Best Worn Poems
By the light of a window sits an old man, his pennies he does count.
His hair is gray, his eyes are old, and there’s little in his bank account.
He has lived his life by the book of what is good, kind and just.
He had some fun when he was young, was a man you could trust.
He’s done all the things you have, he worked his whole life thru.
And now he sits, by the window of life, wondering what he will do.
As his health went away, his life went away, he never doubted it would.
He saved and was frugal his whole life long, he did the best he could.
But the way of money is often misunderstood, and it often slips away.
Now he wonders how he will keep all those predators at bay.
The economy went bad; his job went away, his medical insurance, too.
He’d already been sick, medicines were high, and he lost his house to boot.
The new medical insurance is high, so much he can’t afford any treats.
Air conditioning’s a dream, heat may be soon, but he’s not on the streets.
Now in an apartment he will rest his head, and sparingly he does eat.
Gloom and doom are not his way, so a new life he will greet.
He can’t write, he shakes too much, but with a computer he gets it done.
He has trouble traveling. Finding work is hard. None his way will come.
His mind’s not sharp, but he’s seen so much, he’ll find a way to get along.
And he still has a passion for words, the world, and of course for song.
So with that in mind, as a poet he was born. And as a poet, he has grown.
He’ll never be Shakespeare, Milton, or Poe…but a poet all his own.
From his work, great poems will come, as his foundation is solid as stone.
He’ll write about people and places, and in time his light will be shone.
Some poems will be up, and others down, and a few of dreams he knew.
His thoughts and work gave him a passion for life, to which he will be true.
So tell a friend, and buy his book, have them use it in their school.
It’s the history of people, places, and things, a beautiful history jewel.
His life went to dust but now thrives, and he’ll gladly continue to work.
The rest of his life he’ll be a great poet, it’s a responsibility he’ll never shirk.
In his poems, his hope, bright soul, and heart will continue to shine.
It’s something that again calls to his heart, that he can say is truly mine.
Impress Me4 Epic Carol Eastman Written 2009... for all poets...
Ragged thoughts marching like stoned centipedes.
To the slag heap of the lost.
Intertwined with eternity's brine.
Waiting to reunite with meaning.
A lightning strike- mind o fire.
Insomnia rapes the dream.
Splay the centipedes across the page.
Like autumn leaves o'er vampire graves
or twitching feet in a gyrus maze.
The destiny of brilliant beams
is the outback of the furthest ... reach...
Sadistic magicians pulling diamonds
back into centipedes.
worn-out dreams and briny tears
hung upon the moon
sorely borne from long-held fears
they lit the night of June
with silvered light of sour notes
that echoed from her soul
and fell as rain to lie in moats
around the life he stole
Loneliness is the cloak worn on the door
by the wooden porch steps
that hang like shadows from the house that cried
paint flakes drip from the sill of a shattered window
like falling tears
that come from the weathered whispers of emptiness
which has torn its heart out for years
the roof has fallen in various places
leaving its walls exposed to the wind and rain
ravaging its once held beauty
of an oak staircase with a hand carved rosette
the sun shines now on its mold invested lost days
not the once lush garden of ferns boardered by flowers
that always bloomed near the stone path
once a house of life
where the living were held in comfort...now
no one is concerned for its care
its a garbage dump from those passing by
their trash has eaten out its soul over time
a sad reminder of the circle of life
7/17/20
contest Decaying House
sponsor Constance La France
"The Heart Worn Lips"
She wore her heart on her lips as she spoke
the white owl sitting on one shoulder hooting wisdom
the black crow perched on the other hidden in shadow cawing dark things
the voice made moderate in the in-between
rolling out into the aether words like dice
flying to land like black-winged strokes on a wholesome alabaster page
the meaning captured more in the intonation
than the visual puzzle left wide open and waiting unexplained
for the taste of luck in the silent air, in circles the hungry eyes ever watching
the heart worn in flight
the lips stop speaking
the mind takes over
no sound
endomorphism rings
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"Endomorphism rings always have additive and multiplicative identities, respectively the zero map and identity map."
“I can feel myself slowly fading from your mind.”
"Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom."
At the end of life, in a worn shoe lies the story of
a man's life written by foot:
At its tip we see lashings of the million journeys
he attempted,
And in its emptiness the stinging image of loss.
Its fine style recalls the happy eyes that once shone
upon it,
And from its stillness memories of a journey cut
short erupt.
Beneath the shoe lie the harsh strokes of the road
he trod—here a gaping sole and there a tilted heel—
And on its wavy skin we see the rise and fall of
bygone fortune.
In its general look we see the stamp of the wearer's
character: here his caring side & there his daring side.
And so at death we learn that a foot is too small a thing
to fill a worn shoe.
Ive worn out these old cowboy boots to walk an endless plank of timeless dreams, you leave no trace except a tread mark of my broken heart.
I bare these wrinkeled scares to spare a portrait of this old town and country! I dared to go,is now a vivid memory of a playless rodeo I once had.
Moving on pass these stables of my home, knowing theres no way back I am sure to let go as I fleece with nothing but the wind of a wild horse where you were once my stallone, now just another spur on a pair of worn out cowboy boots, i am left to run free like: WILD HORSES.
Soar through the night sky
Ye Starlings with tattered wings.
Paradise awaits!
“We made the spring cut!” Said Rose the tattered gown.
“I was worried for a while, till she pulled me from the toss pile.”
“You’ve still a lot of wear left.” Said Bea the threadbare robe.
"She likes how soft you have become, so you’re nowhere close to done.”
“I’m glad you made the cut too.” Said Rose the tattered gown.
"You were a gift from her mother, she’d part first with the others."
“I wasn’t really worried.” Said Bea the threadbare robe.
“Though I think I’ll get some patches, and maybe new elastic.”
“I’m a little frayed at the hem.” Said Rose the tattered gown.
“A few stitches here and there, I’ll be in good repair.”
“I feel sad for the slippers.” Said Bea the threadbare robe.
“I’d say they served her well, but were too worn out to sale.”
“Yes, I glimpsed them in the bag.” Said Rose the tattered gown.
“She was reluctant to make the toss, but new one’s will fill the loss.”
“One day that will be us.” Said Bea the threadbare robe.
“I vow to go quietly, and keep a little dignity.”
“I hope I can be brave then.” Said Rose the tattered gown.
“I’ll have to wait and see, when that time comes for me.”
“Farewell, worn out slippers.” Said Bea the threadbare robe.
“Yes, farewell old friends.” Said Rose the tattered gown.
Personification: Robe (Bea) and Gown (Rose) and Owner (Mom)
I tap out the rhythm and the blues
While wearing these old worn out shoes
Any New Rhyming Couplet Contest
WE WORN A RACE
Sited around the fading fire
With broken wills and glowing shame
They walk the darkness
Burden with stiffened hopes
They trudge ahead
With a shorten vision
They soon lost the sun
With no dazzling rays
And no mingling heat
They settled in a long struggle
Amidst so much trouble
They miss the days’ future
"The Worn Veil"
Inside
the silence tolls
echoes are felt in
the listening heart
the silence tolls
in the empty place
the listening heart
opens gate
in the empty place
messages subliminal
open gate
ushers notes sound
messages subliminal
penetrate waking walls
ushers notes sound
the worn veil is torn
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Om Mantra", Meditative Mind
https://youtu.be/6GicBf262fA
“Om Mantra”, Tibetan bowls
https://youtu.be/-RZNFiQlzGs
An Old Copper Vase – A First View
a rustic object
with
a worn-weathered look
symbolizing
both
an artistic beauty
and
a metaphorical grandeur
when filled
with a few
red or yellow roses
it resonates
a certain emotion
and
it presents
and
it paints
an indelible
image and memory
that
cannot be forgotten
this is made
all the more
compelling
by
its rough-rustic nature
and
its physical view
from afar
which is
at once—
defining and dominating
and is
captivating and absolute.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 30, 2018 (Imagism)
I am horse
Ride saddle 'pon my back
O'er plains of outer space or
O'er wishing grounds
My spit shine for a baker's bet
Wood is shrieker
And father my horse
Lay amongst the wary
And tell the hunter
Who's skin you enter soundly
Tell to him thy name;
Thy name is horse!