Long Hourglasses Poems
Long Hourglasses Poems. Below are the most popular long Hourglasses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hourglasses poems by poem length and keyword.
In this world and in this life
(Are we all just another number)
A tax statistic or
a corporation's itemized figure.
There are of pluses and negatives.
The accounting of the additions and then the subtractions.
These are the balance sheets of life.
This is with "gains, and losses."
Is that the higher plan for mortal man
existence on this dusty earth?
A salary, or no salary.
A bank account, or no accounts.
Zeros and Ones, 1, 0.
Added together are they supposed to be fine gold?
A man’s worth weighed
on a numbered scale of more or less.
Were we created to be only digital number notations?
Numbers in hourglasses filled with very fine earthly sand.
Grains of sand running then emptying,
into the canvas of time.
This of a dusty dust, not solely returning to the ground.
For, we are very, much, much more: than that which is ever seen.
"Yes, yet, not solely just numbers, indeed!"
I thought that I could resist you
Until you fell down at my feet
Seeing those hungry wanting eyes
I prayed, my soul you would not eat
Now the preacher could not save me
As I succumbed to your embrace
A feeble man that seemed so strong
Would be ensnared by one in lace
You made me scream like a baby
For I knew that I had a choice
A mad quest for carnal pleasures
I was enticed by sultry voice
Luscious whispering in my ear
The simple promise that you made
We just had a single evening
Yet within my mind you stayed
Why couldn't the old preacher heal me
when before him my sins were layed
Although the pleasure was fleeting
The memory of you wouldn't fade
All I had was that one photo
Of you the girl with wanting eyes
I've consumed so many hours
A fool holding onto my lies
For as the Mercury rises
Silver tendrils reach for my hand
I'm a man who feasts on famine
Cracked hourglasses hold no sand!
The preacher revealed my secret
My indiscretion was exposed
In the end I found my freedom
When the chapter of lust was closed!
A write for Lyrics II Rob Carmack's Black Crowes Contest
Inspired by their song "Descending"
A purely fictional write.
"Travel light" Santa said to me as I grappled for all my most
treasured belongings. I stuffed them all in a duffle bag, then with the silliest
of grin on my face I said, " Ready"
The ride up was exhilarating to say the least, and the landing well
lets just say I don't recall getting there...
It felt like I was placed in a big glass bauble filled with tinsel,
joyful elves and little miniscule hourglasses containing reflective
light particles that flew out into the atmosphere through
smokescreen windows, tinted with pink magic glass.
I was tired from the trip so Santa led me to this little room made of logwood,
then he handing me a peppermint hot chocolate and said, " good good dreams, my girl "
What did I dream you ask ? Well, its much too long to retell today,
you will just have to wait until tomorrow, when its Christmas day !
Death Rock
Time is forever decaded to wait,
a never ending story in a never ending date.
Spending eternity wondering the outcome of Fate,
never realizing it until Death hits your plate.
Time is a measurement used so life goes on,
it is what embraces every new days dawn.
Born on a clock, a stop watch life spawn.
before you know the hourglasses sand is gone.
When your body gives in you'll finally meet Death's Rock,
There's no way for a restart, an indestructible time clock.
Everyday it is our own life we choose to mock,
One more lethal shock as you walk to Deaths Rock...
bmdavey@
02/16/16
Tracking time has changed throughout the years
Improving how hours, minutes, seconds appear
Sundials, hourglasses, pendulums and more
Wall, wrist, mantle, waterproof - clocks galore
There is a certain beauty to time hanging from a chain
A charm of steady ticking from a wound-up spring
Some families hand down diamonds, silver, or lockets
Heirlooms that include timepieces in pockets
Traditionally these events are solemn occasions
Like weddings, high school or college graduations
Grandfathers will take sons or grandsons aside
To privately bequeath his pocket watch with pride
He will slowly raise the timepiece to his ear
Pausing to listen to the ticking gears
Dangling the chain he clicks cover to open
Reverently holding the beloved token
Peering into the crystal face with serious affects
Both mentally count the second hand’s ticks
With slight nod of head grandfather might relay
Special words of wisdom in his own way
I remember with fondness my own ceremony
Granddad’s advice more valuable than money
“The thing about time that will help you
Is be where you are whatever you do”
Thanking my Granddad we shook hands
In hindsight I know I did not fully understand
Years swiftly passed with many tick tocks
Today I give my Grandson Granddad’s pocket watch
Written 1-17-2016
Favorite Contest
By Casares Nance
Third Place
It wasn't the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could live with,
A canvas woven from moonbeams and delicate shadows on the water's face.
They were seeking a tale in which to slumber, beside a fire that burns without warming,
They, the night's navigators holding the broken compass of dreaming.
They had clasped in their palms sand crystals - hourglasses for time that does not pass,
Their hourglass was filled with moments smelling of eternal postponement.
Under the guidance of a star that does not shine, yet carries them through the darkness,
They dreamed of horizons without land, of casting anchor in a harbor that awaits not.
In worlds composed only of echoes of fulfillment, they carved their path among promises,
Chasing a marvel that embraces the spirit but does not encompass it.
It was a languid dreaming, a spell poured into the cup of unspoken longing,
A sweet melancholy, like dark honey, that kept them afloat on the tide of life.
Thus rose smoke castles, on summer evenings too lengthy,
When the sky seems to speak in the forgotten language of eternity.
And so they passed, shooting stars through their own unseen galaxies,
Voyagers on a paper ship, embracing a dream, an illusion they could live with.
The Geography of the Void
We never know for certain if it's worth speaking of that gentle exile,
of the secret only we knew, without witnesses and without a word,
we migrate toward warm labyrinths where every groan holds a rare value,
and we make love by calendars gone slightly wrong — at night, by day, toward evening.
Bread bakes, and wounded shoulders are wrapped in rough, clean linen,
we walk the boulevards telling each other locust-memories, all withered,
like sheaves of dried reed that rustle and carry an old grief inside them,
we speak a tongue of back-alleys and farmland, stubborn past any road.
Powerful plants grow from the earth, victorious over time itself,
a vegetal world watches us from far off and writes to us without a face,
a timeless heat dries us out like a bed emptied of every dream,
only a canopy above, urban and rural both, keeps us still shut in.
Along those plausible paths you can hear words hatching out of words,
and see hourglasses lost inside their own nostalgia, mindless now,
the iron in you rusting inside them, a ballet girl asleep in a tin can,
while an old man from Alexandria writes his laws on a small matchbox.
And everything is clear, you leaf through the treatise on the great Void,
you walk in a crinoline beside a fence, your hair damp and stiff
like drowned Ophelia's in the mist, while I confess my love into a white amphora,
in a tower with feet as wet as a woman's after the lamps go out,
the evening eaten alive by mosquitoes, under a sky of total transparency,
while a sad parrot gives me lessons in geography, belonging nowhere, leading nowhere.
From the moment we are born…the moment our head first pops out…
the hourglass of our life turns over and our time begins to run out.
Of course we don’t understand this when we’re young…
how time itself is so constraining
but, one day, we realize we need to find a balance…in the time we have remaining.
A balance between what is primary and what is secondary in our lives…
A balance between work and play
A balance between the time we spend with those we love…
and the time we spend away.
It’s realizing one of the benefits…perhaps the greatest gift of time…
is the many ways there are to fill it…that do not cost a dime.
It’s holding hands…taking a walk…watching a butterfly emerge from a cocoon…
It’s watching a sunset as a family…or smiling together at the moon.
It’s spending time with those who truly matter
without feeling regret or guilt or doubt….
for those will be the times remembered…
when our sands of time run out.
Yes, your hourglass is there to remind you…as all hourglasses do…
how you can’t save time…you can only spend it…
and how you spend it…is totally up to you.
(You may have noticed this poem is shorter…it doesn’t contain as many rhymes…
that’s so reading it would not take up…too much of your time.) :)
- in those moments, it shines.
The nostalgia of an upside down
world glinting up through hourglasses of years,
a mark impressed upon flesh; a scar harbouring
simple childhood games inside a jagged
line now faded. Occasionally it flares,
reddens from a twist of skin uncomfortable,
or in the tightness of early morning dressing;
the twinge acts as an echo, a ripple, a call from
back then, years ago, an era lost like sand
through fingers sweaty from summer heat,
lemonade with ice cubes clinking. The scar,
the mark, that narrow margin of error, a
Faultline physical memory running like a border
along my skin. And you were there, holding my hand
- in those moments, it shines.
In a world of steel and shadows, time flows like a river of forgetfulness,
where seconds are devoured by the merciless beasts of routine,
and hours turn to dust on the giant wheels of soulless machinery.
I feel like a captive butterfly, struggling in the invisible jar of despair.
Around me, stone faces move in mechanical rhythms,
people turned into cogs in a mechanism that grinds dreams into ashes,
wearing masks of peace in a silence that kills more than noise.
Their silence is a mute song that swallows every trace of hope.
Seconds become broken hourglasses, their sand slipping into oblivion,
and monotony devours every speck of color from my soul,
where thoughts dance like shadows of a fire on the walls of a cave,
and any burst of light is immediately swallowed by darkness.
I have lived among ghosts, loving witches who tore dreams from me,
in a journey like a slow dance of suicide on the edge of the abyss.
But deep inside, a small flame flickers, refusing to be extinguished,
like a lost firefly in a forest of shadows, searching for the night sky.
That spark, however faint, keeps life in its fragile web,
for just a single spark is enough to ignite a storm of fire,
and to turn ashes into flames that dance in the wind of change.
I am grateful I preserved the light, that I didn’t let everything perish.
What a strange alchemy, to find gold in the ashes of lost time,
to see how a small spark can ignite an entire world.