Long Spinning top Poems
Long Spinning top Poems. Below are the most popular long Spinning top by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spinning top poems by poem length and keyword.
Thank you Dad:
My father in the eyes of God, helped me for nine years
I remember my bedroom, as young as being in the crib
I remember the toys, the spinning top, and the ball with stars on it
I had a place to visit where I could ride my red tricycle
I was free to be me, as I played with joy!
He taught me how to write the letters of the alphabet
He was a well-known story teller himself
He gave me small special gifts, I held close to me
He even gave me a peacock feather that fell from his peacock
My best friend lived nearby, we ran the fields together, so fun!
His brother was a poet too and his other relative painted like I do
I forgive the abandonment after a crisis happened,
Because, he didn’t stand a chance against the Sands family
Who took me away with all their control, and made me live a lie
But, I will always remember what he told his sister:
That I would be mighty in whatever I do!
He had that confidence in me that no-one else did!
- I have held onto that my entire life -
I wouldn’t trade the first 9 years of time with him for anything!
- Thank you Dad -
Heidi Sands
1/13/19
I should like to think that some spark of a watcher
slips away at night to observe our crazy dreams.
Some part of the self attached only to the whirring brain
by umbilical coils of recognition
of what we are when the brain rambles
and stutters along all by itself.
I should like to be outside
watching that drunken twirling sailor
totter and flop through
its flabbergasting counter-realities,
un-meshed moving parts that demand to be
decoded into loosely knit prophesy
or the dyslexic fortune-telling
of all kinds of flash-fiction.
Perhaps better though to leave the brain alone
allow it space to exhaust its madcap maladies,
while the stars call us out to be
what a brain can never be or see.
To be then, an awareness of that greater part of self
watching the brains mechanical spinning-top
dream itself into realms of evermore loopy unlikeliness,
while we explore a self-lit luminous universe
beyond the ken of the brain-locked sleep
of mice and men.
Curtains, at Grandma’s house,
hide the inner sanctum -
memories remodeled.
—Quote by Poet
I Recall Curtains
Loveliness is lace; I recall curtains.
Village without curtains; and lace.
One bow on a pine, lopsided star.
Intricate lace is snow white.
Many pines in the mountain skies,
the chimney and post office spire
pointing at the twinkling stars, all
hover over the curtainless village.
Rocking horse and spinning top, highlight
the two-storied “Toys and Games.”
I wonder who lives upstairs at the “Bakery.”
Such a teeny tiny village offering, yet
the daintiness embellishes a Winter wall;
Loveliness is lace; I recall curtains.
(Rhyme)
Sometimes we can't stop
we feel like a spinning-top,
our lives revolves so crazy
like a non-stop merry go 'round.
Sometimes we feel so energized
we feel like jumping high,
but at times we're in the dumps
we feel like,we just want to cry.
Sometimes we want to laugh so loud
but we don't know how,
smiling doesn't come that easy
when we know something isn't right.
Sometimes we wake up to a very bright day
but there are times in our life
when we don't seem to see
beyond clouds in the sky.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2014
December,10,2014
What Has Happened
What has happend to us
we don't know.
No-one understands anyone ,
Never try to understand too.
Noboby tolerates anybody
Almost,we loss tolerance.
All seem to be right
On their feelings,
All 're running on their
Own circumference of life circle.
We Smile like a robot,
We cry like a ruddy shelduck,
We sing the song of progress
Spreading venom in air.
Are we Bhosmasur?
Being red and black ants
we are moving on the
Spinning top,
How can we get down to the earth?
On the mass of rumour and slender
The earth is shivering,
It's time now,
It is high time to stop
The daily practice of
Attacking with arrow of slangs.
The word is Truth
The word is Brahman,
we 're the son of God,
we are epochal.
Why we don't know
What has happened to us?
Arms out stretched I reach for the sky
and spin like a childs spinning top
as the rain drips into my eyes.
Im set free , Im top of the world.
14 seconds is all that it took .
She had'nt got my x factor, but she had the looks.
To many photo's and paprazzi around.
And no double barrel surname for you to learn.
Ive already been replaced with the next young guy.
I wish him well and lots of luck.
Keeping a princess happy really tough
And I wonder if I have, nicoles number in my little black book.
For the non x factor readers http://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/cheryl-granted-britains-fastest-divorce-9087698
Mental health.
We have the radio on our side.
Then the song creates a curtain.
We all have commercial breaks on our mind.
But for now, we have some random song.
Mental health.
Scraps are constantly being sewn into us.
Stitches being torn.
We don’t even realize.
Mental health.
Toys with us.
A spinning top.
On top of the planet Neptune.
Feels far away.
But planets always circle back.
Mental health, health, health…
Churning. Rambling.
Waiting.
Lying in bed.
As if there’s nothing at all.
I might be mentally ill.
A bird on the window sill.
Tapping the glass.
Eyes that pass.
Or I might just be…
Strange.
Mental health…
Wavers.
I feel the energy of the song bird rising
A single feather
Twirling like spun cotton
Racing, yet free falling to the ground
Attire of the song bird
Almost offering itself to be re created
Reborn in music
Re written verse
I hold in my hand satin, maybe silk
Strumming my fingers through delicate bristles
Blowing movement into a lifeless cloth
Spiralling as a spinning top
Tip as sharp as a needles spike
From a living creature
Clothes of flight
Patterned, colourful
Alert, yet still
Twisting, twiddling this ancient quill
Close my eyes as I try to fly
Over rain-bowed clouds
In a scarlet sky
Stroking playful upon my arm
A pleasure that could do no harm
Texture of a smooth-tongued skin
As I take this ink and dip you in
Falling droplets of darkened blue
Azure, navy, sapphire too
Like blood that trickles from an open wound
I write this letter as the paper blooms
A splat, a flick, a playful stain
Dry's to reveal a song birds feather
On a papyrus page
Panther calling Kestrel-- over
No response
Panther calling Kestrel-- over
No response
Panther calling Kestrel, time is critical--over
No response
Kestrel calling Panther, break in comms, big spinning top is taking us into wintertime, you are among friends, sending new coordinates-- over
No response
Kestrel calling Panther--over
No response
Panther this is Kestrel, data coming in now, need immediate sitrep-- over
Panther, calling Kestrel, 19 confirmed, 4 casualties, 4 walking-- over
Kestrel to Panther, go silent--over. (F**K)
Kestrel, calling Panther-- over
Panther -- over
They were friendlies, need to put this down to a bad day at the office, it happens, passing upstairs to hats. Wait out.
Kestrel calling Panther— over.
Panther-- over
Status has now changed, this is no longer a friendly country.
Repeat this is no longer a friendly country, previous sitrep reads, 27 confirmed. Is this correct-- over
Panther–- correct-- over
OK Panther– suggest immediate sabbatical. The big bus is waiting.
Kestrel to Panther__ out.
The bad news is that time flies. The good news is you’re the pilot.” — Michael Altshuler
The sun spills like heavy honey over cliffs,
Drowning the clocks in a sea of amber light.
I pluck a ripe second from the abundant air,
Feeling its pulse throb against my palm today.
Shadows stretch long limbs across the quiet grass,
Tasting the wind before it turns to a ghost.
The sky is a bruised plum, leaking its juice,
Staining the edges of our fleeting breath now.
Forget the iron gates of the cold tomorrows;
They are only echoes in a hollow jar.
Drink the salt spray from the lip of the moment,
While the waves carve runes into the shifting sand.
Mountains dissolve into a purple smoke ring,
As we dance on the blade of a golden spark.
Stars are just pinpricks in a heavy curtain,
Waiting for a hand that will never arrive.
The earth is a spinning top of green silk thread,
Unraveling softly beneath our bare feet.
Hold the burning coal of this hour closely,
Until the light becomes the only thing real.