Long Hollowed Poems
Long Hollowed Poems. Below are the most popular long Hollowed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hollowed poems by poem length and keyword.
The walls resonate
like the inside of a brass bell.
Footfalls act as the clapper bouncing sound
like a ping pong ball from wall to wall.
The antique oriental rug with its dragon vase
had long left, the black enameled troche
no longer lit the floor in puddles of orange light.
Hollowed out, the place was….
scooped like a cantaloupe free of the seeds
of man, of childish laughter and parental spats.
Dust bunnies scurry in the late afternoon
through the sunlight from dirty window panes.
Spiders weave webs in the corners of long
forgotten dreams…
Soon, all too soon,
this will be the case, the leaving will come
footfalls will lead to the last closing,
the brass doorknob will no longer reflect my face
and the emptiness will fill with the dreams
of a new family...
My end begins aimless
Nothing led by my steps
But my death led to greatness
So it was foretold. . . honor
Among my strangers
The graves dug around me grew numerous
Like flies to a corpse, rotten and forgotten above
My stone is headed but by one line,
“Honor was his path for he
Was washed in the grace of God.”
Among the aimless, the found
The dead and alive,
The named and forgotten
We are all but strangers
Using blood as our tag
The bodies laid before me are rinsed out and emptied
Lacking flesh and blood stained now with dirt
Upon the remains of, now forever wandering
Now nothing remains but a freshly painted slate
Of men who were strangers to themselves
The pond lies still,
Before me is a face
Bore with two holes
With a third above the left brow
“My God. . .” I said, “My God.”
Those golden fields once thought to be my reward
Was but a fantasy implanted long, long ago
Dying with honor without ever knowing my own name
And now I lay wake cold with fellow strangers
Who too were stuffed, and then hollowed
The wind frozen
The sun burnt
The grass dead
The rain flooded
The bodies gone
I misunderstood every trial before me
Before I knew who, I was there and gone
My reflection remains empty
As my body turns to ash in the sudden wake of mine
The singularity that was my life – nothing.
“I am a stranger,
I was gone before I was there.
I was dead before
The great fire of life–
Burning away
Down an endless path.
My name is null,
My body is used,
And here I lie before life
Before I ever knew
Who I was meant to be, and
Who my fellow strangers were. . .”
The walls are sweating with the stench of the lie,
While the vultures in suits watch the innocent die.
You call them "leaders," you call them "the state,"
But they’re monsters fueled by a bottomless hate.
We thought we could trust the hand on the wheel,
But it’s satanic filth and a heart made of steel.
Blood-sucking leeches in a temple of sin,
Letting the child-torturing nightmare begin.
No more whispers, no more polite "reform,"
When pedophiles gather to shelter the storm.
They feast on the small, they prey on the weak,
While the truth is a language they refuse to speak.
The mask is ripped off, the rot is laid bare,
There’s a venomous smoke in the hollowed-out air.
They aren't just failing; they’re the beast at the door—
And the people won't bleed for the lies anymore.
KOMOREBI
The Land Where Poems Are Made
Chorus chords of
Sounds mutter, iambically
Especially forming tongues throughout the ages
To give birth to rhyme in metered rages
Ancient rants, bellow from the depths
Of hollowed souls, needing to be refueled
As a lamp that all too quickly burned its wick.
So, yes, I toss and turn with loads, puns unsought
And words, dance wildly in my sleepless mind.
Yet, drifting bass-backwards through the woods,
and weeds of thought.
Ah yes, I am chasing dreams and nightmares too.
Hoping doors will open in the whimsical worlds in time.
That I may be the wise woman that writes the poem;
Whose poetic flute plays the tunes that pied the poets’ minds
Mimes leading them to that open space-
Where the light shines through the cove of trees;
Where ditties and missives, are the leaves that glisten.
Where rhymes, and poems nod and dance in the breeze,
And hang like wisdom’s fruit off grand poetic trees.
We pluck, we eat, we deliver that which we seek to write.
Remembering KOMOREBI
… We then finally, peacefully, now spirit-filled, we sleep.!
(The rose you dropped )
Roses are beautiful, ain’t they?
You see them once,
and for a moment
you believe in softness again.
In something that won’t leave.
But beauty tricks you—
it draws your hands close
before you notice the blood.
No one tells you
how much it hurts
to love something
that was born to wilt.
He smiled like safety.
Spoke like a promise.
And I believed,
like I always do—
with my whole damn body.
I reached out,
let him in,
let him touch every place
I swore I’d locked up.
I opened the door,
and he came in like sunlight—
but burned everything
on his way out.
Tell me—
how do you forget hands
that once knew how to hold you
like you were holy?
How do you forget
a face you bled for?
I screamed into pillows,
bit down on the night
so it wouldn’t hear me break.
Every silence was a scream
I didn’t say out loud.
He was the rose—
breathtaking, deadly.
And I was the fool
who thought I could hold him
without losing skin.
I still carry him.
Not in my heart—
he hollowed that out.
But in my marrow.
In the way I flinch
when kindness feels too easy.
Pain doesn’t fade.
It hides.
Waits in the cracks of my ribs
and the backs of my eyes.
Waits for the quiet
to speak again.
Maybe the fulcrum
ain’t in the bloom.
Maybe it’s in the wreckage after.
In the blood you try to wash off,
in the tears that fall
when no one’s watching,
in the silence you swallow
because screaming
never brought him back.
And maybe that’s me.
A rose too—
not the kind you frame in glass,
but the kind you dropped
and never picked up again.
Tears fall like rain upon my soul
As I search for solace, a place to call whole
But like a mirage, it vanishes in air
Leaving me shattered, with no one to care
I try to heal, but wounds run too deep
Memories of joy, now taunt me in sleep
Echoes of laughter, now a haunting sigh
Reminding me of what I'll never deny
The ache within, a hollowed space
A grief so profound, it cannot be replaced
I yearn to mend, to stitch and to bind
But the fragments of my heart, forever left behind
In darkness, I search for the light
A guiding star, to lead me through the night
But like a fleeting dream, it disappears from sight
Leaving me lost, in this endless fight
I try to heal, but scars won't fade
A constant reminder, of the love that's been made
To let go, to move on, to find my way
But the heart, it remembers, night and day
Oh, the agony, of trying to heal
When the hurt, it still feels so real
Like an open wound, that refuses to close
A sorrow so piercing, it forever grows
In this abyss, I'm left to atone
For the love, the loss, the memories I've known
But like autumn leaves, they wither and fall
And I'm left with nothing, but this hollow call
I try to heal, but we can't heal
For some wounds, they forever will reveal
The depth of our pain, the weight of our grief
A sorrow so strong, it forever will leave.
Aunty lost three pounds of memory,
it happened slowly, the clock on her mantle
ran faster, the rain began to fall slower.
Her cat was a stranger, then an ex-lover.
1300 grams of her vanished in slow motion.
The gray-matter remained
though it was hollowed out by blind angels;
in those dimly lit caves
flew two storks carrying two infants
forever now circling a cartoon pink sky.
At the age of eighty-two she demanded a dog.
We bought her an automated one
that moved and barked.
Eventually though its computer-chip brain failed,
aunty did not notice
she was by then very busy
discussing politics with Theodor Roosevelt.
I once asked her what he had to say?
She replied that he had confided:
‘the dead remember everything,’
that also seemed sad to me.
The lonely eyes of my saddest heart
understands time feels eternal
unlike a ticking clock
past and present never seem to move
Every moment is here and gone
one after another...vanishing without motion
as they form infinite realities in an imagined world
Where songbirds once sang
before my hollowed-out eyes crossed the boundaries of emptiness
seeking refuge from the darkest days
that haunt my heart's yesterdays
When it lays restless under the stars of lost nights
and crawls with its memories
through the empty shell of my soul
holding flickering ash in the orb of my eyes
to light, the dark filled path deep within my heart
so I may see your face
painted on its tear-stained walls from memory
6/30/20 contest Time-8 word challenge
words... time, moment, clock, ticking
past, present, eternal, infinite
sponsor Dear Heart
In the marble orchards,where the stone leaves fade,
I walk a path that grief has made.
The air is cool with a borrowed peace,
A quiet echo of a soul's release.
Each marker stands a cold and rigid plea,
For a name that time has set so free.
I trace the letters of a life unseen.
And seek a whisper where no words have been.
I ask the granite for a simple truth,
About the wasted years of reckless youth,
The silent battles and the broken vows,
The unpicked apples on the dying boughs.
I lean my ear against the ancient ground,
For any rumor of a buried sound,
For any silence deeper than the sod,
Rebuffs my search for answers from my God.
They offer nothing,these eternal guests,
From slumbering bones and hollowed-out chests.
The answers died when breath was drawn and done,
And fled forever from the beating sun.
I came to learn what wisdom they had kept,
But only found the place where they have slept.
The leaving must find meaning in their strife,
For no reply will come from silent life.
So I turn my back upon the silent land,
With empty heart and with an empty hand.
The questions live,but will not find their home,
And I am left to write my own sad poem
The dead hold secrets,but they do not share,
And life's long journey is the only prayer
I come here often, stop,
and from the river bank, watch
the ribs of an old wreck break through
the surface on an ebbing tide.
After all this time it still seems
to crave for breath, to air
its last remains.
Whatever past it has
no longer resides in living memory
but in a paragraph inked
in a shipping registry sunk
deep in the basement
of the Maritime Museum,
or is somewhere forever becalmed
in a photograph,
time frozen on a sepia sea.
But this morning I took it in,
gave my mind
to its hollowed out hull
and let imagination
lift it from the mud and make
it whole. I sailed it
out of the suck of time
and set it upon an open sea
and as its sails billowed
across my mind, I got the sense
that throughout all the wear
of passing time,
it had been waiting for me.