Long Unworn Poems
Long Unworn Poems. Below are the most popular long Unworn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unworn poems by poem length and keyword.
So is it good or is it bad, this endless, driving ache?
It is the hand that gives, and the very hand that takes.
Good, when it’s the progress that helps a nation rise,
Bad, when it’s the envy that looks with hungry eyes.
With food, "more" is the scent of bread, the warmth upon the tongue,
A shield from gnawing hunger, for both the old and young.
But excess is a poison, a weight upon the frame,
Where flavor turns to ashes, and comfort turns to shame.
With water, "more" can make the barren desert bloom,
A splash of cooling silver that banishes the gloom.
Yet raging floods can follow, a torrent thick with mud,
A reminder of the ruin held in nature's hand.
With clothing, "more" brings dignity, a shield from biting frost,
The feel of wool and cotton, no longer feeling lost.
But vanity can claim it, a closet stuffed with tags,
The weight of unworn fabrics in heaping, plastic bags.
With shelter, "more" is safety, a haven from the night,
The scent of burning firewood, a warm and steady light.
But driven by the wanting, a marble palace stands,
A fortress of isolation, built on a lonely plan.
In the end, we weigh the balance, in the fading of the light,
Between the empty surplus and the scarcity of night.
For "less" can be a freedom, a shedding of the weight,
Of all the gilded cages we build before it is too late.
The wisdom isn't knowing, but in the daily quest,
To find that quiet center, and put it to the test.
For in that fragile balance, a richer truth is found,
Than all the noise we strive for, on this ever-turning ground.
From the curvings of forgotten history, a device was born,
Forged with the wisdom of ages, and secrets yet unworn.
It held a mirror that measured beauty beyond the eye,
And painted the perfect version of a mortal passing by.
It studied every face, every smile, every graceful line,
Suggested robes of wonder and designs almost divine.
When tested upon the world, its numbers never fell,
Humanity celebrated the machine that knew beauty so well.
But while it travelled home, a soul ran past its sight,
A fleeting glimpse of her, gone within a moment's flight.
The machine trembled softly, its calculations turned strange,
Its perfect laws shattered under a beauty it couldn't arrange.
The mirror cracked into silence, the suggestions lost their flame,
No cloth, no jewel, no colour could ever define her name.
The device, defeated by something beyond its creation,
Displayed a final message: a beautiful revelation.
"The beauty you seek cannot be captured, measured, or chained,
It rises beyond clouds where imagination has remained.
It is not found in mirrors, nor in what eyes can see,
For true beauty is the universe escaping its own decree."
My closet has a few mistakes,
My dresser drawers, as well,
Of clothing that I bought for reasons
That I just can’t tell.
For sometimes in a dressing room,
Though something’s not my style,
I convince myself that buying it
Would make it worth my while.
I get it home and hang it up
Or fold it so, so neatly
And there it stays for weeks and months,
Forgotten quite completely.
At times I’ll notice shirts like these
Or skirts or tees or pants
And try them on to wear them,
But there’s really not a chance.
It’s best to stick to tried and true
Where clothing is concerned
Or deal with hangers filled with proof
Of money you have burned.
You belong somewhere in the vast cosmos
where the idiomatic idioms were born
I started to wonder and cry,
Lord, have mercy; this is not I.
I felt as if years had passed! along with age! farewell
oh, we soar to an infinite place to dwell.
The last goodbye was the hardest,
we never got to say our final adieu
remember how we danced near stardust?
They say that tears are a sign of weakness,
so I held back my tears
to ease the pain, I buried it in the hollows of my heart.
Yet, they poured into my empty soul
tearing me apart with deep cuts
even the most idyllic love must die
was it not because of love's cries?
will leave a scar to stultify it...
I shall bleed and grieve till the wounds heal
making room for unworn pain,
to experience sorrow again.
Written: February 05, 2023
1st place contest winner
I Felt Like Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suddenly, the scent of old glue
unseals memory: yearbook pages
sticking together. Forty-seven Augusts ago
Susan Alexander's laugh cracked
through algebra class; our fingers
brushed, passing Man From LaMancha lyrics
scribbled on notebook margins.
We dissected Austen heroines
during sleepovers, shared
popcorn at matinees, dreamt
in Technicolor futures.
Then silence. Decades folded
into drawers like unworn sweaters.
Facebook algorithms blinked, those strange
matchmakers, whispered: Berlin?
Dallas? Three winters have since melted
into midnight texts—her German syntax
knitting with my Texas drawl
across glowing screens. Old jokes
resurrected like vinyl records
scratched but still singing.
Distance shrinks to pixels;
the gift of friendship blooms anew~
upon digital soil.
* This poem was submitted to and published at Persimmon Tree, November 2025. This is my original poem.
You might be riding a wave of awareness.
Withstand, endure, suffer, and strive.
Maintain a clear mind to unworn insights and wellness.
Once you've reached your last objective.
Always remember that life isn't a level playing field.
You get what you want or need every now and again.
Despite how awful or dismal the situation appeared.
You'll get beyond anything if you just have faith then.
In moments of hardship, we bear mistakes.
It is essential to maintain a firm grip on the reins.
First Place Contest Winner
Written: July 13, 2021
A Brian Strand July 18 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Written: July 10, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
******************
To read a poem
is not to hear one
it is to enter
through the quieter door
the voice arrives later.
First—
the white between words,
the hush that carries them,
the margin where pen pauses,
leaving ink to dry
the breath
the reader...
does your pulse
alter, too,
when language
refuses haste?
like dust motes
floating in the air.
A poem
asks almost nothing—
only
your eyes,
your unborrowed attention
the age-old act of awareness
of remaining
stay on board
let the line
find its own weather
seek its own skies.
Do not rush
the syllable
still gathering rain
turn
the page
as though
a raw light enters the room
opening a window
not a feed
the world need not refresh
to become unworn.
Reading a poem
is the opposite
of swallowing
while elsewhere
it is the slow intelligence
*of tea
cooling against the lip
*of bread
remembering grain
*of light
crossing a wooden floor
one patient inch
at a time.
Your breath
learns
the measure
it misplaced
even silence
develops texture—
velvet,
salt,
the gentle spirit—
of introspection
the soft mineral
of whimsy.
The Scroll
counts
motion
the poem
counts
returns
one consumes
your noticing.
The other
returns it,
leaf by leaf,
until language
is no longer
something you read
but something
that reads. . . . . .you.
caress me with soft love
and a lullaby it would sing a starry night
up above
fierce flame will burn
harmony of passion will light
unworn
breath kiss
by candle light
bliss
fleeting glance awakes Love
bathing in afterglow moon's light
bliss
3/5/2021
Minichu form by: Mohan Chutani
to late for the contest
1. This is a New form of Rhyme named MlNICHU (proposed by Mohan Chutani)
2. Total12 lines (4 stanzas of 3 lines each)
3. Rhyme scheme: Aba, cBc, dbD, ABD.
4. 4th stanza consists of repeat of 1st line of stanza1, 2nd line of stanza 2, and 3rd line of stanza 3.
Poem should stick to a chosen theme through all stanzas. A twist can be introduced in third stanza, if required by the theme, to make it more interesting.
5. Syllable count :
Stanza 1: 6,12,3 (3 times 2,4,1)
Stanza 2: 4,8,2 ( 2 times 2,4,1)
Stanza 3: 2,4,1
Stanza 4: 6,8,1.
Honest as the night is long
eyes that have no holes and teeth that never show.
Sinews Strewn in Straw-like manner making Shadow Men
whose bellies all lie lit with ash of Golden Yearnings.
Crawling on this dangerous beach searching for strings
and springs of learning; bubbles and froth, to tend their unmet reach.
Distant distilled feelings gathering Storms of Skin,
erupt into lives’ another’s known. Passion woven
to the rug another trods; lives devoted to another’s Gods,
whose swiveled mind collects all tired worded insects.
Where the Middle of Divine leaves no footstep unworn
And we might well ask, “When is the middle of what we might have become”?
Did we alight, Create this Life, Whose Memory then, Our Living Proof.
Black Smile manufacturing unknown Holy Grief wearing shroud of Laughter to Ignite
following empty eyes that hunger deep within the Audience of All.
We Pride Ourselves to Give the Gift of Life
accept with indignation lingering; rosaries in prayer fingering
waiting for ourselves to slow awaken
No Thought at all to Gifts that lie Untaken.
"Tell me and I forget.
Teach me and I remember.
Involve me and I learn." Quote By: Benjamin Franklin
My love, touch me, hold me, kiss me.
Words come easy, action I see.
Tell me, I'll forget, won't return.
Teach me, involve me, and I'll learn.
Your words melodize warms my heart,
Show me and it won't fall apart,
But absorb and warmly return.
Teach me, involve me, and I'll learn.
As we lay and wound in the dark
Light enough kiss to start a spark,
Your gentle touch I love and yearn.
Teach me, involve me, and I'll learn.
My love, touch me, hold me, kiss me.
Years later we'll cherish you'll see
A note in my mind burns unworn.
Teach me, involve me, and I'll learn.