"careworn" poems
These days
I am too cold
My palms are at rest
Down for the long winter
My coordination and
dexterity will hibernate
And I'll cloak this poor body
With anything I can
An almost married woman
Clings to the hems of my sleeves
With thin fingers
With scissors
There to cut away the warm wool
With wild eyes
and a bitter mouth
She gathers my coat in a basket
Unravels all the careworn fibers
To cast upon her empty loom
As though she'd spun them
Casts off newly sewn kisses
Threadbare affection
Muttering crossly about the weather
And how the sun
does not melt the snow
She is only my friend when
She can touch my bare wrists
Give me white hot iron to hold
And ask me if I'm warmer
Only my friend when
She can graze my skin in surprise
Wrap my hands up with stiff yarn
And ask me what burned them
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
the unattainable girl in cotton dress with her untouched hands
her perfections body and soul are store purchased at trending boutiques
she illustrates the room into vivid colour with her casual presence
she becomes the motion in the still life drawing you live
she is the utterance of everything to be attained by dreaming
by hope
for you
the unattainable
she leads you through the broken gate
a backyard overgrown and
past the rusting skeleton of a child's swing set
night has rendered it life
and it looms large in the minds eye with terrible
wrath for its cheated years
inside the bare room
streetlight filtered by the boarded up window
sound is muffled in here
her voice strangely stagnant and heavy
as she clumsily removes her shirt
laughing a small embarrassed laugh
so unlike her cool and convincing hardcase appearance
the two of you rest a few hours cupped in eachothers arms
till daylight leeches your sleepyheads of dreams
but the tattered cover of your romance novel
is by no means a feat of strung out fairy's on a mission to condemn
they only want recompense for the time they spent wrapped in the
soiled leather sheets entertaining some middle aged naked man
and his sole desire to be pretty
she sees all this
she sits in the dry corner
eyes wide but unseeing
a song of terrors paused on her lips
the reality's of reality has not yet sunk in
but its soft spoken voice is whispering to her now
it sets its christmas card well wishes on her mantle
it lays its warm gifts on her bed
careworn toys of her bitter embraces
sit in the grey snow abandoned like her lovers
now that she found her nirvana
she will spend her days
in hard red leather and fishnet
plying the flesh pots and the mystery's exposed of naughty naughty
the unattainable girl is just a photograph now
one dimensional image of a four dimensional demon girl
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
THE OLD HAG
She stood on the corner with shoulders hunched
Cigarette in her mouth, with belly hanging out
Her face was all wrinkled, hadn't seen any cream
It was many years since she had any dreams
Dreams were something she used to live on
But the wishes and hopes of one out of luck
Had finally, inevitably, worn themselves out
Now she stand there and thinks, "life really *****
She shuffles along in slippers so careworn
Her dress is quite ***** and terribly torn
The look in her eyes says "I don't give a toss"
"If you don't like me, then just get lost"
Inside there used to be a lovely young girl
Soft and shining, as sweet as a new pearl
Now all that is left is the hard stinking shell
The husk of a woman, living in a kind of hell
"I wonder where her dreams went?"
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 3:30 AM UTC
In 5 years
No, maybe in 15
Will I be able to live in peace
In a forest far, far away
Lush green trees encasing me
Light brown birds chirping their morning songs
Bunnies with their dirtied fur hopping through the lawn
Fireflies shining their dim, golden light to show the way home
A warm fire cloaking a cottage in heat
A heavenly scent drafting out of the oven
Gentle, loving hands enveloping me from behind
Fluffy kittens peeking out from the woolen blankets
A soft orange glow emitted from the lanterns hanging above
A smile developing at the corners of my careworn lips
I'll be waiting
For this day
To come to me
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 11:56 PM UTC
This dry Spring
the parched earth drinks quickly,
every cool droplet precious
as the tears of the bereaved.
The rain furrows the dusty creek banks
like sunken, careworn cheeks.
the timid water hurries
past sandbars and gravel spits,
around balding rocks crowned
with rotting riverweed.
and in the green places that remain
to be sought and found between
the highway noise and the factories,
there the shy ones grieve with us
for all those lost to disease and violence,
miscarriage and mischance.
We round the bend;
the yearlings start and bolt
through the tangled underbrush—
an exercise in their own fragility.
The mother does not run.
she moves warily
a few paces away
and meets our gaze: measured, assessing.
She takes us in, then bows
her graceful neck to the tender shoots
that break the hardened clay,
the gesture her benediction of peace.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC
A girl has a quirky image in the society,
If this image is broken she is labelled, you see.
This image was set since the rooting of womanhood.
A girl had to excel in all aspects as much as she could.
She had to be covered to stay away from evil eyes.
She had to obey her elders and say no lies.
She had to know how to cook and stitch,
And at an immature age she was forced to tie a hitch.
She could not express her emotions out loud,
She had to silently cry it all out.
She was never given respect,
She was killed as an infant in many backward sects.
She tolerated it all these years,
But till now there is no end to her bleeding tears.
She is labelled regardless of her deeds,
Criticism is all what the society feeds.
If she’s walking down the street,
Men out there will stare and mistreat.
If she doesn’t sacrifice and compromise she won’t get anywhere.
She can never wonder fearlessly here and there.
She has been set within boundaries always,
If she tries to erase them she’s taunted in every way.
If the child is deformed, why is it only her fault?
If her husband dies, why does her life come to a halt?
Why do women suffer the most in every nook and corner?
Why is she not treated with honor?
Have men forgotten that women gave them birth?
Why are women always a target? Hello, she too gets hurt!
Yes, women are emotionally strong,
But that so doesn’t mean she’ll take blame for all the wrongs!
She is a human like us all,
Can’t you catch her when she trips and falls?
She has equal rights by the constitution,
But still she’s struggling for a better position.
When will women in the world stop crying?
When will she start to live each day rather than dying?
Will women ever get some relief from all the pain?
Will she ever be free from all the everlasting vain?
Yes, many have accomplished and done a lot!
But there are still a million who just cannot.
I plead to the one’s who read this today.
Don’t label women no matter what they do or say!
Respect their views and choices.
Let them be heard when they raise their voices.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
no more than a boy trying to be a man
i once had come a crusader down from a far country
proud and strong with a sword swift and sure
wrote my name in the battles and beerhalls
but as my years travelled i began to wonder until
in the failing embers of a nights snowstorm
i came to this place to her
where i had come a crusader to this the last mystery
where i had come a warrior
set to do battle with some dire foe
only to surrender with willing hand
in the chapel of her soft face
in the sunset birthplace of all mans deepest desires
in the fragile breath she leaves upon the very air
i dare not breath lest i disturb its soft flight
she tells me of a love that had forsaken
she tells me of a land from which she has fled
her eyes a dark fire like ancient pools of magic's
her lips supple like heaven creased with tender folds
in the chapel of her tender face
i did waste away my former days
wandering in the starlight musings of her soft laugh
dazed by the intricate dance of her deep words
she romanced me into the quiet of a man forgotten of himself
laid aside my sword and took up the ploughshare
laid aside my warring nature for the robes of a gentle man
now on this far distant night
with the crisp winter eve
a deep snow leaving a heavy silence all round us
the sound comes to me from a far land
the drums of war calling all true sons to defend hearth and home
i came to this place a young man
crusader to this mysterious place
where such dark fires burn in the eyes in such beautiful women
now old i pull on my armour
and unsheathe my sword and sharpen the arrows to fly true and swift
for even the chapel of her tender face cannot undo
even this the fairest of women
cannot deny
what dark wind has laid at our door
come a crusader with his stallion and steel
come a crusader to reap the careworn and the strong
come a crusader seeking his glory in the sun
i must go out to meet him
i must stop his plunder before he reaches her
i must slay what i once had become
a crusader no-more
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
The song played-- muffled, hesitant,
As if the tabletop jukebox
Seemed unsure of the tune’s suitability,
As out of place and time as ourselves,
It being Wednesday morning three A.M.
At the all-night diner on the Klondike Road
(The mills, going full-bore down the road in Montmorenci Falls
Making such a place viable, indeed necessary),
But we laughed loudly and nonchalantly
Between bites of nearly adequate cheeseburger,
Ostensibly unaware of all those inevitabilities
Which were tangible but unspoken, indeed unspeakable,
This being the last of the last summer not careworn,
Textbooks to be exchanged for neckties,
Plastic sandals swapped for sensible flats,
Other lives to take flight in other places,
A mere handful of evenings remaining
Before the clumsy process of untying
All that which had been loose ends from the beginning.
Would I go back? In a sense, it does not matter.
There was always a laundry list of reasons
That it could not be, cannot be, will not be:
Irreparably meshed gears of relocations and reconciliations,
Gordian knots of logic and desire.
Still, in my dreams, I often run like a madman,
Chest burning as my sneakers slap the pavement in the darkness,
Back toward the diner, but it has been razed to the ground
(Likely the case, for all I know,
What with the mills silent and padlocked all these years)
And I paw madly, feverishly through the rubble
In search of some remains of those vinyl chanteuses of love songs,
Those epitaphs of our failures,
Those three-minute odes
To our compromised and conditional successes.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
In title it dangles.
A portentous root-vegetable.
Aggressive in its promise.
Domestic in allure.
Swelling is unavoidable.
It comes with a gut.
It comes with a harness
and a wrinkling leather belt.
I’m growling, more bear-like.
Vascular, blooded in cocktails
of babies, phone-calls, a raise.
More love, less time.
Nails are yellow-er
Weather-beaten, careworn.
It comes with her
Unconditional resignation
Poor girl, to a man, to me,
Poor boy, with skin like eggshell.
Perennial givers -
‘We must take what we want.’
I look at the back of my hand,
see if I know it
knuckles like rock, touch
light as a feather.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
I made note of my run
Marked it in the leftmost lane
Speedy Gonzales Saturday mornings
with the radio on
drown out my panic
and the caricature of my self-loathing
with a schedule
song, speech, song
forgetting the nostalgic
High pitched sounds of
Getting anywhere
Too quickly to measure accurately
I'm already halfway there
My destination highlighted
On the map in my dad's old truck
Tucked in the pocket behind the seat
Curled gently and careworn
I know this route
It has your name on it
and I'll be there soon
you just got there in a hurry
fast as lightning
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
Do you hear me?
Is my voice mature enough to articulate my plea?
Should I wait a year or two for my basic right of explination?
I'm sure being so young entitles me to draw attention to myself,
And forget my place in your most complicated world.
So forgive me for the assumption that the past you leave behind
Is the future I'm about to command with my inexperiance.
Instead of teaching me, you choose to neglect.
Instead of preparing me, you choose look down upon and degrade me.
Instead of acknowledging me, you choose to medicate me.
You gave me a false sense of entitlement and then punish me
For your mistakes.
Do you see me?
Does my face have the careworn scowl that yours now carries?
Are my eyes still carrying the innocence that you regret losing?
Don't fret for me then
Because it will soon fade.
The hope that I carry within my smile
Will soon mimic the dissapointment in yours.
I am your child.
I am your student.
I am your caretaker when you are old.
I am your future leader that will stand in your place.
I am encouragable and thirsty for when my voice carries weight.
And when my face grows with the ideas you have placed in my head,
Then you have no one to blame but yourself when your voice goes mute.
You'll be wanting for attention
And my response will be that of rememberance of when I was a child.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 3:24 PM UTC
Black coffee, clay mugs
Old sweaters, whiskey jugs
Aged wine, rusty fence
Copper pennies, nickel cents
Careworn shirts, timeworn sneakers
Fragrant wood, evergreen cedars
Dusty trails, decayed logs
Chirping grasshoppers, croaking frogs
Heavy rainfalls, splashing rocks
Whizzing insects, scattered flocks
Herb of grace, steady pace
Welcome to my happy place.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
bohemian in appearance
his narrow shoes and frilly jacket
are useless in the driving rain
his careworn expression
gave way to alarm
as the depths of depravity
became the fixation of his
neoclassic clique of mouthpeice's
they repeat word for word
the distorted lens and its bent descriptions
they surely the first to be on camera
moments into his meltdown
his bohemian woman
is lead to the gallows by the
politically correct daughters of the
american revolution
they clip her nails and paint them
patriotic colors
but are rebuffed when they go to shave
the star spangled into her crotch hair
aint no revolution happenin down there sweetcheeks
so she battles to beat the band
and wins one for dready's everywhere
you can dictate alot of things
but honeybunches bedroom ain't one of em
his bohemian style looks faded and grey
in the modern light of day
but given the choices
he beats pre-processed sliced cheese product
by a frilly jackets mile
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
in the shop window
the mannequin contorted
into a parody of summer beach living
even with the martini glass dusty and cracked
the hawaiian shirt, the flip-flops
the mannequin's long deep gaze forever painted blue
behind cheap sunglasses
sealed away behind faded curtains
straw beach hat tilted against
the harsh glare of a lightbulb for a sun
now this lifesized gaudy imitation of summer
is only the conversation starter for the old couple
who owns the store
with brighton beach memories
photographs of nineteen fifty eight
the heavy scent of cheap perfume
the shuffling of the old man bringing a cup of tea
this is where memories are bought and sold
where a piece of nineteen seventy six
could be had for two dimes and a nickle
its old men who hold the worlds histories
in their wrinkled hands
careworn baubles of a different age
its old men who have in their eyes loves lost and found
who have endless summer days in her arms
forever there back in sixty seven
this old man in his dusty store has more riches
than all the banks in the world
in his heart
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
Though you are troubled,
do not be defeated by this plight,
for even the birds sometimes sing,
in the deepest, darkest of nights,
There is a song of hope,
even in the absence of light,
when the world seems its darkest,
is when dreams take flight,
For when you are tired,
down and careworn,
in the core of your mind,
budding new thoughts will form,
They will relieve you of your worries,
your doubts and your fears,
A new day will arrive,
and dry out your tears,
And as the new day is born,
and the night fully passes,
your torn, tattered spirit,
will rise from the ashes,
Strong and eduring,
new trials will appear,
but now you know
never to fear,
For there is a litte phoenix in all of us
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 10:23 AM UTC
the five fighters push past
at a slow run
their sweating form
a unified theory of motion
their thoughts
a universe of devotions
to the craft of defeat and victory's
they move with concentration through
the steady persistence of rain
as a single
organism of denials of the ability to
surrender to the dull life
as they push past you
pacing the wet pavement with careworn step
you can feel the cheering crowd
you can sense the elation
of the upraised fist of championship
and the eyes of the world upon
as they push past you sense
what it means to be
undefeated
undefeatable
five fighters
at a slow run
in the steady uncaring rain
and as they push past your
broken wheelbarrow existence
they reach out from within to share their strength
for the greatest champion
knows the strength of frailty
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Now, you look at me
and spot my arm
across the kitchen table,
and instead
you look
you see
those older lines in blazing white.
These sentiments they mark mean more to you
than the lines around my eyes,
from a brow furrowed in frustration for twenty years.
Or, the mottled lines across my thighs
from where my body grew to fit my mind.
Why does my upper arm reflect my general attitude to life?
Any more than the lines around my mouth
from fits of laughter flying out,
or in my careworn hands
seen grasping tight to other hands
so much that there are lines.
And even though as children we write lines at school
until we cannot help but see that
"repetition will leave a mark".
And even though in every day
we all suffer - loss, grief and pain
in equal measure to our
joy, relief and gain
...you cannot see a line for what it is
a telltale sign of that desperate condition
known as life.
And after all the lines we draw
define us in relation to everything else
and the lines I drew upon myself defined me in relation
to the pain I felt not
as the pain I felt.
And if you look at me now
am I not a specimen of perfect health?
So why do you draw lines on me
that arrow point to labels
because my wounds take on this milky hue,
where yours were clear tinged salt tracks from your eyes
that filled a swollen belly, bony thigh or toned physique.
And all results of hollowness significant as mine.
And tell me,
what crime do I stand accused of but for feeling
with the true extent of who I am -
and leaving marks to show that I
am not afraid to feel tender
cry out,
sob gently,
and even
when I'm pushed too far
get ******* angry.
And are you telling me you don't know what I mean?
That across your body, mind - there are not lines you drew
in reaction to people, places, circumstance you knew.
And if not then may I suggest
you get in line
for a new mind
and a brand new pair of eyes
...before you wryly look across
the table at my upper arm
and ask me where I got my scars.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
I struggle.
the stress of it.
not worth the result it produces.
You smile.
the strain of it.
not worth the sadness it reduces.
You cry.
always alone.
always in the deepness of night.
I find.
never soon enough.
new ways to bring the light.
I am.
turned the wrong right way round.
making me consistently inconsistent.
You are.
a compass of life.
caring, giving, patient and persistent.
You wear.
a mask of lives.
a carefully constructed web of lies.
I bring.
a depth of right.
that your strength of will defies.
We are.
two sides.
always oppositely opposing.
We share.
impossibly.
the feelings we're imposing.
I struggle.
no more.
careworn becomes carefree.
You smile.
a passion filled effort.
as it always was meant to be.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 5:34 AM UTC
a love letter in the sand
*she implores me at my weakest,
early morn, when sleep and sorrow
yet linger on my eyelids and dreamt stories
still have not been replaced by the careworn,
life’s erasures that ***** sparks of creativity
write me a love letter, a forever composition,
resistant to aging, time and weathering, a poetics
stamped with a maker’s mark, a signet, a hallmark
to our love that will be read unceasingly, a party to eternal
preserve our sharing, under glass, in paint, in this ink,
in this atmosphere
deny not my request, for it is holy tinged, reddish singed,
the best of us to become immortalized,
for all other lovers to follow, in garden planted,
a peony’s blooming upon request, whenever needed,
be ready seeded, to salve and save, to be given and gotten,
in a single act jointed
no matter if our names brown edge to faded,
our love revived when it is voiced, witnessed, taken,
our love refreshed upon renewal by others eyes, lips, sensations,
make it an oath, a promising, combining our combination,
bless it for everyone, to be a blessing, a dressing of loving*
poet rose from prone, our templar bed, bathed his face,
bid his woman, follow, her bidding to be won, for this now
is the moment precise that such a need be immediacy met,
a task such, cannot be denied, temporized, delayed by delicacy,
a challenge so eloquently stated, must be instantly sated
to the sandy beach I took her, for she would be the first witness
to her creation, her inspirational must become perpetual,
with forefinger in the sand drew the words she had chosen,
for in every respect, he gave grandeur, preservation worthy, now encapsulated as “I will be yours forevermore”**
“how can this be eternal, in minutes, the tides arrival,
it’s erasure a certainty” she laments...
not true, I soothed, the tide will take each grain of our anthem,
with our bodies ash, to every seventh corner, where lovers gather,
to be rewritten, melded together, soft spoken unison,
spreading our tale, forevermore...
it will take 100 years for a single grain to cross the ocean,
and then, when all are as one, as we begun, this day,
our love letter in the sand perpetual
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Right and wrong parallel each other
And sometimes intersect
Sometimes one is better than another
For each I have respect
It is all about perspective
They serenely say
Well I disagree, I believe
There are areas of grey
Sometimes good people do bad things
And bad people do good things
After all we are all human
All have a soul the same
Does a line have to be drawn
To separate one from the other
Or can we view them as one in the same
Each each others brother
Nobody is perfect
Every rose has it's thorn
Everybody has a secret
Everyone a bit careworn
So next time you are quick to judge
Remember this simple fact
The world does not live
In shades of white and black
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 9:07 AM UTC
The bustle and the tedium
Are things I need escaping from
Yet time speeds by and still have I
Not planned a foray ‘neath the sky
To places that I know will put
My careworn brow back where it ought
To be. And so my torpor worsens;
I begin to draw-back from random persons
I give up as I’ve done before
But freefall further. What a bore
I have become...the quintessential
Flawed human… (how provincial)
It’s time to make the drive up north
To face my demons and burst forth
Upon the beautiful scenes I’ve seen
In years gone past, blue, brown, and green
Across sacred Adirondack waters
I must lead my son and daughters
Set up camp and sweat and think
Stoke the fire, pray, and drink
Climb and swim with nonchalance
This head and heart need renaissance
So I say, …and so I need to do
But I’m crippled from this moody blue
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
had no quarrel with the sun
have no bitter bread leavened at the worlds hearth
no trail of blood and bone
no stone flung at heavens hoping to dislodge
for whispered prayer's unanswered
sitting on the high contraption
while the last rays of parting sunlight wane
balanced on the winds whim along thin wire
of my own circumstances making
i seek within myself once again
pour over memories careworn with years
find solace in the cold comforts
of warm embraces engraved in the heart
that i have known such things
that such matters to me as some it dose not
is comfort after all
that i have been loved
and am able to love
there is hope yet
i have no quarrel's with sun or moon
dark is lights difficult lover
they bicker over the dawn
and surrender to eachother as dusk settles
find solace where you may
i seek the sun
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
I rise, slowly, in the grey morning
light. I raise my eyes, and seeking,
sought; the grey light of dawn,
filters down, between the eaves.
Dressing, clad in the days grey skin,
I step down the covered stairs, soft
as a whisper, born upon the breeze,
for the fear of detection, and the desire
to be gone.
Opening the sighing door, I pause, and
turn, hand still grasping the reluctant
handle, as I see her, beautiful, in her night
gown, her black hair streaming, her eyes,
rimmed with red.
She looks at me, and there is nothing in her
eyes, but sadness, regret, and resignation. She
turns away, and I leave, closing the door
behind me.
I drive to work, sitting behind the wheel,
the grey sky empty, and the black road
full. I look to my right, to my left, and
behind. Everywhere I look, I see the same.
Black suit, grey tie, short-cut hair, and
empty eyes.
I close mine. Open them. The world seems
no different; no change meets my gaze.
only cars and commuters, going forward to
slave.
I look down, up again. My hand reaches, finds
the cold, smooth handle. I raise it. My eyes
close. I think of her, my wife, as the cold end
of the long dull rod touches my temple. A tear
wells slowly in my eye, to fall, softly along my
face. I don't brush it away.
My fingers tremble. They don't know their duty.
My hands shake, as tear follows tear, drifting slowly,
down the lines of my face, careworn, in the line of
pointless duty. My fingers steady, my hands grow still.
It is the breaking point..my mind is blank, as I pull
the trigger...red roses fill my head, as I fall, forward
against the wheel, and the world goes dark.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Choose another bitter morning routine -
whether from cold, coffee, or compression,
As in "man, I really need to just relax and decompress"
But without the last bit happening.
Choose to let it sink in until you can bite it off,
Choose the pressure because it feels like home,
Choose to dally, choose self-sabotage,
Choose kicking at the gears of your routine until
Something warps under the strain until
It fits like you never believed it would.
Choose the long way into work, a million faces
Nodding off behind their steering wheels,
The city's symphony still trying to get in tune,
Still trying to harmonize with, with, with, with
Whatever gets them to their job still sane, all
Trying to dance to beats only they can hear,
Howling out careworn verses they scrawled
By trailing their lives along the road:
The rhythm of the city is discord and hell.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC