Long Toppled Poems
Long Toppled Poems. Below are the most popular long Toppled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Toppled poems by poem length and keyword.
Kitty Cat and Christmas Tree
Kitty, Kitty
Kitty, Kitty
Oh sweet, snuggly, cuddly, pretty bundle of joy
Full of mischief that gets you into trouble, my furry fur ball
A kitty-cat that desires so much loving and attention
Affectionate and my shadow when you desire
Play toys you see small and large
As real as you and me
You love to play hide -seek,
But your favorite toy is the part of nature that has moved in
Another play toy you see with those big green eyes
That nose wiggles to take a whiff
Another scratching post with the scent of pine
With movement of shimmering light adornment that garnish that beautiful toy of yours
Like a mouse running and jumping from limb to limb that looks so as real as you and me
Tempting for you to swat and play
That mouse that entice your nature’s instincts to plan of ways to chase
Kitty, Kitty
Oh sweet, snuggly, cuddly, pretty bundle of joy
Full of mischief that gets you into trouble, my furry fur ball
Sitting far, far away from the tree, looking innocent as can be
Oh!
No!
You've toppled the Christmas tree and scattered the broken ornaments all over the floor!
Frosting paw prints smudges on my countertops and floor!
What kind of games do you plan to play when my back is turned?
11/20/2015
- Poetry Contest : Cats and Christmas Trees
Sponsored by: Mary Oliver Rotman
The lay season has been put to rest
and now my good intentions are finally
put to the test
It would be nice if promises of new
could be wrapped with desires of
the old
alongside red bows of will power
toppled with crimpled wrappings of
success
The tinsel has been put in store
presents opened wide, no more
wanting only
the health that has been hoped for
I now must do my bid to work at it
if I want ,
the jubilant joy of tomorrow smiles
to grace my front door
yes, the lay season has been put to rest
and the January winds are moving West.
January 7, 2019
~~
I entered gates that were rusty and old, worn with age,
This eternal resting place filled my soul with sadness;
The time of the year did not help, barren trees hanging low,
Dried up withered flowers lay forlorn on rows of graves.
I followed a pathway taking me deep into the maze of sorrow,
Many stones difficult to read, erosion and time destroyed;
Some were simple crosses and others pristine granite markers,
I crossed over a bridge above a rippling stream.
Dark valleys lay before me and toppled statues rest in peace,
This scene of sadness holds a place in my soul forever;
For among the burial plots, vaults, crypts lays a beloved memory,
Of my childhood cat, Snowball, forever in this place.
This pet cemetery, serene and tranquil,
And I still weep . . .
_______________________
March 21, 2014
Poetry/Verse/The Cemetery
Copyright Protected, ID 03-551-833-21
All Rights Reserved, 2014, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, The Saddest Landscape
sponsor Skat, 03/2014
Second Place
Yore was pulpy pride hoisted oft
that tactic ticker toppled
'n' was absorbed - la-de-da lotion.
"f such tiding tamed Satraps puncture.
Quoth would damp dell conception b'rrowed
when "f voluptuous voyage time "t m' throw.
"Pride thy empress 's", her contention -
felon fury fostered fusion.
But now metamorphosis thrives;
callous cave "f pride - agora sliced.
Damp death with apt biddings had skipped,
b' drooling death borne t' apt azure yond rill.
Pious 'pirit "f YHWH shut callous cave.
'n' ere agora stands I, wits' slave.
'20:07:02:12:07
Note:
a) of mystic me.
b) Written apace with the Middle English lexis:
i) yore - long ago
ii) oft - often
iii) quoth - said
iv) dell - a lady
v) agora - place of gathering
vi) azure - unclouded sky
vii) yond - beyond
viii) ere - before
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) 'n' - and
ii) "f - of
iii) "t - at
iv) m' - me
v) 's - is
vi) b' - by
vii) t' - to
viii) 'pirit - spirit
d) Poet's vocabulary:
i) The word "YHWH" is represented as a syllable in the poem.
Standing too close is very dangerous,
can we tell who carries the disease?
Everybody refuses to pay the price.
No effort is made to obey restrictions;
who really likes to stay inside, be quarantined,
wear an ankle bracelet and be controlled?
Riots, protests, obscenities and bloody faces,
bricks shatter windows, stores burning;
thugs vandalizing, smashing and looting.
Trump threatens and sends in Federal Agents,
Portland's anarchists spread terror;
America is on the brink of social war.
How many children have died?
how many mothers have grieved?
Streets and avenues are filled with blood,
American flags are stepped on and burned,
statues are toppled, monuments defaced.
Two faithful souls stand listless in the great big tower
overlooking the stranded city that once stood tall
yearning for a quiet place to lay their heads
while far beyond the deserted land
a soft blue light gleams gracefully above tranquil skies,
dancing shadows rocking to midnight tunes,
and sweet melodies echoing from the gigantic moon.
She spans more than a thousand feet long soaking
up the exhausted earth, her immeasurable depths
cuts and carve through valleys and streams
with clear blue water and powdery white sand
what more could you ask for on that distant land.
They have been planning this trip for many years,
but when the time draws near their saving disappears.
An empty refrigerator with two trays of frozen ice
lean against the corner of the kitchen
in their ten bedroom mansion
and a bare pantry exposing a slice of mildew bread
filled with little mice nibbling and playing tug of war.
Not many people knew their story
they have been broke for twenty years
but lived a painful lie, cutting corners
making back door transaction,
eating lamb and turkey from profits
made from sordid deals.
Their empire that once stood tall hangs in dismay
While it watches the world going up in flame
by those who continue to play treacherous games.
Sobibor and Hiroshima horrors of the past
Should have cleared the way for a more sophisticated path
But now athoroughfare mixed with complexity
packed with insidiousness
have ducks walking around
quacking without wings or tails
They finally got an offer to go to Utopia.
with packed bags not a penny in their name,
they set off for Utopia hoping to find a new life again
but when they got their it was the same old begrimed game.
Their entire world has been shaken,
shaken by its own guilt and self-reproach,
the transgression that their ancestors have borne
have been handed down for generations to shoulder
A land that they believe was pure and holy
has turned into nightmare and horror
dreadful things dismount in dark corners
women raped strangers abused
yet religion forms the core of the throne
They have witnessed empires toppled,
Kingdoms have fallen in their sight
Rulers have shaken and wept bitterly
causing the great big god to balance the scale
but blackmail in Utopia remains a formidable game
©2013 Christine Phillips
In fated inclemency
leading the charge
each push
deeper into the fray
The sound of the bugle
the call of the wild
where death lies afloat
in the quay
Each choice made to question
each vow pledged in blood
with very few
seeing the dawn
But onward we push
the bold and the meek
with our swords
and our bayonets drawn
The enemy fronted
all cannons in tow
the smoke makes things
harder to gauge
As destiny waits
on top of the hill
and the battle
continues to rage
One time looking back
the bodies lay piled
like toy soldiers
once toppled and strewn
Afoot in the madness
alone in the dark
my horse lying dead
— in the dew
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
I came across an old cemetery today while exploring,
full of broken, toppled headstones and tangled weeds;
there was a deep hush, a whisper and a sigh, I felt tears,
my tears were falling for long dead souls forgotten.
A tree's roots are entwined around an old, tilted stone,
in loving memory of my husband George, born Feb, 1882;
oh, George you were loved very much once upon a time,
God took him, but he will not be forgotten, engraved.
And I am of the age of Aquarius too, just like you,
I love violets and everything purple, and I am so mellow;
George were you a deep thinker, sensitive, creative,
I get hurt easily and I always want to help people.
Be at peace George in your decay and ravaged grave,
listen to the twittering of birds this bright sunny day;
promise, promise, I will be back to lay some purple violets,
forever now, dear soul, you will dwell in my heart . . .
Now, be still George, I heard your whisper . . .
____________________________
April 28, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Whispering Promise
Copyright Protected, ID 16-127-223-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to Strand Select W
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
Is the world finally over
hate and war how it ends
Nothing to believe in
do you even trust your friends
Hope has faded
evil rules supreme
Anguish and cries of horror
become a common thing
Reality surrenders to tech
to live you must obey
Just a simple tiny chip
injected into your brain
I hear murmurs in the wind
I see shadows that hide within
Churches burning do you dare pray
Books burning even in rain
Your phones tell you what to do
If you think differently
disappearing you
Food is taste less
people starve in mass
The world still dying
enclosed in a tomb of glass
Erase what was
the past only a foolish myth
The future our One New World Order
it is forever and for the best
I am numb
feeling dead empty but deemed alive
My thoughts are blank
so I can survive
The wind is misty
whispers thoughts unheard
People are rebelling
blink thrice to spread the word
Systems are failing
something hack in
The chips are reversing
Freedom no longer sin
There are people
who can remove chips from your brain
a glimmer of hope in a world insane
People are revolting
the world revives
The elite are toppled
The world reborn alive
One New World Order the nightmare goes colder
the hell on earth is finally over
In the foreground of a dream, you stood before me, confessing your singular misstep.
Behind you, were two images. As only my subconscious mind could decipher, then conveyed to me.
Only the words lingered. They toppled down from your careless mouth, falling towards the ground beneath your unsteady gait, as you paced to and fro; much like a cornered animal.
For months I revisited that dream. Still, I found no answer to the question I asked of you.
You claimed to have committed the act only one time.
All my good senses tell me your heroes lived on death row
Mother’s are to blame for the role you played in the demise of so many.
Ink Blots was the foreground of this dream. Escaping me so obviously.
So now I must wait as they build a case.