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I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.

Carl Sandburg

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Carl Sandburg
Age: 89 †
Born: 1878
Born: January 6
Died: 1967
Died: July 22
Biographer
Historian
Journalist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
Laughing
Trouble
Living
Women
Men
Troubles
Love
Torn
World
Laugh
Glory

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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
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The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
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It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time-the stuff of life
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.
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Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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