Let no one Take it for anything except itself. ~ Jose Marti

A Poem By Maximum Ride
How does one describe freedom,
How can one call themselves free,
How does one sleep at night knowing all the troubles that lay ahead,
If one had a choice to be free or have freedom what does one pick,
How does one even begin to describe the choices of being free,
Freedom is choice,
Freedom is happiness,
Freedom is doing what you want,
Freedom is to fly. ~ James Patterson

It is raining! In other words little poems are coming down from the sky! Nature is literature! Sun is a fable; forest is a story; birds are a theatre; mountains are a myth; rain is a poem! Nature is literature! ~ Mehmet Murat Ildan

I feel like I am in the service of the poem. The poem isn't something I make. The poem is something I serve. ~ Jane Hirshfield

I don't speak a word about you but,
You are there in every word I speak.

I may forgive you
On the day when my heart no longer
Whispers your name or
On the day
I no longer see you in my dreams.

You were my dream in the day time
Now, I am going to hide you
In my silence
All through the night.

I don't speak a word about you but,
You are there in every word I speak. ~ Jyoti Patel

The tougher the form the easier it is for me to handle the poem, because the form gives permission to be very gut honest about feelings. ~ Maxine Kumin

Radar Data #12

It was in the absence of light
as when near new moon and
no moonlight; as when a part

of a picture is in shadow (as
opposed to a light); as when
in the condition of being

hidden from view, obscure,
or unknown - in concealment,
or else without knowledge

as regards to some particular;
and of the weather, season,
air, sky, sea, etc., characterized

by tempest; in times, events,
circumstances etc. subject to
tempers; inflamed, indicative,

predictive, or symbolical of
strife (harbinger of coming
trouble) - a period of darkness

occurring between one day &
the next during which a place
receives no light from the sun,

and what if it is all behind us?
I no longer fear the rain will
never end, but doubt our ability

to return to what lies passed.
On the radar, a photopresent
scraggle of interference, as if

the data is trying to pretend
something's out there where
everything is lost. ~ Lytton Smith

He stepped back, away from her. He shook his head in disbelief. "You know, I shouldn't try to go out with career women. You're all stricken. A guy can really tell what life has done to you. I do better with women who have part-time jobs."

"Oh, yes?" said Zoe. She had once read an article entitled "Professional Women and the Demographics of Grief." Or no, it was a poem: If there were a lake, the moonlight would dance across it in conniptions. She remembered that line. But perhaps the title was "The Empty House: Aesthetics of Bareness." Or maybe "Space Gypsies: Girls in Academe." She had forgotten. ~ Lorrie Moore

And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the green azure where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;
Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments! ~ Rimbaud Arthur

I always feel that whatever isn't necessary shouldn't be in a poem. ~ Mary Oliver

In any case, it is a mistake to equate concreteness with things. An individual object is the unique phenomenon it is because it is caught up in a mesh of relations with other objects. It is this web of relations and interactions, if you like, which is 'concrete', while the object considered in isolation is purely abstract. In his Grundrisse, Karl Marx sees the abstract not as a lofty, esoteric notion, but as a kind of rough sketch of a thing. The notion of money, for example, is abstract because it is no more than a bare, preliminary outline of the actual reality. It is only when we reinsert the idea of money into its complex social context, examining its relations to commodities, exchange, production and the like, that we can construct a 'concrete' concept of it, one which is adequate to its manifold substance. The Anglo-Saxon empiricist tradition, by contrast, makes the mistake of supposing that the concrete is simple and the abstract is complex. In a similar way, a poem for Yury Lotman is concrete precisely because it is the product of many interacting systems. Like Imagist poetry, you can suppress a number of these systems (grammar, syntax, metre and so on) to leave the imagery standing proudly alone; but this is actually an abstraction of the imagery from its context, not the concretion it appears to be. In modern poetics, the word 'concrete' has done far more harm than good. ~ Terry Eagleton

Your love for me is transparent, no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive. ~ Euginia Herlihy

Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees. ~ Ged Thompson

Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage. ~ Paul Engle

There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version ~ Galway Kinnell

..the poem is made of sequences in which images, figures of speech and rhythm are undivided. One needs to enter this 'undivision'", and what it does, the proposition it issues, in both senses of the word, logical and erotic: "Let us call a sentence a proposition. A poem makes propositions ~ Michel Deguy