"unworn" poems
i
girls with guard dogs at spike-heeled feet
lips to kiss fire, still semi-sweet
ii
dirt black coffee on a fine tipped tongue
and spiderwebs only half unspun
iii
dead roses in flowercrowns and tangled thorns
and white bedsheets, handcuffs, lingerie unworn
iv
tempest springtime to summer’s rest
and flowers of lovers laid on deathbeds
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal
Pouring redemption for me, that I do
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew.
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
Party to the couple kissing on an old seat,
And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word
Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat.
O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web
Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech,
Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib
To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech
For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.
3.6k
Sunday-empty Auckland my pre-breakfast escape,
Sheep-spotted mountains in early morning mist,
Whangarei marina for a cauldron of cappuccino.
Shop of metal sheep starts a day of Kiwi weirdness,
Of customer requesting glassblowing lessons, and
“All Blacks” silk boxers, unworn by players I hope.
Driving to Dargaville for Mr. M. Ujdur museum treat,
That late gum-digging, Esperanto teaching, vintner.
Beside a colossal collection of accordions with muzak,
Playing an instrument-impossible Whiter Shade of Pale,
Plus coins and buttons and stamps and Scotsmen,
Left feeling stunned, like I was tripping on acid.
The possum cull with prizes seemed almost normal.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
*Pathways opened
through doors unhinged
Journey travelled
with roads unworn
Magic unbound
from spells unchanted
Heartbeats birthed
but the heart's unborn
•••
Verses recited
from a poem unpenned
A song sung
but lyrics unwritten
A dance performed
with routine unrehearsed
Feelings perceived
through words unspoken*
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
I was asked
*why don't you
write something
positive?*
postive,
positive?
maybe it's like
school,
it's hard to weave
interests into subjects
coincident not
of delight
a page is an unworn
white t-shirt
that i seem to stain
unrecognizable
when my pen
wipes it's fingers
and theres nothing
more to clean my
hands with
so i guess
why i don't write
positives a majority
of the time
is because when it rains
the ground doesn't
just decide to stay dry.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
A Man will ask himself:
Is the glass taken of half
Or given of it?
We hear this tale
Unworn and aged
(Like a fine wine
Save a rich cheese
Always a decadence
An adornment so sweet.
Fruits that our mother
Blesses us with)
and look into the crystal
Search for grace
We think comes from
Wonders of the light.
But man’s feeble mind
Is so beguiled
(Hoodwinked into
Vizard
By the lures
Of such a beautiful thing
As crystal.)
And rapt with greed.
So much brawn
Is put to
Pondering the
Substance
Of the vessel
(such thought
That manifests itself
In a disease
More blood ridden
Than a
Plague)
in materialism
(the silent
Murderer
That infects the
Mind of a
worldly soul)
and has no cure
To emerge from
A field of
Medical travesty.
When all has
Passed
And man answers
for his sins,
One will in the end
Discover
the question
That never works it’s way
To the lips
(If not even
Figments of thought
In words)
What have you to say
About the fill
Of a glass
When it has
Shattered
Upon the floor?
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
*My unveiling means
nothing
if in transparent solitude.
I reach for a time when
my dreaming dons
the support of another,
Yet as reality remains estranged
my desires wander unworn paths
alone,
Unanswered.*
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
Your shirts
hang drying
that we washed,
my son.
I recall you
wearing them,
each
and every one.
They hang there
lonesome now,
sad relics
of your wardrobe,
cast-offs
of a life
gone too soon,
cut short,
live long after me,
I thought.
I like the patterns,
the colours, too,
but on seeing them,
I’m remembered sadly,
of lovely you.
I sniff
along the cloth,
feel the buttons
that you once
did up, undid,
your fingers touch
and hug and feel,
the pain, of that,
too much.
The shirts hang
innocent, unaware,
lifeless, unworn
and cold,
I can feel them,
but want you
to hold.
Maybe I’ll wear the shirts
to give them back
some life,
some warmth,
fill them out,
give them body
to embrace,
pretend to them
I’m you,
act out the lie,
not reveal to them,
not tell them,
I watched you die.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
The parking lot
Is empty
The ballroom is a mess
There’s an untouched
Cake next to
An unworn dress
Today should have
Dawned a perfect new start
Now the champagne is nursing
A broken heart
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
There are roses in the road
tear soaked tissues
torn up pictures
with letters on fire.
They are the breakup play-list
for hang overs
and scratches on the hood
from relationship status updates.
The secret poems
in songs of heartache
and paintings thrown in the trash.
A fingerless engagement ring
unworn wedding dress
and a honeymoon for one.
The divorcees still wondering
and the mothers and fathers
who didn't quite make it
There is never knowing
and always wishing
but never seeing it.
Not to mentioned the ex
you can't forget
and the unfortunate person
who can't afford to leave.
all the widowed wives
who are forgotten after death.
and solders with no one
to return home to.
But all the while
a broken chord
amid the misfortune
and sorrow of the world
could not escape the
thresholds of inevitable ends
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 8:47 AM UTC
“Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”
That's Arthur C. Clarke.
My wife always believed we are not;
She was convinced we are not alone.
11 months ago,
My sweet wife said to me,
“Wouldn’t a pair of tiny feet
Pattering around the house
Sound so sugary sweet?”
10 months ago,
The doctor told me how
My count was pretty low and
Asked my wife about a bike accident
From when she was 10.
My wife cried a little, and then
At home, she cried
More than I’d ever seen her.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said,
But I told her we’re never alone,
As long as we have God.
She told me, in one of the worlds out there,
We are complete.
The ‘S’ in universes keeps her hopeful,
And content.
8 months ago,
I sat in the waiting room
With my sweet wife who had
Been puking and aching for weeks.
The doctor called it a miracle
And said our lonely days were gone.
My wife said she was glad
We weren’t going to be alone,
With just her and me.
7 months ago,
My wife ate right, and exercised,
And sang to her belly, and
Did all of the things
She was told to do;
But it was not enough, because
1 month ago,
My wife — my sweet, lovely wife —
She tripped on the staircase-
That last creaky step I swore I’d fix-
And fell, and bled and bled.
The doctor said he was sorry,
That my wife, she’d be okay, but
That there was nothing to be done
About the young one.
My wife cried much more
Than she had cried 4 months before.
She said she didn’t want to be alone.
“But we are not alone,”
I held her and I said,
“We have God in our midst,
we are not alone.”
A week ago,
I put out a sign
That declared ‘Garage Sale’
(Unabashedly, as if mocking us)
And lay out a motley of miniature clothes and objects-
Unused cribs and
Tiny, unworn shoes.
One day ago,
I said all the right things,
And loved and supported her,
And held her through her tears, but
Right now, as I cry
More than I’ve ever cried before,
And ask why I couldn’t be enough,
She is packing up her trunk,
Saying she can’t take it, saying
“I just want to be alone.”
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
Hemingway said,
"Write hard and clear about what hurts."
And I'm hurting.
And it's muddled.
And it's clear all at once.
But I know this:
It hurts hard.
When part of your heart
Up and leaves-
Even when you know that it's coming-
It hurts like part of your heart was up
And cut out.
It hurts like when you get home
And you run in-
And no one's there to greet you.
It hurts like when you sit at home-
And the piano keys are dusty.
It hurts and it's deafening
And deadening-
And the silence is overwhelming.
It hurts like a coffee *** that doesn't get empty,
And a grocery bill that goes down.
It hurts like unworn shoes in a closet
And it hurts like unwashed sheets
On an unused bed.
It hurts like borrowing his clothes
And reading his books
And writing him letters.
It hurts hard
And clear
And muddled
All at once.
It hurts like goodbye.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
I emerge at the calm before the storm
where they can't reach me by the quake
anymore.
Before the plunge I am unwithered and unworn
calling Mother at the folds where it was torn.
Cast as foetus and bag of stone
I am pulled down into a blend of effulgence
and the lungs linger in my mouth
before settling for breath between the bones;
marked by nascence and polished.
Held in an agitation of hands I am lifted
onto the summit of all things,
and she cries at the final separation
of our veins,
of our beings.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Happiness is,
my Mother's lasagna on a dark evening
spring warmth on my freckled shoulders
the chickens in the garden laying eggs
on a Sunday morning
Polaroid shots of my brother eating chocolate cake
a tidy bedroom and fresh floral scented bed sheets
squeezing into unworn skinny jeans
icy baths on hot days
coffee and cake dates
receiving good grades after months of studying
a hot batch of crispy French fries
bouquets of flowers on the mantelpiece
"I love you" messages
a juicy apple with that perfect CRUNCH
grains of sand seeping between my toes
the smell of cut grass
and a hug from my grandmother
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
I chose the narrow path
less trod and
not well-worn
Entangled in briars and brambles
I knew my skin would be torn
As I ran along
voices whispered
taunting, jeering, mocking
my decision to take
the narrow road
But another voice penetrated the darkness
a blanket of hope
laying over all my fears
Gently reminding
this path leads home
As I ran I oft stumbled
was quick to falter and fall
Soon I understood
why this path seemed empty
and unworn
For in the moments
when I could
no longer even crawl
strong arms reached out
to carry me to the throne
by Katy Owens, December 2012
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
hung up ribbons and stained hooked cups
tucked up bedspreads unworn livery of lust
watching as slowly I let you disappear
knowing your strength I resign into fear
mirrors, pills, bike rides to fill-up-days
here without much
a swig on alcohol free beer.
watching the blackbirds, gone
knowing the words, dried
you know you left with my repose
I still have my brilliant green emerald
but who retains these jealous, green prose?
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
In a house full of unread books
In a house full of unworn clothes
Lived a lady with an unused heart.
I often wondered how this ladies heart came to be
Full of thorns and full of scorn.
In a house of open heart
In a house of open mind
Lived a lady with open wounds.
People often wondered
How she came to be
Surrounded by brambles that she refused to cut.
In the house full of stale laughter
In the house full of fresh tears
Lived a lady that was numb from the heart.
I often wonder how it will end
Apathy and self pity create barriers impenetrable
For the lady with a heart of thorns.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
A simple golden band
full of promises.
So often unworn
to protect its fragile nature,
now a phantom reminder things lost.
Locked away to help forget,
but my thumb still absently rubs
the place it use to rest.
A memory of five long years
connected by smiles and featherlight kisses,
laughs, tears, and frustrations,
disappointments and disconnections,
leading to that final break
of a home thought to last till death.
That warm band now stone cold
telling more than words ever could
of love abandoned and forlorn.
A band now used in deceit
to fool potential mates,
rather than the symbol
it's suppose to be.
But still it brings pain
to the mind
of what could have been
of what should have been
of what would have been.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
I call her the rainmaker
Meadow in my heart and a lake abundant
Out in the horizon the rain clouds are
But here in my heart the drops do dance
I call her sunflower
The path unworn is wary of company
A million a second a billion butterflies an hour
For there she were and lucky I be
I call her the rainmaker
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
it's a faded blue color, pressed from being unworn
when i last wore it i was a different me
and i been many different people in between
along a natural path to find myself
i've done unnatural things,
said several things that i would never let pass
my lips again.
i've learned and i've grown, most awkwardly shown
in a faded blue dress in the back of my closet
now hugs curves that weren't there for the last
girl who wore it, and a few inches shorter
the girl back then wouldn't dare to do the things i've done alone with you,
and she wouldn't let herself feel what i feel for you, too
and she would blush at the words and the steam in the air in the back seat of my car.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
I stuck my hand in the pocket
Of one of your ancient wool coats.
Unworn for many years, too small for me,
It had obviously fit a much younger, trimmer you.
Inside I found a single well-handled pink tissue,
Very fragile, but still in one piece.
I held it up, in awe of its age.
It was then I saw the glimmer
Of infinitesimal crystals;
****** secretions from the distant past.
At once I imagined you outside,
Nose running freely in the cold air,
Furtively brushing your nose now and again
With the tissue, before reburying it
In the satin-lined pocket.
As I held it up in the dim light of the bedroom,
A furtive breeze, aided by the shaking
Of my hand, unlocked the tiny prisms
From the weave of pinkness,
And they dispersed into the air invisibly,
Like the popping of silent bubbles.
A delicate part of you had been returned,
Freed, into the constantly moving stream of life,
Now released from a silken *******
I bowed my head in wonder at it;
That you were gone from me now,
And yet here was this most human statement left behind,
An outpouring from your once vibrant body.
And I had just touched you again,
And could feel you floating all around me,
Finer in the air, than ashes from a cremation,
Was this dust of ashes
From a long lost Winter day
And then, I breathed you into me
Just for a few minutes, and watched
As the boundaries of time and space were suspended.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:33 PM UTC
There's a picture in the hope chest
or in a box buried beneath
a pile of unworn clothes at
the end of Mom's bed;
there's a picture somewhere
of me decked out in
purple floral footed pajamas
And in this picture, which must
have been taken one Christmas
night-
my hair slicked and wet and ponytailed,
in this picture I'm sitting
in front of a tree that
Dad chopped down.
a tree intricately and precisely decorated,
a tree with one strand of tinsel
on each and every branch,
a tree from the days we still used
the big bulbs of every color
that begged to burn your house down.
In this picture,
in front of that tree,
in floral footed purple pajamas-
I'm smiling.
This year there is no picture.
This year there was no Christmas.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
The revolution left you spinning, now you’re sitting where you stood,
Can’t go back to the beginning, wouldn’t fight this if you could,
In the garden that you hated, where nothing has ever grown,
Under shadows where we waited, until the light left us alone,
With our indifferent indecision, and stolen bottles in your car,
We’ll drink until we’re happy here, happy with who we are,
Reaping the rewards of repetition, less memorable memories,
Stumbling sick with superstition in the safety of disease,
But come morning better angels will be beating down our doors,
With tools in hand, their best-laid plans will build us better wars,
Daydream a hero’s fate, but I was too late, lost on that battlefield,
Too dull to be that sword you fell on, and far too weak to be your shield,
Now left with a threadbare chair and TV glare, a dusty driver’s seat,
That unworn path and drunken sailor’s laugh, still mourning my defeat,
But I can’t go back or throw it all away, the things I never meant to be,
A castle built on compromise, a pile of clothes shaped just like me,
So maybe now is not the time to sit and count the things we’ve lost,
How can we admit defeat, when so much hell remains uncrossed?
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
I often wander past her gallows
And feel a sympathetic twinge
At glints of sun on growing rifts
I long to hear her sing
My fingers itch to hold the mallet
Molded to her brazen form
A tongue, once ripped from quiet lips
It rests, with ears, unworn
If treasured glance is counted higher
Than the purest ringing note
Then may she hang still, gagged in silence
“To Liberty!”, I quote
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 1:09 PM UTC