Long Topples Poems
Long Topples Poems. Below are the most popular long Topples by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Topples poems by poem length and keyword.
Amid the hush of the palace,
where candle flames dance upon the walls,
a man walks with a heavy heart,
a smile that never reaches his eyes.
He calls betrayal “strategy,”
he calls death “progress,”
he calls silence “loyalty.”
All his brothers have turned to foes,
all those he trusted
now lie in his path like stones in darkness.
Each step he leaves behind
is a broken heart, a lost dream, a weary love.
Each gentle word
conceals a dagger,
each oath a shard of glass
striking defenseless souls.
He gazes upon his own reflection—
a face marked with weakness,
a heart burdened with shadows,
eyes that see all his cruelty
but cannot forget it.
He hears the voices of children in silence,
a whisper in his ear,
a reminder that power may buy everything,
but it cannot purchase peace.
The throne he ascends is heavy as iron,
laden with every pain he has inflicted.
A throne built on death,
on suffering, on betrayal,
a throne that grants no rest.
He speaks with force, but his heart cries,
he moves with strength, but his soul is frail.
Amid battles and conspiracies,
he sees his own face in every eye he deceived.
Ears hear the voices of those who fell
like leaves in the wind,
like flames in a burning scroll.
He once believed power was love,
he thought a dark heart could outshine light.
But the light always returns,
like water gliding over stone,
like truth shattering every mask.
The blow comes—he falls into his own snare.
His throne topples, his smile withers,
his shadow can hide him no longer.
In the silence of death, he hears every word he disrespected,
every heart he broke, every dream he toyed with.
The tragedy lies not in his end alone,
but in the choices he made,
in every heart he caused to suffer,
in every soul he made afraid.
Power without respect is a fire that burns the hands of its holder,
a burden that crushes even the strongest heart.
And when shadow claims all space,
life turns into cold glass,
and every pain he caused becomes his path.
A throne built on death,
a dream never fulfilled,
a heart that believed it advanced,
only to fall into its own betrayal.
Before her glassy eyes, crystal bubbles seem
to strangely dance.
Slipping down into the water as deeply as she can,
she revels in the liquid warmth enwrapping her.
Such contrast this is to the crispness of the air around her!
Before running her bath, she felt compelled
to turn off all the heat in the house.
Now she reaches for her glass on the edge of the tub.
Bringing it to her lips, she savors one last time the wine,
her one small taste of "heaven"
from the bottle now lying nearly empty
where it spilled out to wet the floor’s cold tiles.
Very relaxed, she sets the glass back down beside her.
It topples over. The woman hears it shatter. . . yet she lies still.
Intoxicated (as was her plan),
she lays the sharp edge of a razor blade against her wrist.
Making sure to clutch it well,
she slices through veins but feels no pain.
Then the other side. . . Red fluid threads
stream among the fading fizz (all that now remains of the dancing bubbles).
And as she drifts off into numbing unconsciousness,
it dawns on her that her tub has somehow become unplugged!
She is too lightheaded. . . too feeble now to move.
The heated fragrant water slowly and steadily subsides.
A sharp chill invades her body.
With her final breaths, the woman thinks of how her one last plan -
to be discovered immersed completely in water -
has ended up just like every other messed up thing she ever did
and how her plan,
like the water of her "perfect" bath,
has just
gone
down
the damn
proverbial
drain.
7/7/13
It is like an imagination
When eyes open in original nation
Close in this word but phantom
Close in this cruel and crook home
Whose false falsifies brothers and sisters
Into pirating neighbours’ labours
Into dancing to drum of hatred
Into dipping hands in blood
Blood topples like control-less plane
Blood streams like oil that emancipates from can
Tighten the tether of sin
And close the gate of the zion
Religion preaches to the heart –
Heart of lost soul and straighten the route
Says prostrate your mind – prostrate your mind
Prostrate your mind before your lord
And hope is birthed
Hope is birthed like a baby
Depth down the heart
Grows as the day goes by
Gives sense of patient
And longing for the real word
And good deed is birthed
Good deed is birthed like a rising in sun
Sharpen as the day moves on
Wash off the sin and you are an infant
Who is not sinned before and present
Rebuke evil ought to befall you
Stimulate and hasten progress on your way
Spiritual and natural you grow
Religion, Patient, and Good deeds are lights, heaven’s key
Not for contest.
Written: April 14, 2025 for contest sponsored by Brian Strand
******************
The subject matter of this poem explores themes of transience, intersection of life and death, and the fragile coexistence of human and natural worlds.
a loaf of discounted bread
stale & crumbly
resides in a brown paper bag
teetering
on a park bench
a finger of cool breath
_____nudges
____________the
________________bag
___________________towards
ground
pile of used cigarettes
gathered by
a trash
can
&
an
array
of greasy
fast food, styrofoam cups
a souring banana milkshake
punctured through
---a rotting apple
core
&
an
assemblage
of stale and wizened
McDonald's medium fries
family of pigeons
peck at brown paper
bag--
it topples over &
spills its guts
across
grass
a swan watches from a pond
--eyes peer--
from its snowy face
water cushions every ounce
of its body
caresses every single
feather
sky is a petri-dish
c r a m m e d
with scarlet c l o u d s
a young girl falls
as her size four sneaker
is caught
on a hidden tree root
swan chuckles
to itself
a college student bites
into a decorated
hot dog
condiments slip
his button-down
shirt &
a swan extends its wings
a platform for sun
as droplets of
crystalline water
sparkle off surface
of each
feather
"A Conversation with Aenesidemus"
all perceptions are relative
and interact
one upon another
take a coin
stand it vertical
spin it
gravity does that
it’s one way or the other
there is no in between
middle roads
even when you hold it
steady between your fingers
there is one side or the other
the middle exists
it stands for what its worth
for a short time
let go of the hold,
it wobbles and
topples over
and falls in line
one side or the other
eventually
choices are detours
you may take the high road
and one may take the low road
the road less traveled
too, converges,
where both high and low roads
eventually meet,
some say its complex
if you ask me,
designed,
even chaos has its place,
simple, neat
all perceptions are relative
and interact
upon another
truth,
he said,
varies infinitely
under circumstances
whose relative weight
cannot be accurately gauged
nor guaranteed
therefore, there is
no absolute knowledge
for everyone,
for all people
are brought up
with different beliefs
under different laws
under different
social conditions
yet, he says,
pyrrhonistically
speaking
all perceptions are relative
and interact
upon another
hiccups
contradictory
scrolls of tropai modes
the suspension
of judgment
it’s enough
to do your head in
all this walking on water
a real tonic
for those
experiencing cptsd
humour and
intelligencia
assists,
streaming
light through
jadeful windows
enter left screen
Belief
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
" AIR moves and winds forming WIND in different forms creating and controlling complexity
in climate."..... Poet
Wind
Air above Earth creating atmosphere
is invisible
but to be felt as it moves to form wind.
Tempted, teased by temperature of scorching sun heat
air flows in wind .
Weather wanders with ways of wind.
caring, controlling climate.
Wind when weary in slow speed, sad state
become bewildered Breeze bringing break.
Tremendous thrust of wind chasing crowd of clouds
shows source of strong Storm.
Whirling wind with vibrant violent vortex
turns to terrible Tornedo.
Destructive devastating dreadful Cyclone
disperses drowsy dusts drastically.
Its turbulence topples, tumbles tough tall trees.
Cyclone creates crude chaos calling calamity.
Wonderful wind possesses powerful pressure
emitting excellent Energy.
04\25\23
Writing Challenge with Words " W "
Second Place
Contest by Constance La France
Matsuo Basho: English translations of Haiku about winter, cold, rain, rains, frost, frosts, snow, snowflakes, wind, children, childhood, hail, hail stones, winter life.
Mushroom-gathering,
rushing to beat
cold evening rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ceremonious
hailstones
assail my hinoki hat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Caught hatless
in a winter shower?
So it goes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How many frosts
have tested
this pine’s mettle?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A winter drizzle
obscures
the field’s freshcut stubble.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The drinkers’ faces
paler than the snow:
a flash of lightning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The polished mirror
clear as snowflake petals.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The relentless wind
sharpens rocks and stones,
topples cedars.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cold fear
desolate as a deserted
frost-crusted shack.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How marvelous,
the winter snow
will return as rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Children come running,
dodging jewels:
hailstones.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At least the world has left,
unblemished and unbegrimed,
a single wooden bowl.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The bowl in question had been left by Rotsu in Osaka, and was returned undamaged seven years later. Rotsu was a Basho disciple.
The mud snail’s closed lid:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Inside my hut,
watching my own breath:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
So weary of Kyoto,
of the withering wind
and winter life.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I will soon be included
among the fortunate ones:
beyond winter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Three-Kolored Ku (Now 10)
1. bluebird’s ear’s to ground –
pink collared worm (casts below)
now won’t grace black hook
2. blue days can have clouds,
yellow sun bursts pierce grey clouds -
rainbow’s arc mocks smile?
3. girls pink with envy,
boys made blue by sexist roles -
‘his story’ just black
4. greyed out politics –
blue and red (views, poop) both suspect
in the fog of war
5. red sunsets portend
dawn’s blue skies to those caring –
black thoughts rarely float
6. pumpkin’s orange loves
tomato’s ripened redness – light’s
short, black cat nights stretch
7. fall topples most green,
revealing vibrant colors -
reds, yellows – drab wins
8. poetry’s greenest
when planted fields change color -
red blood fades to black
9. green planet’s seasons,
the ocean’s blue expanses,
the earth’s spine - beached white
10. time’s future’s more dark
man’s ‘black’ and ‘white’ aren’t colors (1)
Grace – red, blood-cured wood?
Krakatoa Kritic #007
October 29, 2022
Poet's Notes:
(1) Black is the absence of light, hence no color at all.
White is a combination of all colors, so no color also.
Apples, apricot, blackberries, biscuits
Children ! Cheese cake, donuts, dozen drumsticks
Enjoy eating : Food for friends - fellow , fun !
Got guava- grapes ? Have hotdog honey- bun.
Irish Ice-cream ! Jam - jelly , juice in jar.
Jack, Jill, Junior John , jubilant joker !
knife in kitchen : Kids in knickerbocker.
Lying lazy lovely little lizard :
Laughing loud lion -lioness - leopard.
Micro- macro- minimal-maximal
New- naval-nascent ! Oblate or oval ?
Ostrich offered old owl, olive - orange !
Proud peacock playing prompt pretty plumage.
Quiet queen : Rabbit runs, restless rapid.
Swift squirrel ! Soft snail showing so slow speed.
Top topples ! Uncle under umbrella !
Vintage vehicle visits village - villa.
Wow ! Wonderful ! World wide website was won.
Yellow yak yawned in zing at zig- zag zone .
A game of musical chairs has just begun in earnest. A pot and kettle band arrives
through the dining rooms’ French doors following the Valentine Queen. A putrid pink
flamingo with a croquet ball stuck in its beak settles it’s derrière onto a fine caramel
leather seat. His humor is short lived. A snort echoes from each of the six bullhorns
forming his head. “Got him that time, you really did, Matilda!” laughed Lucky, the
horn-backed chair. A single, rose-pink, button pops off Matilda’s back and lands in
the hatless brigands’ teapot, just as he is placing a silver tea ball inside. “Ou a le
petite fille?” Matilda groans. Around the far end of the table chasing a set of
disembodied eyes with a cat tail, a girl child runs screeching. “She looks familiar,
don’t she?” Windy whistles beneath the lacy tablecloth, tickling Mattie’s fancy. “Her
name ain’t Louise,” as with a plop, a brigand crushes Laddie’s rushes. The windsor
replies. “Geeeeeeeeez Louise!” the ladder-back mutters, between its back straps. A
top hat flies through the air and landed on the top knob of the lanky ladder backed
chair. The child righted herself, wiping her nose on the errant apron string. She lisps
through the spider web pattern of her seat. “Awww now what a shame,” Mary
whispers to Tex. The loose tails of her apron caught beneath Mary’s rocker and the
child tumbled face forward into a full cup of Assam tea. A girl child resplendent in
golden locks and white pinafore tore into the room planting herself on the caned
ladies rocker Mary. “Mon Dieu” She moans. “Ya’ll see that nasty monster splatter
chocolate icing on my skirt?” A knob kneed, potbellied prig, holding a cupcake,
shoves his way onto Matilda, the little ladies slipper chair. Tex the horned back chair
at the tables girdle chortles. “Do you know who’s been invited to this soiree?” The
rabbit topples over backward, his watch bashing his delicate pink nose. Windy
sneezes.“Aahhh chhhooo!” Tufts of fanny fur tickled between his spokes.
“Good golly Miss Molly,” shrieks Windy the windsor chair at the far end of the table,
as a wild-eyed, white rabbit with a gold watch plunked into his well-worn seat.
*Refer to "The Chairs Have it"
This poem can be read from the backwards too ;)