Long Hourglass Poems
Long Hourglass Poems. Below are the most popular long Hourglass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hourglass poems by poem length and keyword.
From the house of the dead it came
with long spindly toes and crooked nose.
It stood on its hind legs
to a height of eight feet
on knobby knees against the breeze.
“Why are you here? What’s the reason?”
Such a shrill screech did it release!
It held hourglass and scythe
in its sinuous claws.
It gave me fright to view that sight.
It glanced at the house of the dead
as sadness overcame it like shame.
Its demeanor austere.
It fell silent at the
far sound of a merry-go-round.
To the house of the dead it turned
before I learned why it adjourned.
Still I remember it –
my final encounter –
with dread from the house of the dead.
In the beginning the Lord created a great deep,
So deep that no eye saw anything but obscurity.
This deep we now by name call the heavens,
Accompanied by the creation of great vacancy-
A formless void that is uninterrupted by shapes.
It is the undefinable foundation for that yet to form,
A place we now think of as the planet earth,
Which passed the tests of the primeval, perfect storm.
Now with this creation comes the beginning of time,
And for measurement a transparent hourglass,
With an exact amount of sand enclosed within,
Which has until this moment been at an impasse.
Not a grain has been able to pass the constriction,
Until the Creator has commanded it to go.
As the primal beauty comes into existence,
Change enacts sand to fall in the chamber below.
With the passage of time within the hourglass
The Lord’s creation enlarges and expands;
It becomes the abode for another creation –
The harvest of the Lord’s desires becomes Man.
To Man the hourglass is a no longer fashionable,
And it may even seem to be ruling his day.
So he looks to the Lord for a savior—
For someone who-win or lose-will want to play.
The solution from the LORD is Woman,
A helpmate fashioned of Man’s own bone.
His dream has become his reward,
And She seems even better than homegrown.
Her figure is the perfect hourglass,
And her countenance is a bonny display.
Plainly It seems Man never saw the lady coming,
Since his plain morning bird became his bird of prey.
I rise from sleep, though sleep is just a skin,
A fragile shell I peel and step within.
The bedroom window frames familiar gray—
a quiet prelude pressing down
upon the edges of a working town.
I dress in blues, I lace my heavy shoes,
And trace the path where early shadows pool.
The porch steps creak, the morning air is chill,
A heavy frost is settling on the hill.
I walk the sidewalk toward the roaring town,
And watch the autumn leaves drift slowly down.
I catch the bus, I find an empty seat,
And feel the engine throbbing through the street.
Then suddenly, the color starts to bleed,
The scenery dissolves like burning weed.
The world unhooks, the floorboards drop away,
And swallow up the fabricated day.
I gasp and bolt upright—my heart takes flight—
And blink against the self-same morning light.
The bedroom window frames that quiet gray,
The early prelude of a working day.
I think: How strange, I must have fallen deep,
To dream of waking while still lost in sleep.
I dress again, my movements rushed and thin,
Uncertain where the waking world begins.
I lace my shoes, I step into the hall,
And touch the textured plaster of the wall—
It feels too smooth, too polished in its grain,
A painted backdrop for a looping pain.
I reach the door, I turn the brass-bound knob,
And swallow hard against a rising sob.
Yet out I go, into the self-same street,
To hear the phantom rhythm of my feet.
The bus arrives, its engine coughing smoke,
I board it, thinking surely I have woke.
The passengers are faceless, blurred, and gray,
Staring in silence at a vacant way.
I try to speak, to test if this is real,
To grasp the solid iron of the wheel,
When all at once the windows start to blur,
The humming engine dies without a stir,
The horizon folds like paper in a hand,
And sweeps away the shifting, hollow land.
I wrench my eyes wide open—breath is thin,
The heavy nightmare cycles round again.
How many times have I put on these clothes?
How many times has morning "almost" rose?
The fourth? The tenth? The labyrinth expands,
A slipping hourglass in spectral hands.
Every day I fade away little by little, like a star lost in the vastness of the sky,
Silence becomes my refuge, letting calls vanish into the echoes of time,
I trace winding paths, avoiding encounters like a butterfly hiding from the wind,
And as my steps turn to shadows, I distance myself from familiar lights.
By the time they notice I've dispersed, I'll already be a dream unraveling at dawn,
A forgotten laughter, an ancient melody, a smile hidden in the corners of memories,
Their questions will float like fallen leaves: what was my laughter like? was the smile real?
Or was I just a reflection on the surface of a calm lake, a thought that vanished?
My soul dances on the edge of time, like a grain of sand in the hourglass of eternity,
I wonder if I've left deep marks or was just a breeze passing through their lives,
Who am I in the hearts of those who seek me now, an echo or a guiding beacon?
I retreat into my silent universe, a story written on the night sky, with undying stars.
Time drains away like hourglass sand,
Rhymes rise to play with music blends.
Time now for cheer to sparkle sound,
Chimes spring right here to stake new grounds.
Time follows time to speed away,
Soon awkward rhymes move to deep grey.
Time firms a peek into the mists,
Go on and seek the subtle gist.
Time sweeps yet grooms a fancy free,
Rest in your gloom that helps you see.
Time then can stray upon the way,
Watch how you say about your day.
Time for word chant to attract bliss,
Wear well fond fun in that and this.
Leon Enriquez
22 August 2015
Singapore
So pretty wrapped in thorns, my dearest rose.
A dish, adorable, a pitbull — small.
She fends off fiends with nettled hands propose.
All pluck, with red stripe lips, sparks Springlike drawl.
Afresh in scent and velvet soft array,
blue bruise of her ornamental chamber.
This Cleopatra tease does make men bay.
This wild wine rose no pet prince can tame her.
The cut came quick, the snip of sharpened glass.
The former blushing queen of humble green.
The bucolic roar spreads, the plucked red lass
surrendered to the vase — a dauntless teen.
Ever after lasts but an hourglass bit.
The sunset quick — the sand that sinks her wit.
8/1/2018
Mark Massey’s Not Just Any Rose Poetry Contest
"I shall return soon to this quiet place
To be with my friends of the kindred kind
Where poetry forms in a peaceful mind"
Connie Marcum Wong
i stand here
peering across the span
of a distance
greater than i
watching the crest
of handless waves
caress the shore
almost touching me
before pulling back
the sands
like those of an hourglass
shifting before my eyes
like countless minutes
of time as it moves
hurriedly along
life's path
i catch my breath
beneath a winded spray
of salty air
as tears gather
in my eyes
beneath a breaking dawn
in the shimmer
of golden hues
i see you
briefly
etching words
within my mind
your whispers
falling short
like this shell
beside me
a journey
now done
time
moves on
in folds of crimson
through the darkness
it waits
for no one
He is living on the breadline, He is cold and hungry with no support line. Money comes in and slips through his hands a capital version of hourglass sands. The hunger used to drive him but now he is weak. The cold has seeped through to his bones, we wonders and drifts looking for somewhere to call home.
Once he was a soldier he stood proud and tall and no body told him that pride comes before a fall. He fell and he fell too many miles to count. he injured his leg and the army kicked him out.
The breadline stands between him and his life the life that was lost because he cant pay his way out. The stress ate him up in its endless starvation along with the rest of the breadline nation.
Her passion
She fashions her passion
Strangeways
This flashing
She flashes MAD traces
Strange days
With secrets and magic
And all things fantastic
Soooo-
Delight me
Excite me
Tonight we
Just might be
Together- It's never
Forever- The same
I thought it was you
When I knew it was me
At first we were two
And then maybe three
Dancing with magic
And dancing so free
I thought it was you
Even Sorcerers bleed
Her passion
She fashions MAD PASSION
Strangeways
Doll- like exotic Erotic we play
The faces
She makes no mistake
When they're fake
And who would have thought
With these feelings I fought
That this time would so pass
In the hourglass so fast~
Then thinkst thou child that greatness is thy fate,
Because a father fond admired thy verse,
And friends, not wishing to offend, high rate,
The paltry lines thou wouldst call poetry ?
To play with words, to mould them in a shape
That conjures deep-felt stirrings in the soul,
That lets the mind, besieged by toil. escape
Its bonds - that is the role of poesy.
Let thoughts take flight, discover hidden truth,
Allow the spirit to transcend its very self.
Make these your lofty aims, then tender youth
No bar will be to telling through your words
What's in your heart. Let not the moments pass
Lest they be ever lost, but heed the muse,
Ever at your side, as is the hourglass,
Trickling time, a precious constant warning.
Seize the Spring and revel in its promise
And greet with hope the light of each new dawning.
Life's darkling moments are yet tinged with gold.
Let not a sorrow your deep thoughts imprison.
A poet will all human life enfold,
Both sun and shade, encompassed by his vision.