Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.
quote by Merle Shain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Tattered & Torn
Tattered and torn
Tattered and torn
Thats where my soul is worn
Tattered and torn
Thats when I was born
Tattered and torn
I broke away from me
Tattered and torn
I knocked me to my knees
Tattered and torn
I drink my own cells
Tattered and torn
A decomposing well
Tattered and torn
Roaches in my head
Tattered and torn
I become the living dead
Tattered and torn
Tearing myself apart from the
Things that make me hurt
song performed by by Slipknot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Tattered and Torn
Tattered and Torn
That's where my soul is worn
Tattered and Torn
That's when I was born
Tattered and Torn
I broke away from me
Tattered and Torn
I knocked me to my knees
Tattered and Torn
I drink my own cells
Tattered and Torn
A decomposing well
Tattered and Torn
Roaches in my head
Tattered and Torn
I become the living dead
Tattered and Torn
Tearing myself apart from the
things that make me hurt
song performed by by Slipknot from Slipknot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Knocked And Ran
He, on a road, was standing
Ignorant of the road-laws.
He was in his tattered clothes;
A poor village child he was.
I was sitting in a car
On the left of the driver.
When the car came near the child,
It was slowed by the driver.
He sounded aloud the horn,
But the child did not it care.
The child, in his tattered clothes,
Remained standing mutely there.
He was aping the gesture
Of the driver of the car.
How joyful in his action,
As if he were in the car!
He was moving round his arms
In driving his unreal car.
The driver, taking the side,
Safely steered his real car.
But a truck from the front side
Down the road speedily ran.
The child, in his tattered clothes,
The truck driver knocked and ran.
poem by Aziz Ahmad
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Knocked And Ran
He, on a road, was standing
Ignorant of the road-laws.
He was in his tattered clothes;
A poor village child he was.
I was sitting in a car
On the left of the driver.
When the car came near the child,
It was slowed by the driver.
He sounded aloud the horn,
But the child did not it care.
The child, in his tattered clothes,
Remained standing mutely there.
He was aping the gesture
Of the driver of the car.
How joyful in his action,
As if he were in the car!
He was moving round his arms
In driving his unreal car.
The driver, taking the side,
Safely steered his real car.
But a truck from the front side
Down the road speedily ran.
The child, in his tattered clothes,
The truck driver knocked and ran.
poem by Aziz Ahmad 'Aziz Moradabadi'
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
T'is dopier to live in dystopia' (an ode to my sister)
My sister.
can't read. nor write.
but she knows not war.
my sister.
don't feed herself right.
yet she don't deal in war.
laughing at blackadder re-runs
recital of the every word
wearing tattered dressing gowns,
is she really that disturbed? ?
my sister. can't read. nor write
her pages scrumpled, ripped,
remain bright white, exempt of blood
my sister, unlike you,
fights off war.
she plays in peace, with adder's, black
dressing down, in her dressing gowns.
in utopia
poem by Eddie Frelford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The child’s imagination
Asked to write about Indians’ poverty,
An American child wrote long ago
That most Indians owned small or old cars
And that their servants wore tattered clothes.
12.08.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Roman Gravemounds
By Rome's dim relics there walks a man,
Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;
I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;
Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.
'Vast was Rome,' he must muse, 'in the worlds regard,
Vast it looms there still, Vast it ever will be;'
And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard
Left by those who are held in such memory.
But no; in his basket, see, he has brought
A little white furred thing, stiff of limb,
Whose life never won from the world a thought;
It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him.
And to make it a grave he has come to the spot,
And he delves in the ancient dead's long home;
Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not;
The furred thing is all to him - nothing Rome!
'Here say you that Caesar's warriors lie? -
But my little white cat was my only friend!
Could she but live, might the record die
Of Caesar, his legions, his aims, his end!'
Well, Rome's long rule here is oft and again
A theme for the sages of history,
And the small furred life was worth no one's pen;
Yet its mourner's mood has a charm for me.
poem by Thomas Hardy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Joy
I saw an old man in tattered robes
Angrily looking at the stars
His eyes were imploding as it were from within
In angry glee
That is the untold joy of a luminary
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Think About My Neighbor Mary
I think about Mary,
The pieces of her story
As I know it:
Her childhood streets,
The neighborhood cherry tree
She used to climb,
It should have been for fun,
Not for badly needed nourishment,
But she survived,
By strength of will,
A poisoned family life
Of shuffled homes
And ever-changing schools
With her homework assignments missed.
But Mary, did you allow yourself to cry?
Was that too much a luxury for a small girl?
Too much a luxury when your possessions
Were placed on the curbs of lonely streets
Where passersby didn’t know the children
Those possessions belonged to,
Their tattered clothes and tattered lives?
But Mary, you kept yourself alive
And somehow filled your heart with love
And created a better day
For everyone you touched:
Your husband and children,
Your baby brother
Who still has an injured heart,
And people like myself
Who gaze into your soul
Through the words you write.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At San Sebastian
The Countess sprawled beside the sea
As naked a she well could be;
Indeed her only garments were
A "G" string and a brassière
Her washerwoman was amazed,
And at the lady gazed and gazed, -
From billowy-bosom swell
To navel like a pink sea shell.
The Countess has of robes three score,
She doffs and leaves them on the floor;
She changes gowns ten times a ay,
Her chambermaid puts them away.
"How funny!" thinks the washer-wife;
"I've toiled and toiled throughout my life,
And only have, to hide my skin,
This old rag that I'm standing in."
The Countess never toiled at all;
She begged for coin when she was small,
And later, in the ancient fashion,
In gay resorts she peddled passion.|
But now to noble rank arrived,
(Tom wed the old Count she contrived)
Her youthful lover, lounging there,
Is hirsute as a teddy-bear.
The Countess will be honoured when
She dies past three-score years and ten.
The washer-women will wear out
With labour fifty years about . . .
Yet as the two look at each other
The Countess thinks: "So was my mother;
And washer-wife to live and die,
But for God's grace so would be I."
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Come To Think Of Them
beggars wearing
white robes
and large diamond
ring in their
middle fingers
by the authority
of God
they live all
in luxury
tax free
robbers wearing
fine, expensive suits
accorded accolades
and reaping honors
from plain
juan de la cruz
invoking the authority
of your state
holy and honorable
in their respective
thrones all built
by the bricks and
limestones of
our ignorance and
gullibility
we are the people
and we are the kings
and yet we look so
miserable living
miserable in poverty
in sickness in death
we sew the white robe
and the fine suit and
let them wear them
as we take and thrive
on tattered clothes
and listen to our rattling bones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Eye 4 An Eye (Silencer Mix)
Even now in heaven
There were angels carrying savage weapons
An eye for an eye...(for an eye...)
A tooth for a tooth...(for a tooth...)
Run, run, run,
But you sure can't hide...(hide...hide)
An eye for an eye...(for an eye...)
A tooth for a tooth...(for a tooth...)
Run, run, run,
But you sure can't hide...(hide...hide)
Is that room been fit to earth?
Doesn't help the ??? to grow sunshine?
Is this darkness all you'll take?
Have you'd passed through this life?
Run, run, run, but you sure can't hide...(hide, hide...)
Where you're going you're not coming back from
Run, run, run, but you sure can't hide...(hide, hide...)
An eye for an eye...(for an eye...)
A tooth for a tooth...(for a tooth...)
Run, run, run,
But you sure can't hide...(hide...hide)
An eye for an eye...(for an eye...)
A tooth for a tooth...(for a tooth...)
Run, run, run,
But you sure can't hide...(hide...hide)
This grain evil
Where is it come from?
Had still the end of the world?
Who's doing this?
Who's killed us?
Marking us with the sign of the holy mighty man
Run, run, run...(run, run...)
Run, run, run...(run, run...)
An eye for an eye...(for an eye...)
A tooth for a tooth...(for a tooth...)
Run, run, run, but you sure can't hide...(hide...hide)
An eye for an eye...(for an eye...)
A tooth for a tooth...(for a tooth...)
Run, run, run,
But you sure can't hide...(hide...hide)
(An eye for an eye...)
Are you righteous?
(A tooth for a tooth...)
Kind?
(Run, run, run but you sure can't hide...)
Does your confidence lie in this?
(An eye for an
song performed by by Unkle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
It's the Tattered End of Autumn
It’s the tattered end of autumn,
when the beech tree’s yellow dress
has rusted
and a thick carpet
of mustard
lies rotting underfoot.
It’s the tattered end of autumn,
when the white bones of the birch
are exposed
and its last leaves
cling
like baby koalas.
It’s the tattered end of autumn
when single leaves
dance solos
and next door’s blower
disturbs
the stillness of mid afternoon.
It’s the tattered end of autumn
when bed beckons
and the moon is bright,
and you and I touch toes
tenderly
under the doona.
poem by Alison Cassidy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fugitive
Im harboring a fugitive
Defector of a kind
And she lives in my soul
Drinks of my wine
And Id give my last breath
To keep us alive
Are they coming for us
With cameras or guns
We dont know which
But we gotta run
And you say this is not
What I bargained for
So hide yourself for me
All for me
We swore to ourselves
Wed go to the end of the world
But I got caught up in the whirl
And the twirl of it all
A day in the sun
Dancing alone
Baby Im so sorry
Now its coming to you
The lessons Ive learned
Wont do you any good
Youve got to get burned
Well the curse and the blessing
Theyre one in the same
Baby its all
Such a treacherous gain
Hide yourself for me
I said hide yourself for me
All for me
I stood without clothes
Danced in the sand
I was aching with freedom
And kissing the damned
I said remember this
As how it should be
Oh baby I said
Its all in our hands
Got to learn to respect
What we dont understand
We are fortunate ones
Fortunate ones
I swear
Hide yourself for me
I will hide myself for you
All for you
(I will hide)
All for you
(myself for you)
I will hide myself for you
All for you
I stood without clothes
I danced in the sand
I was aching with freedom
Kissing the damned
I said remember this
Is how it should be
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Injustice is triumphant
Robes show us men as seers.
There are seers without robes.
The world sees men by robes.
Injustice is triumphant
23.12.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
We make a ladder for ourselves of our vices, if we trample those same vices underfoot.
quote by Saint Aurelius Augustine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Upon the Silent Woman
Hear, you bad writers, and though you not see,
I will inform you where you happy be:
Provide the most malicious thoughts you can,
And bend them all against some private man,
To bring him, not his vices, on the stage;
Your envy shall be clad in some poor rage,
And your expressing of him shall be such,
That he himself shall think he hath no touch.
Where he that strongly writes, although he mean
To scourge but vices in a laboured scene,
Yet private faults shall be so well express'd
As men do get 'em, that each private breast,
That finds these errors in itself, shall say,
'He meant me, not my vices, in the play.'
poem by Francis Beaumont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
We make ourselves a ladder out of our vices if we trample the vices themselves underfoot.
quote by Saint Augustine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Skinny-Dipping (Fun Poem 100)
The footprints in the sand
told the story of two lovers
that danced along a deserted shore
to go skinny-dipping in a place
where no skinny-dipping had been done before.
They left their clothes upon the rocks,
but forgot about the tide.
While they had their swim,
the tide came in and washed their clothes away.
Now back down the beach they dance
with only hands to hide their bare bits there
and red faces to hide their embarrassment.
11 April 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
This Side Of Game
The world has shrunk.
Have sex in half-black
bipartisan calculations.
Ripping apart,
no body was naked
inside the costume.
I was too wakeful
under the ventilator.
They were killing me methodically.
It was theatrical.
White gowns and blue gowns.
Only miracle was nude.
This was an endless pit.
Young boys had learned
to rape.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!