Long Empty Poems
Long Empty Poems. Below are the most popular long Empty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Empty poems by poem length and keyword.
Sittin' in the shadows, waitin' for the dawn.
Looking for a glimpse of hope to help you carry on.
Unspoken words, unanswered calls.
Empty souls in empty rooms bouncing off the walls.
Winters chill has made you ill, just sittin' there just sittin' still.
Spring fever's the only cure in a drop of rain that falls so pure.
Solemn silence, lonely peace.
The destiny of a sacred heart that don't know how to cease.
The day after tomorrow is calling out your name.
But yesterday just wont let you get back in the game.
The ennui swells in your eye and causes you to yawn.
As the writing on the wall says your just about gone.
Muted sentiment within a hallowed grave.
Never to be heard by those that it could save.
Omni present knowledge that's never to be shared.
Leaves the solemn soul to wonder if anybody cared.
Tears oozed down my pale cheeks
As I read the unknown woman’s
last mystic diary entry:
The acute pain lingers in agony:
Remembering the smooth skin of his face.
My tormented heart is empty.
I can still feel the velvety touch
As my fingers run down the contours
Of his soft skinned nape,
tickling him on the sides of his ribs:
Did I hear him giggle and gurgle?
Momentary ecstasy....then painful silence!
Time has no pity.
For my offspring is no more.
Kissing him, I bid him good night
and the sun has never risen ever since!
Time stopped.
Dust to dust and I am now
In an empty place,
An estrangement from the world,
A lost soul miserably trying
But failing not to despair.
I cannot weep but forlorn I sweat.
The sun sets in a blaze of fire,
The time for a hug dissipated.
Alas no such fire in me.
A cold soul wondering why,
Hoping it will survive
Many other empty sleepless nights.
Why can’t time stop?
Am I cruel to read this sad entry?
What right have I to publish that
which was evidently a private confession?
Tears, unrestrained, oozed down my cheeks.
8 November 2021
Placed 1
Subject 5: Time
Enter the '''T'' Contest, New or Old' Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
The red necktie
He woke on the sofa, fully dressed
vaguely remembered an argument with a woman
He took a shower, made coffee
turned on the radio that told of a woman strangled
by a red necktie.
He paled under his fake tan; his tie was red, lost in
a brawl in a bar, did he? No, he was a friendly sort
he liked to think of himself, surely not…!
What to do now? Call the police and confess
To a crime, he could not remember having committed?
He looked out of the window into an empty street
Sunday morning, people were still sleeping
or perhaps the street had been cleared so that they could
arrest him without using force?
Now, he needed a drink, opened the drink cabinet
and there was his tie knotted on the solid neck
of whisky bottle
*I entered this Poem in ~Constance~A Rambling Poet's Contest "Among The Dead"
I write from this place of nowhere
This darkened haunt of deep despair
Even a Raven's darkened shade is brighter
Than the mood that has set upon this lair...
There are no words to cheer me.
I look to find a glimmer...
An enlightened shadow of what once was me
But alas that ghost eludes and finds me not
Preferring a labyrinth of happiness, its maze
To the life's webs that now encase me.
I cannot scale these vertical walls
This darkened fortress that surrounds me
And so I dive to ever deeper depths
In this ocean of sadness that seeks to drown me.
No tears can fall from drought-filled eyes
Desert rain has not come bidden
Blood cannot spill from pain-filled thoughts
No apparent wounds to need not be hidden.
A creek of fear and anguish
Feeds into my river of lonely despair
These tides serve to further drown me
In heavier waters with no apparent air.
These words are all I have left within me
To feed what's left of this withered shell
I have been exiled to this lonely oasis
My last hope for water in this, my empty well.
(January 23, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Rich Hands, Empty Pockets
That's the anthem echoing through a system
Built on grind.
Gold towers rising high, scraping skies that never contort down.
To see the ones breathing exhausted beneath.
Rich hands, Empty pockets- silver glimmer like it's got a heartbeat,
While hope thins out like the last light of vespers.
The needy wait in the muzzle of shadows,
Holding stories the world keeps tripping over,
Holding one's breath for someone- anyone to finally see their plight.
Rich hands, Empty pockets- a divide etched deep by recourses we pretend not to notice.
Material gain becomes the measure of worth,
And Humanity slips soft, almost silent, through
Cracks we walk past every day,
Like they ain't credence in whole lives and still-
Rich hands, Empty pockets keep ringing, keeps rising, keep asking
How long a system can shine while its people become colorless.
1512 Armory Avenue, prettiest house in Chariton, Iowa
Verdant green ferns and red geraniums in blue pots gracing the porch.
Roof jumps would land her on dandelions, possibly violet rosette.
Front door opened onto spectacularly polished walnut staircase
Front room had been converted to her bedroom with picture window.
Looked out onto Stella McDowell’s garden full of bluebells and daffodils.
House whispers in the night, reassured her child self that all was well.
She had not seen her house for almost twenty-eight years.
Her husband asked, “Is this it?”
She started to say no.
But the address said it was; this ugly eyesore was nothing like she remembered.
Porch had slid away, everything unkempt, grass needed mowed.
Nothing fresh about this demon. It was ugly and hostile.
Critters probably lived here now; the house had been empty for a long time.
Nothing was fresh. It was depressing, damp, dour, sad. Smelled like mice.
She was sorry she had come; let down, disappointed.
These railings used to be ten foot tall, she said to her husband.
In actuality, they were three foot off the ground, and they tipped east.
She could barely wait to leave, hoping to regain her joyful childhood memories,
First she must push this ugly 1512 Armory completely out of her mind.
Written 7-16-2020
Contest: Decaying House
Words in order: house, ferns, porch, roof, rosette, door, staircase, window, garden, whispers.
Sponsor: Constance La France
Who am I? Becoming? Who is that, she'll be.
The dragon slept... And also wept, hid herself from the party filled with tea.
Far away in her cave, brewing firey in depths.
Stewing and chewing on her mistakes and spitting out the pips of empty threats.
Emerging again, as you, as new.
A familiar dragon song, plaguing her mind and ringing again, loudly too.
The attacker, the observer, the tourist attraction, the hidden power... Which one was she choosing and could it be all?
Or none of those...
The guidance.
Behind the scenes, wisdom shared.
Could her wingspan encompass all and guide from behind?
The scenes, the circumstance, the trap of their minds...
The biggest of fantasy, monsters and magic need rest.
Sometimes a reminder of this from the hidden who once flew openly above their villages...
May encourage peace to infiltrate into to their nests.
The scariest and most unpredictable, with the brightest of lights...
Emerging as the understander and encourager of those who can no longer stay out of sight...
Listen to the whispers, before you must hide.
The Universe and Dust — The Same Being
You can't be everything to everyone — you're water flowing into different waters,
you can't be good and gentle always — sometimes your thorns protect others from the abyss,
you can't be right all the time — wind changes the shapes of clouds in the sky,
nothing is constant in us as humans — we're rivers that don't step twice into the same iron.
It's okay if someone finds you annoying like the sound of rain,
it's okay if you're not cool enough for their parties of leaves,
it's okay if you don't get their joke — your laughter is in another field of flowers,
it's okay if you have a different sense of humor — each grass has roots in other clouds.
Not everyone can see you through the same lens of colored glass,
to some you're the entire universe pulsating in the night in love,
to others just an insignificant speck of star dust floating through galaxies,
and each view is true — you're painted in different colors by different eyes and stages.
So stop trying to be liked by all this world,
stop trying to please everyone — you're a tree with too many vast branches,
let go of this need for approval that consumes you like slow fire,
you're too vast for their expectations and too free for their cages of cement.
You'll have to learn to let go of everything that doesn't make you happy at dawn,
everything that doesn't help you grow into a better person than yesterday in the clouds,
flux: you're a traveler through different eyes, changing your form like water in vessels,
crossing the world with your many faces, each one true in all cases.
In the eyes of some you're the cosmos full of galaxies and silver explosions,
in the eyes of others you're an invisible grain floating through the empty winds,
and each version is you — your mosaic of thousands of shining pieces,
because to be human means to be seen differently by each traveling gaze.
Don't seek to be understood by all anymore — everyone sees their own world,
don't try to mold yourself after their expectations of smoke and streams,
you're an ocean to some and a drop to others, it depends on the eye that sees,
and your freedom is in accepting that you are all these faces — the love that believes.
The sun in its melancholy phase
dazed swirls, sun dial spinning
Pale moon but a mere shadow
empty ball, psychedelic haze
Into the bleary copse I tread
for a twilight detox of sorts
nerves on end, psyche suspends
light with shadows, a disco portends
Blipping pulses of light filter down
the pin pricks cause vertigo,
as disoriented interloper, stagger
through the bifurcated maze
Bristling limbs tap their snare drums
dissonant rhythms, arrhythmia creeps
swaying arms shroud every move
Damocles' sword swaggers o'er my head
The ground's tangled web straddles
my feet; jagged stumps, fibrous roots,
slippery Lichens harrow each quaking step
the seismic swell rises to my shaken core
An eerie wind serenades my imagination
grainy outlines appear in the distance
wispy figments dance in the shadows
above, silted holograms prance through trees
Picking up the pace, now double time
my lagging adrenaline to prime
shedding my sensory shield
my naked soul conquers the tempest
(for: ’niyi osundare)
the goldness of those eyes,
like the eye of the earth –
beaming, mirrors the secret softness
hidden by the ash-like depths of our souls!
many of them, brother, so learned;
o! carrying shrines of empty superiority,
as they coaxed the lads
to believe the new deities of half-truths,
and bring sweet-smelling oblations
to each black prof who looks and speaks at us;
’niyi, my brother, you know these well!
yet, when we saw your inner complexion,
we knew it well:
we, the celebrate sons born at the niger’s banks,
you’re a prof: a black prof: a twin of us!
the preciousness of those sharp eyes,
the ever-ruminant seed of that heart
which almost marked your pen, a ruffian!
are these the ingredients
in those soup of our radical celibacy?
your presence like other presences
in our village:
spoke tranquility and hopefulness
to a village full of raw anxieties!
then you twinkled away from us
not forever, no, but for a while!
brother, while our eyes, almost in cessions,
are down-turned in supplications
to the brightest eye of the earth;
our ears in remembrance with our eyes
seeing the sacred lips gaping in admonitions:
‘whenever the muse in ferocity comes:
then strike the pen as a hunter in his primes!’
yes! when we heard this lexicon,
we knew it well:
we, the sad sons suffering at the ant-hills,
you’re a prof: a black prof: a twin of us!
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