Yes, threadbare seem his songs, to lettered ken - they were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.
quote by William Watson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Confession
Those sanctified structures of verse,
plot and rhyme-why do I find them
no help to me now?
I want to produce something
imagined not recollected.
My inner voice becomes tongue-tied;
it trembles searching for the words
to guide me to inspiration.
So at times everything I write
with the threadbare lack of genius
seems wearily; worn-out; hackneyed
often painfully paralyzed.
A mésalliance I admit
Still I strive to caress the light.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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When a man's coat is threadbare, it is easy to pick a hole in it.
Acting doesn't have to be threadbare misery all the time.
quote by Fiona Shaw
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When a man's coat is threadbare it is easy to pick a hole in it.
The Souls Of Old Men
Inside their worn, tattered bodies
sit the souls of old men.
How unhappy the poor things are
and how bored by the pathetic life they live.
How they tremble for fear of losing that life, and how much
they love it, those befuddled and contradictory souls,
sitting -half comic and half tragic-
inside their old, threadbare skins.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school.
quote by Thomas Dekker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Past
I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of oriental splendor, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless luster lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Andromeda
The smooth-worn coin and threadbare classic phrase
Of Grecian myths that did beguile my youth,
Beguile me not as in the olden days:
I think more grief and beauty dwell with truth.
Andromeda, in fetters by the sea,
Star-pale with anguish till young Perseus came,
Less moves me with her suffering than she,
The slim girl figure fettered to dark shame,
That nightly haunts the park, there, like a shade,
Trailing her wretchedness from street to street.
See where she passes -- neither wife nor maid;
How all mere fiction crumbles at her feet!
Here is woe's self, and not the mask of woe:
A legend's shadow shall not move you so!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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The Mercenary View
I knew a poor remittance man,
A decent chap, but funny,
In days when my ideas began
To be controlled by money
He wore a swank, patrician air;
But, oh, his life was filled with care,
For he had seldom cash to spare;
His mien was far from sunny.
I fear I was a snobbish youth
Who led a prig's existence.
I snubbed the chap, to tell the truth,
And kept him at a distance.
His clothes, well cut, were often worn
Threadbare. Tho' he was gently born
His friendship I refused with scorn
Despite his soft insistence.
But now the whirligig of time
Sees fit to elevate him.
While, lo, the money that was mine
Is shrinking, seriatim;
And faced by serious mishap.
While he reclines in Fortune's lap.
I'd like to find the dear old chap
I'd want to cultivate him.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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What is all wisdom save a collection of platitudes. Take fifty of our current proverbial sayings-- they are so trite, so threadbare. None the less they embody the concentrated experience of the race, and the man who orders his life according to their teachings cannot be far wrong. Has any man ever attained to inner harmony by pondering the experience of others? Not since the world began! He must pass through fire.
quote by Norman Douglas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Last Ghosts Of Autumn
The threadbare weave of winter
comes after the last leaf of autumn
has only barely touched the ground.
A chill that inherits the air
tells of the new season around.
The last ghosts of autumn
linger as if in a dream
before winter’s blanket
shrouds all to hide the ground.
28 September 2o11
poem by David Harris
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Songs for the People
Let me make the songs for the people,
Songs for the old and young;
Songs to stir like a battle-cry
Wherever they are sung.
Not for the clashing of sabres,
For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of men
With more abundant life.
Let me make the songs for the weary,
Amid life's fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
And careworn brows forget.
Let me sing for little children,
Before their footsteps stray,
Sweet anthems of love and duty,
To float o'er life's highway.
I would sing for the poor and aged,
When shadows dim their sight;
Of the bright and restful mansions,
Where there shall be no night.
Our world, so worn and weary,
Needs music, pure and strong,
To hush the jangle and discords
Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.
Music to soothe all its sorrow,
Till war and crime shall cease;
And the hearts of men grown tender
Girdle the world with peace.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Love Thrives In Connotation
‘Is this a new saree? Very nice’
‘You are good in cotton wears. It suits the lean’
‘Why don’t you wear a diamond
instead, on nose? To more penetrate.’
‘Your voice on phone is nice. It rings.’
‘Shall I do it for you? It is my pleasure’
‘Were you on leave. I felt the absence’
He spoke during different incidents.
Each time I was fed with wine.
He can’t tell threadbare ‘I love you’
To me, a forbidden fruit
Nor can I confess or encourage.
Nevertheless, we enjoyed sex.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A rich queen and a poor king
The handsome threadbare man who struggled in a slum.
I don't know why I loved him and took him to my palace?
I gave an old king's name to bring him to our own society.
This beautiful witch-Queen dragged me to her palace
and given me an ugly name of a Lunatic.
My halcyon slum is a paradise.
The edge of the heavy crown pierced my head
and I never had a sound sleep
since I came to this hell.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Undress, Stand Naked...
Learn the alchemy true Mystics know;
The instant you accept hardship given you
Doors open
Welcome adversity, as friend
Make light of what torment offers
Sorrows are but old clothes, indeed rags
Covered by a tattered threadbare coat
Undress thy naked body underneath
Behold the sweetness that comes after grief
ROTMS
(Inspired by Master Rumi)
poem by Ray Lucero
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Old And New
Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,
Old times, old loves, old friendships, and old wine
Why should the old monopolise all praise?
Then let the new claim mine.
Give me strong new friends, when the old prove weak,
Or fail me in my darkest hour of need;
Why perish with the ship that springs a leak,
Or lean upon a read?
Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet,
When all the grace and beauty leaves the old;
When like a rose it withers at my feet,
Or like a hearth grows cold.
Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer,
In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;
I hold a sunlit present far more dear,
And worthy of my praise.
When the old creeds are threadbare, and worn through,
And all too narrow for the broadening soul,
Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,
Fair, beautiful and whole.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Shy Girl
The shy girl smiles.
She ponders and does muse
why when it comes to love
she always seems to lose.
The shy girl hopes,
but hopes seem so threadbare;
in a tapestry of love
she finds it quite unfair.
The shy girl wishes
that things would change.
She is shy of heart and action,
and she is forlorn for a love exchange.
poem by Julie A Smith
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Stupidity
Today,
go undivine
with me and remain untouched,
in dwindling love of faith.
A forerunner of nothingness
in a theological mess,
breaking the mirrors
in a slaughter house, finding
a god.
Collecting ruins of sounds,
veils, traversing the fecundity
of words, phrases.
Night was encroaching upon.
You hear the destruction of lianas.
Hold your wings
and listen to your blood, threadbare.
poem by Satish Verma
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Kim
Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,
With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
Creep thou between -- thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Father's Pants
Because the past five months
of chicken wings, television,
nostalgia, and stale beer
began splitting the seams of my
38 wwaists, inherited curses surfaced.
Father's lament, 'If it ain't one
thing, it's another! ' became mine,
as did his habit of slapping a frustrated
hand against the back of a neck bent
with defeat.
Staring at the threadbare denim
which covers my flesh and buries
my soul, I start to sweat.
poem by David Kowalczyk
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