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.
Who is this funny dancing clown
who entertains throughout the year
with painted frown and brush stroked tears?
His dizzy spins go round and round
'til orange hair and polka dots
look like a crazy spinning top.
Then plopping down upon the ground
as children laughed until they cried
at funny dizzy crisscrossed eyes.
There, where his frown was upside down,
the happy circus filled with smiles
as other clowns ran in the aisles.
Now laughing loud without a sound
and gaily dancing as he left,
belying inner tears he wept.
Who is this funny dancing clown?
His dizzy spins go round and round,
then plopping down upon the ground,
there, where his frown was upside down
now laughing loud without a sound.
I took a pen and piece of paper
Looked at the blank page before my eyes
Thoughts came in hurried nano seconds
Nothing captured or captivated the mind
The pen twirled in my fingers
Round and round like a spinning top
Words and images passed in fleeting fragments
Yet nothing concrete formed within
The page remained blank
I stared off into space
Space did not give inspiration
Words seemed beyond my reach
I began to doddle and rhyme words
Maybe this might give me hope
It became more like a game
Rhyming as many words as I could
Writing was not going as planned
My paper filled with scrambled words
I put it away in my collection
Only to pull it out as fast as I put it away
05/07/15
Sleep is a deception, a ghost wearing the garment of rest,
a bloody truth hidden beneath our eyelids, an escape from the labyrinth of the mind,
where light dances in the darkness, a forbidden beacon sought by dying souls,
and our outstretched hands tremble, trying to grasp ephemeral illusions.
At the touch of that light, repulsion flickers like silent lightning,
and you are thrown back, thousands of miles into the past, to the beginning of the road,
wandering in the radio silence of your loneliness, contemplating the abyss within,
stretching again and again, caught in the dance of an endless cycle, a carousel of shadows.
You spin in spirals until you collapse into a black hole that swallows you,
traversing galaxies and spitting you into a nebula, suffocating you with stardust,
floating weightlessly, like a dream's feather in the hands of night, calling it rest,
but your bones whisper it's just a rehearsal for the grave waiting to embrace you.
Then, a comet bursts through the sky of the dream and you startle, gasping,
for it has already carved a crater in your fragile heart,
your eyes, once suns of your universe, look at the ceiling as at a fallen sky,
invoking collapse, wishing to release the comet, to unburden you from the weight of the day,
and you feel like a burdened spinning top, turning slowly under the weight of time,
until that hour of illusory rest returns, a ritual under the moonlight.
I am taking a journey on a train..
Auditory sounds of horns, whistles, and bells..
Sitting there I glance out the window..
Watching the scenery..
Lovely trees..
Lanscapes so beautiful..
So breathtaking
Picture perfect postcard it seems..
I often think about the ghosts from the past..
Whom once roamed the earth...
How was their life?
What have they accomplished in life?
One's reality is so versitile...
One's realitiy is so unique
So sweet..
So bitter..
A reality which is only created by the creator..
The creator of their own personal reality..
A spinning top spins ever so rapidly..
Often at times it slows down..
Other times it continues to spin
Full force..
High speed..
Going east
Going west
Going north
Going south
There are many destinations..
Taking a journey on a train..
I am..
The spinning top continues to spin
Where shall it go?
Whom controls the spinning top...
Controls the destination..
Creator of destination..
Of which is known..
I was a twirly whirly dancing girl
But not alone, for there was another spinning top
She looked like me, had my face and my smile
We laughed the same, an excited giggle really
Sometimes we laughed so hard, we went into silent laugh mode
Staring at each other as happy tears ran down our face
It looked like we were laughing like hyenas and loons
We were but no noise was coming out
Our childhood was fun; we liked most of it.
Everyone in our small Iowa town seemed to know us
We did not have individual names.
We were both called “Stone Twin” or “Twin” or “Twinsey”
We did not care; life was carefree and fun and wonderful.
We loved playing games, acting out Peter Pan, and making friends.
Being an identical twin was so much fun when I was a child.
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.
He came from the Dust Bowl in a terrible time
When his family were stricken with broken, dirt covered dreams.
The patchwork wooden shack they slept and ate in had all but tumbled
To a fate no one could repair or even had the desire to.
No crops, no means to grow anything to eat
In this sterile, fruitless, barren land they called home-
A time when the only thing farmers could harvest was your dreams.
There was very little left in his world except suffering.
He was a good boy like his name, and a small boy, not born that way,
But fashioned by his lack of sustenance.
His life was laden with monumental emptiness and boredom
Enduringly waiting for better things to come.
He would make his own toys to play with
Out of anything that was some sort of surplus in his world of poverty.
And when he had nothing more except himself,
His idleness was spent by creating a circle dance-
A spiral game, to turn his spirit into a liberation to his salvation.
Singing a song he would bring his feet together to shuffle side by side
While creating his whirling motion like an old "spinning top" he used to have.
Round and round he would turn until he could turn no more
To finally stop as if some invisible force straight up and grabbed him.
His world spun around him, magically becoming a carousel
Where he heard music, laughter and felt giddy happiness
As he rode on the great white horse of his choice
Traveling with this bright and joyous carnival fancy
Taking him to a place where hardship lost its meaning.
He would perform his dance time after time
No one ever really cared about it,
After all what was a young restless boy to do?
They never called him by his real name - Johnny Goodfellow
They always called him "Dizzy"
A name that would stick with him his entire long-lived life,
And follow him on a distant road of misadventure
Hard work, uninviting places, and downright unfriendly folks.......
But it didn't matter - he had learned early how to make his world alright
September 2, 2019
"Bring a Character to Life" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
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.
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.
suddenly the beauty fades
and the masquerade becomes a crimson deluge
somewhere out of nowhere, incoherence reveals her uglier side
the stone soup of badly timed revelation is pure poison
the rocks thrown at my routine dream bloodies the strength of the center and blockades the solidity of my little world
suddenly enough is a microorganism growing impatient via the knowledge within the maturation
i become a victim of your black confetti surprise party
i want you to taste the bloody black jello of my misery
however you get the flavor of my personal version of icy cold detachment
all the ladders are now worn and badly damage
all the attics are infested and offend with the stench of incompleteness and indecisiveness
suddenly my brain goes in circles in endless speeds like a defiant spinning top
i wish i could give my own brain a hassan chop
maybe then all sense within me will finally come together
however my journey will still never really have a true blue definition