Quotes from John Geddes

your memory is a warm stone hidden in my hand I'm always turning over...

the bones of cirrus clouds stand out like ribs against the sky - an angel is stretching...

How terrible, those dreams before sleep were—the worse kind, mixing hope with despair...

the heart's not an organ but a whisper in your head ...

I don't want security - to be self-assured - I want to risk my heart in making your portrait and be paid the wages of your devotion...

poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths...

some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart...

you were a jumble of broken bits of glass the sun caught and stained my soul with your colors....

never be disappointing - you may wound me, but you must never be disappointing...

I worship at the temple of your body and without you, I'd have no art...

Ah, but the Moon my Love is jealous, and can you blame him? You outshine him with your virtues...

you are lovely - God has painted every feature of your soul ...

loving a fairy lady with a magic song will leave you desolate on a cold hillside ... but from there you can see the stars...

what is sacred is the other person -we forget that sometimes - and fail to honor who they are ...

Moonlight possesses no alchemy to transmute good motives to base, but it does excite love magic...

the scarlet thread,the red clay from which we were made, runs in tiny streams through all our veins, reminding us of where we began ...

you can't be intimate unless you're sensitive...

have I told you? - your eyes are a dark poem of dancing snow at midnight ...

we use intimacy to refer to the physical when it really pertains to the spiritual ..

every time I look at you autumn leaves come in between - does it matter they're the color of your hair - or they still fall in my memory?...

strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...

we went to watch the waves that bitter day and the wind took your red cap and mittens - blew them into the sea...

the wind hums low with sweet exultation, sings its lullaby, while you sleep ...

telling doesn't help me - it helps you. As Wilde says, It is the confession, not the priest, that gives absolution...