"outworn" poems
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
9.1k
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her ***** to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
3.6k
Those envied places which do know her well,
And are so scornful of this lonely place,
Even now for once are emptied of her grace:
Nowhere but here she is: and while Love’s spell
From his predominant presence doth compel
All alien hours, an outworn populace,
The hours of Love fill full the echoing space
With sweet confederate music favourable.
Now many memories make solicitous
The delicate love-lines of her mouth, till, lit
With quivering fire, the words take wing from it;
As here between our kisses we sit thus
Speaking of things remembered, and so sit
Speechless while things forgotten call to us.
3.2k
The world’s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn;
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
Against the morning star;
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies;
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death’s scroll must be—
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free,
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men **** and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy!
The world is weary of the past—
O might it die or rest at last!
2.6k
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.
But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn.
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing.
How can a child when fears annoy.
But droop his tender wing.
And forget his youthful spring.
O! father & mother. if buds are nip’d,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip’d
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay.
How shall the summer arise in joy.
Or the summer fruits appear.
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year.
When the blasts of winter appear.
2.4k
When the horns wear thin
And the noise, like a garment outworn,
Falls from the night,
The tattered and shivering night,
That thinks she is gay;
When the patient silence comes back,
And retires,
And returns,
Rebuffed by a ribald song,
Wounded by vehement cries,
Fleeing again to the stars—
Ashamed of her sister the night;
Oh, then they steal home,
The blinded, the pitiful ones
With their gew-gaws still in their hands,
Reeling with odorous breath
And thick, coarse words on their tongues.
They get them to bed, somehow,
And sleep the forgiving,
Comes thru the scattering tumult
And closes their eyes.
The stars sink down ashamed
And the dawn awakes,
Like a youth who steals from a brothel,
Dizzy and sick.
1.9k
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.
It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.
And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.
Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.
There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these ******* signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay.
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another’s green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
1.3k
_You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.
A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.
You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition
...OF YOUR OWN..._
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state it self confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
1.2k
31 october 2014
*There will come a day
education, career, kids, love
after,
when all the feelings in the world have
allready been felt.
On that day
there will be so much, still
but all is old, recycled, outworn
Like that old sweater you used to love,
only wistfulness keeping it mourning in its drawer.
One day you will find it
recognise it, smile
only to put it back,
never wear it again.
There will come a day
laughter, tears, irresponsability,
later,
when we will live but not.
Routine kills the reckless,
only absurdity fills their lungs.
On that windy day
there will be so much, still
so please,
don't tell me about used up feelings.
Please, I beg.
Tell me I’m wrong.*
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
The frail old men in their outworn coats
Held tight to the rail and stepped into their boats,
They took their seat and unhooked the rope
And drifted off on a sea of hope.
One by one they came and went
Their time on earth completely spent
They floated over dreams of youth
And lessons learned with painful truth.
Long ago love and folk forgotten
Hurt and loss from wars begotten
Failures bared and guilts unhidden
Of dark delights and treats forbidden.
Until the calm accepted dawn
Of what once was since man was born
Their little boats now bound for shore
To where the rail stands once more.
And from the boats their souls arise
And float up slowly to the skies
Where each and every one deemed worthy
Has completed life's long journey.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
These words
are the droolings
of ruminate
thought outworn
d
ri
p
d
ri
ppi
ng
into
exist
ence
on
a
barren plane
to be w i p e d a w a y through a careless
flick Unnoticed
except as the byproduct of some failed attempt at grand thought
without purpose, without substance,
it is absorbed through atmosphere
and it is gone.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 10:58 PM UTC
Finished the chapter
The one in the middle
Careful not to peek at the ending
Curious to review the beginning
Started out so nicely, sweet, enticingly
Teased me into thinking it would never end
Crooked finger wags & summons
Points to unknown, mysterious terrain ahead
Glancing back over my shoulder
Quick review but cannot fix, it remains the same
Only I am different fixed in this place
The next chapter incubating
Without my outworn point of reference
I am truly free
Happy Birthday to me
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
Feeling overgrown, outworn and
Almost all alone.
While I lived In said frustrated fashion I swear,
Among my things,(which felt misplaced)
I couldn't find my passion;
How I wanted It all!
Envisioning a sense of wholesome
Wellness while
The ticking, pointed numbers
Hung symptomatic on the wall
(And I wanted to laugh.)
Amused myself In contemplation,
Glancing from up road ...
To down road.
I was in isolation with
No flocks or
Passerby's merrily striding by only
My own shadow following.
With dilated bulging eyes
Gargoyles leering on ledges
Against stone
In dimly lit castle cities
Looked down; stern and foreboding.
I was haunted and
Disarmingly daunted
And old.
Society had left me
Literally brittle and frozen;
The lifestyle had made me cold.
(Suddenly more profusely)
Endlessly turning choirs of
Music In the sea of my heart;
I pulled, I scratched
Deep within my eyelids'
Glazed over and vexed'
(Raging)
It didn't budge!
It was my madness, I heard and
It drove me away to seek my fear;
Solace In my own decay!
Now I feel free and
I can glow once more.
For the first time since
You and I embraced
Our goodbyes..
This road is now paved all
Golden and safe;
A turning point like the crush of a wave.
With a smiling gaze
I listen to my inner faith;
Reaping what I gave!
Singing my spirit and speaking with
Understanding about
The oneness of being.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
stars align in proper formality
shadows disappear like tired ghosts
exercise lifts the journey into purpose
while planets pretend to watch from a far
search for solace can lead one
down empty bottles or through
broken bones
for the last beat of a heart
an outworn disposition
from conversations of yesterday
with faces losing familiarity
past the compromise of civil grounding
nothing but ashes in a private memory
a world of nighttime
unsure if it wants to be beautiful
or terrifying
it can't offer much
if you continue to walk away
promises of forever
and perfection which knows no end
these things fly off the tongue so easily
escaping before they're given any worth
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
I wake up and barely move my body
From my curled up guarded position
Strong struggles bully me into
A difficult state of submission
Our bed is somewhat unhospitable
I feel my welcome is outworn
I whisper to my forlorn pillow
"Have sympathy, for I am torn."
Gazing at morning's wrinkled sheets
My brain ceases to dream shining sights
Breathing the broken scenery in
Tears wash away fear silence invites
Pain is a mat to welcome tall waves
A home laced with stress waiting to be explored
Walls condemned to live in a quiet calamity
Vibrant hues hung along halls in a hoard
I glimpse a small strand of light intertwining
With the unspeakable darkness shadowing my eyes
Willingly taking each wound life inflicts
Love slowly overtakes the pain with every sunrise
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
I still remember how it was formed,
The connection between us, Now malformed.
Every moment that I treasured,
Every second I valued,
Now floats in an endless void,
Rusty and outworn,
Mossy and torn.
My mind is filled with the endless nostalgia
While you live like you just had amnesia.
I still cherish the memories while they tremble and fall,
The days we used to answer each other's call.
The memories for you are already obsolete,
The days we spent building, took only one blink for you to delete.
Changed for the best is what you tend,
Do you even think of the time that we spent?
I guess this is the thing the time could mend,
No matter how I deny, That's how it will end.
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
the sky began pushing out the june air like it was
a visitor who had long outworn his welcome
and pushed us along with it.
and so with grace she parted with us
and welcomed july like a lost lover.
it's like she knew that whatever we would grow
would never fit comfortably in the heat of mid summer
and was better suited for the dew drowned mornings of september.
like she had a premonition that the shape of us
would quickly outgrow the box we spent two months apart building.
and so with a slight breath
she introduced us to a late summer wind
carrying both a silence and a secret that neither of us
yet had the ears to hear.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
dwelt, in
that frail body, like a
bird in an
outworn cage.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC