Quotes about unused, page 8
Pater Filio
Sense with keenest edge unusèd,
Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire;
Lovely feet as yet unbruisèd
On the ways of dark desire;
Sweetest hope that lookest smiling
O'er the wilderness defiling!
Why such beauty, to be blighted
By the swarm of foul destruction?
Why such innocence delighted,
When sin stalks to thy seduction?
All the litanies e'er chaunted
Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.
I have pray'd the sainted Morning
To unclasp her hands to hold thee;
From resignful Eve's adorning
Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee;
With all charms of man's contriving
Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving.
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poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Alcuin - 0293 2005 Version
Awhile pray pause who, passing by the way,
Lines read, reflections fragile, seedling's clay.
Can you wring from my fate what your's may be?
Unwound my watch, soon your's spun history!
In spite of this world's gifts, Time's ticks won't stay.
Now here, then there sped, bed from care carefree.
And can you for my fortune care today,
Leaves turn to trace if I was sad or gay?
Care you a fig? How long in memory,
Unused, the trace of what Life was to me
In yours may stay, int-urned - all fades away,
Naught human may defy Eternity.
"Are there still Gods who souls with feathers weigh? "
Life's stings some cling to, just for one more day.
Chance led my dance, the rest is best set free,
Unsightly glance, dust in dust locked. No key
Is there unless, perchance, through D.N.A.
Nature's template may decoded be.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Into a Restricted Ditch
I have not one concern,
About you misunderstanding me.
Or a perceive motivation...
You wish from your own mindset to believe.
And 'twist' until it is received to please you,
With benefit.
When you are done with your focus on me,
With any collected attempts to direct animosity!
Know this...
My intentions are to assist in opening your mind.
Not to wish it to stay unclosed!
Unused or under exposed.
And you and influenced others...
Have marched yourselves,
Into a restricted ditch!
Know this,
And I am certain one day you will.
I have not one concern,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Portrait Of A Lady. By Sir Thomas Lawrence
LADY , thy lofty brow is fair,
Beauty's sign and seal are there;
And thy lip is like the rose
Closing round the bee's repose;
And thine eye is like a star,
But blue as the sapphires' are.
Beautiful patrician! thou
Wearest on thy stately brow
All that suits a noble race,
All of high-born maiden's grace,--
Who is there could look on thee
And doubt thy nobility?
Round thee satin robe is flung,
Pearls upon thy neck are hung,
And upon thy arm of snow
Rubies like red sun-gifts glow;
Yet thou wearest pearl and gem
As thou hadst forgotten them.--
'Tis a step, but made to tread
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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Wedding Picture Face Down
A man follows an alluring woman
From a bookstore rendezvous
Through twisting streets
Of illicit passion;
He enters her house
To gently kiss her neck
In the plain white kitchen
Where she has prepared meals
For life-draining years
For the same unappreciative husband.
He removes her clothes
Slowly in the afternoon,
Dropping her panties in a hallway
Next to her husband’s study;
He tastes her body, the warm sweetness,
Until she achingly moans.
He gazes for a moment at a wedding picture
And then turns it face down;
He makes no promises
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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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A Good Poke In The Eye
I salute you
post-modern
shards splinters
poking eyes
that will not see
piercing throats
carrying no voice
shattering eardrums
in ears unused
waves of thoughts
permeate space
wavelengths in spectrums
speaking shouting
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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My Current Vision
My school book lies the furthest
Facing me
Completely guilty
I dislike school
school gives me no comfort
Except when leaving
Still I feel guilt
I did not put my full effort forward
The book remains closed
And
The water bottle in front stands out as the school binder presents
With a grey background
I see my poetry journal assignments paper being gently held down but the water bottle with the very corner of it's circle
My iPod cord appearing from under the assignment connects one end to the iPod and another into the computer
The rollercoaster of wires circle around my grinder with a pattern
It would be fun to ride that
My computer is centered
On but unused
Only charging my iPod
I see half a cigarette on the table
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poem by ryan Cravatta
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Old Spanish Song
I'm thinking of the wooing
That won my maiden heart
When he--he came pursuing
A love unused to art.
Into the drowsy river
The moon transported flung
Her soul that seemed to quiver
With the songs my lover sung.
And the stars in rapture twinkled
On the slumbrous world below--
You see that, old and wrinkled,
I'm not forgetful--no!
He still should be repeating
The vows he uttered then--
Alas! the years, though fleeting,
Are truer yet than men!
The summer moonlight glistens
In the favorite trysting spot
Where the river ever listens
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poem by Eugene Field
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Renewals
I place my hands on you
feeling your body stiffen from anticipation
unused to warm hands probing
yet hesitantly hoping
that Body would come alive again.
I let my fingertip glide
along your shoulders
electric skin explodings
collar bone stiffening
mouth pouty
as I kiss
your nape
settling there like home;
you exhale
as I
surrender to your heaving front
leaving no part of it untouched
in its quivering quiverings
in its exploding satiations
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Old Ireland
FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queen--now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and
heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of
love.
Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead
between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white hair, so
dishevel'd; 10
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead;
The Lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another
country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,
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poem by Walt Whitman
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