Timeworn Poems

TIMELESS REFUGE

TIMELESS REFUGE
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Weathered trees rise out of the earth, brushing against the sky.  The wind sends a shudder of movement through the branches causing the majestic trees to creak and groan as they sway.  In the distance is a cabin, timeworn and dilapidated. 

in the heart of woods
ancient cabin stands alone
whispers of time flow

its walls, worn by years
stories etched in every board
testament to life

roof, a patchwork quilt
of shingles weathered and worn
memories await

the windows, like eyes,
gazing out upon the world
silent witnesses

the fireplace crackles
warmth spreads through the chilly air
comfort, solitude

outside, the forest
whispers secrets to the wind
tales of days past

the time-worn cabin
endures, is steadfast and true
a timeless refuge

DUST PIXIES-Alpha Lines Poetry Contest

DUST PIXIES INSIDE GRANNY’S CEDAR CHEST 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amidst the ancient whispers of timeworn wood,
     underneath time and the cedar’s scent
          a gathering of dust pixies flutters, luminescent.
               adventurous, bubbly, curious, daring, effervescent.     

Their xerophytic murmurs fill the attic air;
     dancing on sunbeams upon gossamer wings,
          these aerial acrobats ballet on dust motes illuminantly.
               flecks glimmer, hundreds invade jubilantly. 

Prismatic creatures of color, lively as summer’s breeze,
     they celebrate the dust, mundane
          journeying through mystical realms where they reign. 
               kaleidoscopic, luminous, microscopic, numerous, opulent.

Zipping back into the cedar’s shadows,
     innocent guardians of memories hide in forgotten linens,
          their fleeting glimpse of magic locked away.
               playful, quirky, restless, synchronous, twinkletoes

The Dead Pour Me Out Like Tea

I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am forgotten 
by girls in green silk sarongs

yet they still pour me out like tea.

The dead are drunk on themselves,
as I am.

I throw up
a timeworn rope of thought

they haul me up
just enough for me to see
the moon
caught in a teacup,

then I allow them,
let them breathe life
into my mouth
and I again remember.

Wishful Glimpses Through Timeworn Windshields

I would 
Wish you 
The worst 

But yours 
Came true 
First 

Feels like 
That red light 
Gets longer every day 

Though I can’t 
Help but stare 
At the place I last kissed you 

Counting 
The cars 
In the driveway 

Making note 
Of the purple bike 
Left in the grass 

Picturing 
The perfect happenstance 
That you would be there 

With the devil’s music 
As your dad always called it 
Vibrating my speakers 

The slow motion 
Of realization 
Would cross your face 

While my breath 
Gets scared 
And hides in my throat 

But I pretend 
I don’t
Notice at all 

Focusing on the blink
Of green 
That reminds me to take the right road 

Just keep driving on 
Let the world 
Around me become a fast paced blur

Because the things 
That are meant to stick around 
Will forever remain in focus 

A destination 
Worth 
Running towards 

While things 
Like you 
Are better in the rearview

Nana Baking Pans

I often gaze through Nana's broken window but today feels distinctly different as I watch the blackbirds pecking at the pears in the avocado trees. Nana harvested the finest ripe avocados and pears, their colors a lovely blend of dark burgundy and green, all from that old, timeworn tree. 
Each year, we meticulously inspect every pear before packing them into a brown barrel. They were moist and delicious on the inside, so easy to peel—those exquisite, ripe pears.  

Today, I am about to open the last marked box of Nana's belongings. Gently, I unwrap the final item, carefully enclosed in an old newspaper. It is her bread pan, the one with two handles, and I notice an old, burnt crumb lodged in one corner. A smile forms on my face, and I weep softly as I say,
 "Hello to you too, Nana."

Ancient Music

Drink the water of mountain brook
Sweet and clear, it fills you with joy
Try it once, very soon you’re hooked
Much like ale, in thirst, to enjoy

Ancient music, from ages gone by
Is like stream, crystal clear ’n light
Stays as friend of my soul and ally
Simple sounds are total delight

Flute and oboe, old fiddle and harp
Horns and pipes, much forgotten today
Notes of centuries past ringing sharp
Viol and lyre shall take you away

Timeworn ballads of baroque guitar
Songs by lute so unlike of this age
Did forefathers, their times afar
Stood in awe, so enthralled and engaged?

Lucid tones, those of Handel and Bach
Strings Vivaldi bequests to eons
Their gifts outliving the clock
Olden music is still marching on

Plain sounds that go to the heart
Cleanse and soothe in perpetual stream
It survives the time, what an art
Shall live on, by not being extreme

© 2022

the slow demise

The slow demise

The houses in the hamlet emptie 
old people are passing away 

A timeworn man tried to flee his
empty rooms of stillness

His many children had gone away
leaving him with an idiot son 

Who thought rabbits lived in
trees tall trees eating leaves

The timeworn wanted to see his
daughters who lived in America

The police brought him back to
the place he had tried to escape

In darkened rooms, he paces
tries out walk the pre-ordained 

Sunlight is, for him, unbearable
reminds him of the future suns 

He hits the walls with his fist 
in anger over his loss 

The idiot son, has crawled into 
a corner shaking in fear of dad

Death takes his dad, o, mercy!
For a downtrodden life

For two days and nights, the idiot
sits in his corner, crying in silence

Death waits for his victim, but
someone breaks down the door

What a Father Wants for Father's Day

  Neither gifts fancy
    nor restaurants shmancy 

  No more ties, belts
    or wallets please

  And forget the paisley long johns
    It’s June – I won’t freeze

  Just give me a hug every day
    a smile in every word you say

  A pleasant greeting, a kiss every morn
    ~ treasured gifts, never timeworn

Pinctada Pearl

Stolen from Persian shores,
whilst warm within my cocoon,
all that remains is saltwater memories,
where sorrows flow in slow motion
through drops - invisible, but glowing.

Eyes gaze in awe,
but am I as elegant as I appear?
I am bare, full, but hollow,
forever on display,
but unseen in darkness.

Bricks are identical like pearls,
easily strung together,
but pointless on their own.

Collecting dust upon dry land,
I can hear whispers of timeworn blemishes 
from waves calling me home.

Nigh the Forest

Nigh the forest I go,
Where dreams sigh in silence
Rustling beneath the stars
In praise, gentle laughter
Played by timeworn guitars.

Nigh the forest I go,
Where breathless pines delight,
Aroused by dancing leaves,
Beyond sparkling creeks, songs
Peace flowing as she grieves.

Nigh the forest I go,
Where music moves my soul,
Meeting my heart’s prayers
Blessings I don’t expect,
Unspoiled wood still declares.

Nigh the forest I go,
Where God’s voice speaks wonders,
Promising His great grace,
Lingering like calm faith,
Woodlands are the best place!

Wabi-Sabi

Wabi-Sabi 12-21-23  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wabi-Sabi

Empty the mirage of perfection
Whose shadow wears scars
Of perpetual broken rainbows –
Cracked rose petals –
Gilded edges joined by hibernation and spring.

A pilgrimage into amnesia
Timeworn victories fade into badges lost to time 
Moonlight swallows the waning heart of morning
Sunlight gobbles up unfinished faces of the moon
Storms inhale fragments of sunbows.

Out of exploding ephemeral stardust broken beauty
As galaxies toss and turn creating quasars
Like waves sculpt eroding sands
In the orbit of perpetual opening ceremonies - 
A journey into morphing excellence of golden seams.

And love grows to bloom then scatter rosehips
Into time’s silken wrinkles
Star born magma bows with gratitude
For unexplored shapes crafted on new shores
Where only eternity lasts forever.

Gnarled

Life is very difficult. One of the most ancient of religious ideas that emerges everywhere, I would say, is that life is essentially suffering. - Jordan Peterson


Lonely like graying walls, timeworn
Facing the past with a shy gasp,
Subtle shadows, inklings forlorn
Stealing each feeling in its grasp

Gnarled hands serve the abandoned soul
Lonely like graying walls, timeworn
Darkness reflects pains she’ll console
Still, through the sorrows hearts will mourn

Rustling in the night, wounds will scorn
Fickle are words from this lost world
Lonely like graying walls, timeworn
Beneath the sunlight’s joy, rhymes whirled

Ancient verses free hope’s still song
Nought so gentle as hearts reborn
Destined for God’s peace all along
Lonely like graying walls, timeworn

Stop Light

The sound that the rubber blade
of the timeworn squeegee made,
swiftly scrubbing my car’s screen
in a familiar routine;
was more obnoxious to me
than the stuff, resembling ghee
that the soul, sad and unclean
had just thrown on there. I mean
now they’ll expect to be paid
or it’ll be a harsh tirade
about their slip; unforeseen,
my fine car, and being mean,
and how the land of the free
works fine for people like me,
for them, the country’s decayed.
I think that I’m being played
but then, that thought is obscene!
Why won’t the dam light turn green?
God, they are looking at me;
sorry, have no change, I plea.

Out of the Book

All the timeworn pages
some smudged by rain,
or perhaps the slow raindrops
that melt on reddened eyes.
Some pages are torn,
even still bleeding,
and yet all the lines and print
make one book,
one story,
one life.
A life, of course worth recording,
all worth keeping,
until
you can,
without sorrow of joy
throw it all away,
knowing you are free,
free
from your own
long
fantasy novel.

Time Flies

Forever seems a long, long time
Except when I'm with you
The hours pass like seconds
Next thing I know they're through 
But within each passing moment 
A memory is born
To recall back a thousand times
Yet never get timeworn
I close my eyes and behold your face
So beautiful, so fair
And hope this time it would come to be
That when I opened them you were there

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