Long Tot Poems
Long Tot Poems. Below are the most popular long Tot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tot poems by poem length and keyword.
Random chain of events
preceded occurrence re:
guarding existence of me
interminable fits and starts
concerning self destruction
inherent within one measly
self important species.
Yours truly synonymous
with any chance reader
(of course inclusive those
untold past multitudes,
who trod upon this oblate
spheroid preceding one
anonymous groveling,
middling sniveling modest
*****sapien) pursuant
upon unknown destination
giving contemplative,
introspective, speculative...
pause every now and again,
asper bajillion prior
bipedal hominids, whose
individual deliberate or
random natural biological
impulses wrought sons
and/or daughters, whose
subsequent call, sans their
wild procreative proclivities
unwittingly begat the
unique chromosomal
combinations inscribed genes
imbuing each of us with
transient occupancy to revel,
relish, reckon very finite
number of orbitz around
nearest star, how longevity
(till mortality – leisurely
and/or vocationally)
expended, yet anatomically,
biochemically, physiologically...
linkedin with avast
gamut incorporating
unknowable determinants sole
fully cobbling wide, whirled
webbing, (albeit skein
microscopic) comprising
resultant Deoxyribonucleic
amalgamations, combinations,
emulations...throughout
untold generations eventually
giving (swell pregnant)
rise to healthy progeny
predicated on an uneventful
tragic mishap in utero
preceding parturition, which
miraculous seminal fertilization
regarding series of
fortunate events delineating
quintessentially strapping
robust tot destined (years later)
to continue human
species, thus I ponder
tremendous steep odds (analogous
to drawing winning lottery
ticket), when reproductive
processes diploid propagating
one after another ongoing
generation, yet in retrospect
every cellular T-Mobile
chance coupling attendant on
haphazard spontaneous
buzzfeeding circumstances
promulgating prolific primal
precedents begetting each
individual necessitating tenuous
fluke (worm hungers) engaging,
engendering, engineering...
(similar to science experiment)
endowing penultimate on the fly
fusion between two haploid cells
impossible to explain convincingly,
(asper in my mind) the notion
predestination intervenes
likened to invisible hand.
(Please read part 1 first or this will make no sense)
To the scientist’s dismay, pressing the cancel button was ineffective. The plunge into his past continued inexorably. It, however, was not without its benefits. Henry’s skin became supple and his muscles bulged as in his youth. His hair returned to the light brown that he hadn’t seen in decades. For the first time in decades, Henry felt, not just okay, but good and joyous in his renewed youth. He decided to stop his slide into the past at about age twenty when he would have his degrees and could live his career over again. If his “other self” was there, Henry would assume a new identity and make a whole different life for himself. It was an unprecedented opportunity and he meant to make the most of it.
Near his birthday in the year 1970, Henry hopefully pressed the cancel button and was rewarded with a loud click. But instead of gliding to a stop, the time machine accelerated in its journey into the past. Henry experienced the hormonal rush of puberty and felt adolescent acne break out on his face. Within minutes, a reverse growth spurt cut his height by several inches. Soon, he was a young child at play, oblivious to the danger of his situation. The year 1950 saw a tot and then a cooing baby. When August 8th passed, the infant suddenly had an umbilical cord attached to a nonfunctioning placenta. Its two umbilical arteries throbbed desperately, but the return blood through the umbilical vein was not oxygenated, nor did it contain essential nutrients.
Membranes enveloped the devolving Henry who now had the “old man” appearance of a fetus. Then he became a blastocyst, ready for implantation in a nonexistent uterine endometrium. Within seconds he regressed to gastrula, blastula and then the berry-like ball of cells called morula. Like some weird countdown, he became 64, 32, 16, 8, 4, 2 cells and then a zygote.
The paternal half of Henry’s chromosomes disappeared next, leaving only an ovum ready for fertilization. Even that became an oocyte needing to complete meiosis before it vanished entirely in the immature ovary of Henry’s infant mother.
Henry Higgins, born August 8, 1950 and died November 8, 1949, physicist and time traveler is missing forever.
There’s something ornately comforting, in a downpour of a day’s healthy rain
So replenishing, cleansing, as renewing, the ultimate giver to feed life’s grain
As standing undercover feeling the smaller flecks of the rain against your skin
With the thrashing of rain against the window panes, creating a deafening din
Each drop, creating rivulets that chase each other down, onto the window sill
There pausing, but, for a second in pools before they take their final overspill
God’s creatures sensing mother’s nature ungodly call find refuge in their lairs
Others finding cover from the torrents of rain that caught them, so unawares
Birds tuck their heads away, wait on the downpour of rain to end, its final fall
In this time just birds of silence, you seldom hear them making their bird call
Within the marble halls of mansions, walls glisten with dancing shades of hue
Gun dogs put out of work lie waiting for their prize, there’s nowt’ they can do
Children sit upon window seats watching as the rivulets fall upon each a wish
Their little fingers pressed upon the window pane giving each rivulet a squish
But; nothing can prevent nature’s raindrops falling, so they just watch in awe
Cats on their hind legs each trying to catch the rivulets drops with their paws
There is more than a sense of security, in this day’s healthy downpour of rain
Mother makes hot cups of juice, just in case, from a cold, we all need to feign
Grandfather sits very staunchly before the fire in his armchair made so grand
A tot of whiskey just for good measure, for medical purposes you understand
While dear Grandma is knitting away, totally in tune to the rhythm of the rain
In the hallway standing there idle rests father’s ebony and ivory walking cane
Who has now took himself into his study, sits to reminisce and to have a cigar
It saved just for such a day resting in its lacquered pigmented box of cinnabar
Cooks busy themselves in the kitchen making all the family their evening meal
Steam rising from the cooking onto the windows panes, does the rain conceal
Until the steam itself creates rivulets of their own, and the outside is revealed
In doing so, makes the clarity of the day’s rain even more so magically surreal
Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavens frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavenly frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.
When I think back on the tattered pages of my life, I find so much sadness and
sorrow. But there was a time way back when life was truly perfect, before Susan
was killed by a truck walking home from school one winter day. She was six and I
was four and we were sisters who were loved very deeply. Our parents were
hardworking and wonderful to us. But that day changed everything, nothing was
ever the same.
I can remember quite far back, it seems amazing that I can recall being fed in a
high chair, the train was coming and I had to open my mouth. I can still hear
mother laughing when I got food all over my face. She liked to dress the two of us
like twins. I was big for my age and Susan was small for hers. We were adorable,
everyone said so. Many days we went for walks around the neighbourhood and
sometimes we played in this beautiful wooded park that had a pond with ducks
and swans. I remember we would put our feet in the cold water and shriek our joy.
Sometimes we went to the beach dressed in our blue satin swimsuits and
everyone said we were sweet with our shiny hair and of course, we adored the
attention. I recall going to a fair with games and rides. We had ice-cream and
candy floss and went on amusement rides. We especially loved the ponies. Once I
was photographed by the local newspaper with the caption, "tot enjoys the fair," I
still have that photo of me with a big candy floss in my face.
We had dolls and teddy bears and grandma gave us a real tea pot and cups to
to use for our tea parties in the back yard, she even made us peanut butter
cookies, oh, it was lovely. Dad made us a little table with two chairs and a cupboard
for our dishes. We would dress up in grandma's old hats and stuff and even invited
the cat, it is a beautiful memory. Then Susan died and I had two of everything
like clothes, teddy bears, dolls and toys. Life was never the same.
_____________________________
March 31, 2015
Poetry/Prose/The Beautiful Days
Copyright Protected, ID 03-658-687-31
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, Golden Days,
sponsor, Rob Carmack, Judged 04/2015
10th Place
When Poetry Soup becomes infested with partisan rubbish,
It will be difficult for liberal, creative poets, like me to flourish
Who seek a safe place away from the maddening ignorance
Of those people who continually despise political difference
For those who are angry and want to say the nastiest things
Do you have any idea what hurt your insatiable blather brings?
For some who don’t consider me a red-blooded American patriot,
I fought for the U.S. of A. in uniform when you were still just a tot!
I would rather die on the altar of honor than continually be castigated
By followers of a “wannabe” dictator who every day prevaricated
And sought to drag our country down into the muck and mire
Continues, to this day, stoking his sycophants’ hatred with fire.
Selecting a political putdown of President Joseph Biden for Poem of the Day
Was surely inappropriate if Poetry Soup administrators wish to say
The site maintains neutrality when it comes to political discourse
It encouraged poets, in their remarks, to choose up sides, of course
Anger and vitriol hurled toward us who are of more left-leaning mind
Will likely now become commonplace for those who are not so inclined.
Frankly, I despise clicking on a poem I think will be worth reading
Only to find, instead, an anti-American tirade of invective leading
To put-downs against our president, the vice-president, and first lady
Half-truths and conspiracy theories that, for the most part, are shady
If you are unhappy with the free and fair election that turned out your man
Then, every chance you get, go vote and change the system, if you can!
Our country is not, I think we’d all agree, a perfect democracy
We have lots of problems and crises – that's plain to see, but,
We now have a leader who cares about doing what is right
A man, who in short-order, is ready, committed, and willing to fight.
I have travelled the world over, north and south, east and west
Freedom to flourish in America is head and shoulders above the rest!
Written: April 4, 2021 (edited)
Awarded Poem of the Day on Poetry Soup
April 5, 2021
#38 on Best New Poems on Poetry Soup
April 6, 2021
Do you think you'd be happy if there were no God?
Well, I wonder if that could be true?
It would seem to suggest that your life has no meaning,
If so, are you sure, that is OK with you?
Though simplicity’s something that I give high praise,
Does the absence of God bring it on?
And a universe singing, “I’M ALPHA, OMEGA,”
Make you want to dance, exercise your baton?
On one hand, there’s the universe, other hand’s God,
Is this where we bring logic to bear?
And in choosing a steady state, or a creator,
Do questions remaining just vanish from care?
I won’t try to deny it; the Bible sounds strict,
But then where it counts most, Good Book’s kind,
Christ says “My yoke is easy” and “Grace is salvation,
Is Zoloft the solace that you have in mind?
I say these two positions rest wholly on faith,
So it seems just one side has a prayer,
The Agnostic is only one seen using logic
But tempted toward laziness in this affair.
Seems a Christian and Atheist worship same God,
Their God’s FAITH (neither one has a clue)!
So then where is FAITH’s virtue “God” finds so appealing?
It’s door to your heart, though it’s frozen dark blue!
Tell me if God exists, is it smart to play dumb?
You could join Pascal’s club and just bet!
But then God (if He’s God) would divine you are hedging,
And likely repelled by your playing coquette!
If my thinking is right, then Agnostics aren’t safe,
Christ likes souls either cold or quite hot,
It’s lost souls who are lukewarm, that bad taste embody,
They rarely attract like a child or a tot.
Though space-time may contain the truth, can it be true,
If creator, how could it be pure?
It is probably best if you rise to occasion
And hope God is real though you cannot be sure.
Who can prove with no doubt that God doesn’t exist?
How could space-time exist with no plan?
To find joy without God feels quite oxymoronic
If truth is not real, how could joy speak to man?
Both our postulates have the same fault it would seem,
Who’s the author of space-time or God,
And what entity gave rise to all we encounter?
I’d swear it's not me! (But I’ve always been odd.)
Brian Johnston
April 6, 2017
"I never travel without my diary - One should have something sensational to read"
...Oscar Wilde, 1891
30 May 48: I graduated from high school today now thank God I'm free!
No more doggone homework, perplexing algebra or teachers bugging me!
7 Jul 48: Enlisted in the Air Force today! Good Lord! What have I done!
The sarge said, "Forget Mom, Dad and Susie Q! You're now mine, my son!"
21 Oct 48: Finished basic training today with about a hundred other guys.
I thought it'd be more like a Boy Scout Camp! Boy, was I in for a surprise!
15 Feb 49: Graduated tech school at Fort Warren and sent to the Bermuda Isles.
Quite a change for a country boy! Water, water everywhere for miles and miles!
12 Oct 52: Was married tonight at Perrin AFB with Vera as my beautiful bride!
She was very pert and calm, but diary, I was somewhat nervous I must confide!
23 Aug 54: Our family grew by one today! Leanna, a little girl, my fondest wish!
She was measured by a nurse holding her by the heels! Just like measuring a fish!
15 Aug 55: Boarded a crowded troopship in New York and set sail for Morocco.
Was beset with a bit of mal de mer since the ship was wallowing to and fro!
17 Oct 57: Our little 'arab' Leslie was born today near Casablanca! What a dolly!
She has a hearty set of lungs, but that's OK, she's a healthy little dude, by golly!
11 Jan 68: Son Mark was born at the Air Force Academy and seemed a healthy tot!
9 Apr 68: Alas, we buried Mark today at Evergreen. Boy, do we miss him a lot!
24 Jun 71: My family and I arrived in Tokyo, Japan, to begin our three-year tour!
Japanese is foreign! For "good morning" do I say, "ohio gazamus" or "bon jour?"
1 May 74: Chaplain Porter notified me that I had been promoted to Chief!
Happy day, dear diary! I've reached the highest rank! What a blessed relief!
1 Aug 78: I retired today at Offutt AFB, after 30 wonderful years of service!
After wearing the 'blue suit' all those years, wearing civvies makes me nervous!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 3 in Constance La France's "The Diary" Contest - April 2011
I met a little man up on The Green
On New Year’s Eve, and he was two foot two
With quite the reddest nose I’ve ever seen
And eyes as bright as summer skies are blue
‘What brings you here?’ I said. He laughed and lit
A pipe, inhaled a lot and blew a cloud
Of smoke that drifted up where pigeons sit
Up high between the Christmas Lights. ‘I’m proud
To say that I’m a Moonraker’ he said
‘And every New Year’s Eve I come and chat
To ducks, and to the drunks, and to the dead
And listen to the bells. Look, there’s a bat!’
I looked and so there was. ‘You’re very small’
I said. ‘Aye, so I am’ he said, ‘but wise
And being small means not so far to fall’
He winked at me. A twinkle in his eyes
Danced like a firefly. ‘And very old’
I said. ‘Aye, that as well’ he said, ‘but not
So old and bitter that my heart is cold’
He offered me his hip flask. ‘Have a tot’
‘I don’t’ I said, ‘but thank you.’ ‘Look, a cheese!’
He pointed. ‘In the water!’ ‘Isn’t that
The moon?’ I said. He laughed. A little breeze
Danced light across the Crammer and his hat
Fell off. He didn’t care. We watched it sink
Together as he sank another dram
Of moonshine. ‘Sure you didn’t want a drink?’
‘As eggs is eggs’ I said, ‘although I am
A little curious.’ ‘You wonder why
I’m here?’ ‘I do.’ ‘One question’s all you get’
‘One question?’ ‘Yes. Like why do people die
Why birds at all, or why is water wet?’
I asked him about twenty twenty one
He thought a moment. ‘Doesn’t do to be
Too curious’ he said. ‘Beneath the sun
Is nothing new. You’ll have to wait and see’
‘That’s it?’ ‘It is’ he chuckled. Midnight struck
St. James’s bells, and ‘Look!’ and then a swan
Did swim across the moon and then, ‘Good luck!’
He cried, and in a puff of smoke, was gone
I sat there for a bit. A little weird
But then it is Devizes. Nothing new
He came along, and then he disappeared
As all the years are predisposed to do
Then I went home to bed. And when I woke
The sun was up, I made a cup of tea
And wrote down every word that he had spoke
‘Is nothing new. You’ll have to wait and see...’
© Gail Foster 30th December 2020
ROCKING
———————————-
Perhaps near you, too? Or
You may have a memory
Of a one separate soul
To the side —
Young and staring ahead,
Or an elderly life
Over by the windowed wall,
Just beyond the group —
Rocking
…Not to any evident music; nor
In a chair made for rocking; or, perhaps,
Out on a porch’s wooden step; or maybe
Sitting cross-legged nearby on the floor;
Or away, almost unseen
In a field of tall grass graced with sun;
Rocking
Immediately there on the edge
Of a kitchen chair, rocking
As constantly as breathing
In and out…
Not listening to the conversation?
Thus, not caring, it seems, about us!
Going on, on, gathering company
From the tempo of rocking
An interior transport
To some degree of comfort, which
(If we knew) we might
Envy…
But!
(How, surely…impolite!)
Right there! In our including
Space, so out of place!
As maddening as
someone standing
To crayon doodles
On the chapel wall!
Recalling rocking:
The bright, lovely girl who did this
Rocking, everywhere, even
With her thumb in her mouth,
Up to age 12. Oh, my!
While adults kept snapping,
“You’re not a Tot! Stop it!”
At her from outside the motion
Of her inner pendulum,
In the rhythm of
The seeking and keeping
Peace…The ebbing and flowing of
Peace…balancing gravity
With hip-tipping inertia
That keeps the rocking working
On the aching, the trials, the noise…
Rocking, so like
Swimming the channel distance
Of the hours spent between
Here and There. Of night. Of day.
Yet, to keep the dreams pouring forth
…Rolling in while even awake…
To refresh
As with the quenching
Power of Eucharistic wine
For heaven’s flights within.
Rocking centers the pulse;
Clears thought;
Calls on the soul; and may
Find life inside lulling,
To sing then string
All the collected moments into
A crystal necklace of
Too rare calm.
———————————————————-
12/12/21. (c) sally young Eslinger
Thanks be to God!