Long Hollowing Poems
Long Hollowing Poems. Below are the most popular long Hollowing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hollowing poems by poem length and keyword.
Borders are lines drawn in dust,
but the wails of war ride the wind—
no map can contain a scream.
War does not choose a side;
it is a fire that devours both hearth and forest.
One body may bleed,
but the other's soul turns to ash.
From far behind velvet curtains
and polished screens,
war looks like a chessboard—
moves, strategy, gain.
But at the front,
it is the breaking of mothers,
the hollowing of eyes,
the earth drinking youth
like a thirsty beast.
To desire war
is to kiss the mouth of a storm
and expect calm.
It is to strike a match
and pray for shade.
To crave war
is to summon violence,
and violence
has never cradled peace.
Violence is never the solution—
it is the echo of failure,
the shatter of reason,
the road that leads nowhere
but ruin.
I tried so hard, did every step and followed every rule.
And yet I feel like a fool...
You didn´t see me try just saw mistakes.
Focused on spaces and line breaks.
You did not see me copy word by word.
I told you I did but only your voice was truly heard.
You didn´t see the night of worry that I won´t be good enough.
All you saw was what you thought was a bluff.
Why did following the rules not work this time?
Why do I feel like by following your law I commited a crime?
Why do you not see how hard I tried?
Why do you think I lied?
I worked and tried to perfect every small detail.
And still I fail.
So does working hard even count?
Is giving my all still a too little amount?
Now my feeling of pride is deep in the ground.
Now I know hard work won´t always be found.
You blamed it on stress I went a long...
But like the past my hope is now gone.
I don´t know why following the rules made me fall.
But in the end it´s your call.
Your word. Your law.
And your sharp claw.
That accidently poked out my heart...
As i struggle to not fall apart
Failure from following?
A feeling of hollowing
My soul out
As the word failure is all my mind will shout.
Being in high school is no fun...
Goodbye success we had a good run.
I failed by not rebelling
And my anxiety and sorrow is swelling
In my chest
As I wonder when will I rest?
And if I truly will ever be the best
Old uncle time has called me
to the task; procrastination
has had its run.
Now is the time
and the time is now;
I must keep on the path
to the task ahead.
To stop in the middle
of present trials
and tribulations is to defeat
self; questioning the promise
by the God of deliverance
from all evil and the soaring
as if on the wings of eagles.
Let Jacob’s strength
be the climbing motivation;
the courage of Job,
the faithful determination.
Once more and again,
let it be realized that the weary
ancestors did more with less;
leaving us less to do with more.
With legacy on our side;
the pillars of faith and hope
in our heart; the hammer of
persistence in one hand and
the nail of determination in
the other, nothing can turn us
around.
Just got to keep on talking;
keep on walking—fighting
until freedom is won.
All praises due to the Most High
for granting another day
perpendicular to the level plane;
continuing the labor of love
to bring closer, the total liberation
of a once enslaved people
who are now rooted and branching
in the midst of this waste hollowing land.
Standing on a rusted platform,
I look towards the looming, tarnished steel clock,
Ticking away my final moments of existence.
Oceanic eyes swell with liquid salinity
As a hollowing whistle booms in the close distance.
The scent of petrol mingles with midnight paranoia.
Placing a shaking hand upon my vibrating chest,
I can detect the trembling of a trepidatious heart,
Whilst the monstrous whistle is getting louder now—
Signaling the next, next stop: ruination.
Pulling up, two ghastly doors creak open,
Heralding me towards finality.
Stepping inside, all that surrounds is a blazing fog,
Like some surrealistic, dreamy haze
Engulfing my every gasping breath.
Choking on the ashes of all the sins
I have branded onto loved ones’ flesh,
I slam to the floor as the tempo of the train accelerates,
Jolting over a swinging bridge,
Taking my corrupted spirit
Over a modern-day River Styx.
“twice born, we live on”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we are lost, as long as ...
we wish to keep the cake
and eat it too
left foot in one boat
right in the other
sitting on the fence ...
we are lost, as long as ...
we thus vacillate
our attention oscillates
between the ego
grasping and seizing
and our spirit
prayerfully connecting ...
we are lost, as long as ...
we are deaf
to voice of conscience
preferring to rely
on fragmented thought
impelled by ego
amidst fleeting illusions
in the external
with regrets of past
fear of future
rooted in attachments
causation of stagnation
in feral desires ...
we are free when ...
we recognise the truth
that we are not mind body
but spirit unbound
here for a sojourn
for a breath of fresh air
to experience earth life
as a separate entity
although interconnected
with all of existence
vibrationally by love
being Gods energy
omnipresent ...
we are free when ...
we accept the limitations
of mind body
knowing we have so chosen
to experience duality
that love yearning for love
to feel complete
magnetically aligns
head and heart
igniting the Sushumna
with bliss electricity
a climax of ecstasy
in renewal continual
in permanence
within ...
we are free when ...
as the object here manifest
by us the subject pure spirit
one with God consciousness
when we as object quieten
resting ego borne thought
entering void of silence
initially in meditation
which by prioritisation
becomes our orientation
thereby hollowing out form
getting to emptiness
a spacial voidness
of no-thingness
wherein suffused with love
in its beauteous hues
self and Self align
as mind body vaporises ...
“who are you looking for, oh hermit
there is no one here!”
15-December-2020
Sintered from the dust of dying stars
This vessel of mine was,
By hands that reached down
Through the veil above,
And together with one generous breath
Bestowed upon it
This uncanny spark—this soul—
That man so very hubristically
Dared to name so.
From the tenderest of age,
I felt a magnetic pull—
A silent tug upon my heart,
And upon that uncanny spark—
To cede way to the craving of the day,
To wield this vessel as I chose:
This great gift of free will—
To speak, and act, and squander it
As I so pleased.
And in so doing, unbeknownst
To my young heart—
Though surely not to He
Whose hands, within the gusty gale,
reach down through the starry veil—
This truly splendid vessel,
Sintered from the dust of dying stars,
Bestowed with this wondrous spark,
Echoed each day more...
From a hollowing dark,
Within its mined-out core.
I felt so weak
That first time on my knees—
My first admission of regret,
Fingers knit in sacred weave
Upon the edge of my tousled bed,
Still warm, still rich with the aroma
Of a woman whose name I hadn’t cared to ask.
Toward the leaden clouds I cast—
A weary sigh into the stormy sky.
If miracles are truly real,
They're surely cellared with great zeal,
And left to age like vintage wines,
Until the Heavenly Divine
Before the worthy sets them forth,
Conferred upon His fruitful crop,
Whose future hopes now shine on high,
Not hurled into the muddy slop
To bless the vile swine—like I.
I've watched my life pass by
Like a slideshow of selfishness.
This vessel defiled,
By rapturous chemicals,
This spark,
By the whims and wants of an imbecile.
On my knees, so many times, since that first regretful night.
As I am now, chin down, under the moonlight,
Here with no right, begging of his might—
A humbled man's intent, a stirring,
This cherished spark, with its God conferring.
The Nomad
Some men are nomads, not meant to plant roots.
No families here, just more dust on boot.
Wander aimlessly, seeking our sun.
No multiplying, hollow be our fun.
We merely observe, their scans myopic.
Yield gestating dreams, we’re cursed not to fit.
Home yet to exist, for the Nomad King.
Carry it on backs, into wind we sing.
Lovers now shadows, their own story told.
No place for us left, our chapter’s been sold.
Memories of love, punches holes through souls.
Where do we have left? Twice found, both grew cold.
So the Nomad roams, restlessly through dark,
Flashes of little things, kids smiling in parks.
Testify our loss, that’s the Nomad’s lot.
In both life and death, we stir empty pots.
Shimmer white cottage, glowing picket fence,
So simple, easy? Never dreamed of less.
Though a Nomad’s dream, but an awful blight.
He gives it his all, yet lose every fight.
Another goodbye, so used to them now.
They get still to dream; we must forget. How?
The Nomad yet walks, through desert and ice.
Thinking of breakfast, family sounds nice.
Ice does grow colder, in newly sealed heart.
Feelings fade softly, hollowing this part.
For love rarely stays, it drifts and it fades.
Mere daydreams for fools, delusional haze.
Obtuse thoughts of noose, perhaps he craves death?
Stick around for now, walk a bit more yet.
Perhaps if he keep, forward movement more,
The Sunset will strike, malformed as a whore.
The Nomad ponders, as I won’t plant roots,
Is destiny set, falling from a roof?
Apotheosis, of the spotless mind,
Perfection of self, so rare that to find.
The heat inside builds, Icarus my son,
Revel in yourself, with haste you’ll be done.
Let her fly away; roam bird, fate yet waits.
Story’s written now, epilogue of pain.
The Nomad nods, accepts; packs his sack and leaves,
Waits until eyes fade, in darkness he grieves.
Hibernate for now, sleep for a while.
Forge fresh a new mask. Don’t forget to smile.
The Nomad chews air, he sucks dry a bone.
Wistfully he sighs, ‘Hold me, I miss home.’
Weary Is My Mind
I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once,
never again.
Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .
never again.
The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,
never again.
Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue
For Weary Is My Mind
INSIGHTS
recalled
words
hollowing
out a memory
in a trompe l’œil
of
a
disparate
miscellany
held
aloft&
framed
in view
a living
collage
ongoing
carefree
&
literally
done,
looking out
from
a study in
irreverence
re-imagined
&
half-present
self-involved
serious
purposed
in
a
visual game
so smooth
a
grand thesis
of
intrigue
or statement
of
continuous
imagination
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Yes, the full bloom is pretty
all that culmination just short of perfection,
that opening,
a hasp and harbor for light and warmth
a wide-eyed blossoming
raised up in a blind glory
of transient dominion.
Yet the withering is more lovely to me,
less beautiful,
more graceful than appearance.
The grace arrives just beyond the apogee
as when a high wave reaches its crest
then grace rides ahead of that decline
ahead of any loss or sorrow
it looks not to what was
nor does it seek a tomorrow.
That soft hollowing into the brittle arms
of bodiless ghosts
is a prayer for the ages
but not cut flowers in a vase, no
they die in a fetid wallow
and it is our love of beauty,
our grasping at that splendor
that curses their death.