Son Poems Quotes & Sayings

Walk the midway and hear the carnival barker.
Come see the freak named after his deceased father.
Come see the prince who wants to abdicate his throne.
Come see the son whose name is carved on a gravestone. — Sherman Alexie

You ask how it is possible to be your own father and son. You should seek answers, although it is better to anticipate some, to be the light and dream. — Dejan Stojanovic

I'm a very unhealthy person, and Montreal is very cold, and I'm usually sick when I'm there. — Grimes

The universe shudders in horror that we have this infinitely valuable, infinitely deep, infinitely rich, infinitely wise, infinitely loving God, and instead of pursuing him with steadfast passion and enthralled fury - instead of loving him with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength; instead of attributing to him glory and honor and praise and power and wisdom and strength - we just try to take his toys and run. It is still idolatry to want God for his benefits but not for himself. — Matt Chandler

All you needed was a couple of instruments and a few chords and you could be on an indie label. — David Byrne

Blackadder was fifty-four and had come to editing Ash out of pique. He was the son and grandson of Scottish schoolmasters. His grandfather recited poetry on firelight evenings: Marmion, Childe Harold, Ragnarok. His father sent him to Downing College in Cambridge to study under F. R. Leavis. Leavis did to Blackadder what he did to serious students; he showed him the terrible, the magnificent importance and urgency of English literature and simultaneously deprived him of any confidence in his own capacity to contribute to, or change it. The young Blackadder wrote poems, imagined Dr Leavis's comments on them, and burned them. — A.S. Byatt

England have no McGrathish bowlers, there are hardly any McGrathish bowlers, except for [Glenn] McGrath — Stuart Law

My youngest son becomes an award-winning nature photographer, and I cannot resist writing poems to his pictures. My daughter loves to cook, though I do not. Yet together, we write a cookbook with fairy tales. And now a second. — Jane Yolen

silent those sweet lips, Once breathing eloquence That might have soothed a tiger's rage Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. — Percy Bysshe Shelley

Girl like a garden you never volunteered to tend. Dirt all tracked into your front hall. — Trista Mateer

You are so fucking sexy, Lila, that all I can think of doing right now is bending you over that table and slamming into you again and again. Hard. My cock is like fucking steel at the thought of being inside you again. You need to be punished for making me want you this much. — K.I. Lynn

My dogs are spoilt for sure. They are pampered pooches. But I love them so much! I guess all dogs need to be washed, but maybe blueberry facials aren't essential. It's quite fun, though. You want to give your children everything; I don't have children, so I want my dogs to have a good life. — Tamara Ecclestone

Free Will

First stage is the stage of the Father
- Law and fear of God
Second stage is that of the Son
- of the Church and of Faith in the World
Third stage is the one of the Holy Ghost
- of Freedom and Intuitive Knowledge

We live in the time when all the stages are known and we have the freedom to chose. — Natasa Nuit Pantovic

Sonnet V
I touch you as a lonely violin touches the suburbs of the faraway place
patiently the river asks for its share of the drizzle
and, bit by bit, a tomorrow passing in poems approaches
so I carry faraway's land and it carries me on travel's road
On a mare made of your virtues, my soul weaves
a natural sky made of your shadows, one chrysalis at a time.
I am the son of what you do in the earth, son of my wounds
that have lit up the pomegranate blossoms in your closed-up gardens
Out of jasmine the night's blood streams white. Your perfume,
my weakness and your secret, follows me like a snakebite. And your hair
is a tent of wind autumn in color. I walk along with speech
to the last of the words a bedouin told a pair of doves
I palpate you as a violin palpates the silk of the faraway time
and around me and you sprouts the grass of an ancient place - anew — Mahmoud Darwish

For me, Los Angeles, New York, where I don't know my neighbors, where people don't necessarily care if they know their neighbors, I'm missing things that truly fed my soul when I was younger, the exchanges between people, the caring and the shared history with people. — Sela Ward