Best Folklore Poems
When Filey's rebel rousing rats,
Were terrorising local cats,
Who would not engage in rodent wars
Refusing even, to go outdoors.
No match for rats, that scavenge scraps,
Instead they sat on old maids laps.
While alley cats who acted tough,
Those rabid rats ignored their bluff.
Until George Burton's name, became folklore
When he destroyed those vermin, by the score.
And with his most aggressive stance,
Those rodents simply, never had a chance.
Then he would say, when quite certain.
Another one's down, it's gone for a Burton.
1/ 10/ 2022.
This is a rather whimsical tribute to the pest controller
George Burton. Who helped the town of Filey North Yorkshire
to maintain health and safety. As a request from his granddaughter.
2 Peter 1:16 (KJV) “For we have not followed cunningly devised fables, when we made known unto you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but were eyewitnesses of his majesty.”
If I spoke of all the sins I’ve known,
I’d leave my fears with the love He’s grown,
When He saved me – yes, saved my soul,
That was the day that He made me whole.
If I spoke of all the doubts I’ve heard,
I’d let the stillness sing like a songbird,
Resting in the wings that seem to praise,
With a joy that remembers to amaze.
If I spoke of all the tears that I’ve cried,
I’d consider all the times when I’d backslide,
Reminding myself that grace keeps me sure,
Without a doubt, His light and love will endure.
If I spoke of the ways life seems to let me down,
I’d wonder why He didn’t just let me drown,
There isn’t clear reason for His salvation plan,
Other than He’s been here since the world began.
If I spoke of the challenges I’ve faced in life,
I’d realize that I’ve been opposed by the darkest strife,
But He knew me as the one who’d believe His love,
It came from the Creator who lives in heaven above.
If I spoke of the music that carries me through the pain,
I’d lack the words, the lyrics, to show you He will reign,
The very reason that I love when everyone says to hate,
The same reason I live a life of hope, without sin’s heavy weight.
If I spoke of the gentle faith that He encouraged inside me,
I’d be sure to reveal His kindness, grace and you’d surely agree…
With love this beautiful and true, there is only One to adore,
It is Jesus, the Christ, who is the only truth – not merely folklore.
They say you fear what you know
But you really fear what you don't know
Or that's how the saying goes
Legend has it that banana and milk can give man a best friend
Feed it and it will serve you to the end
All its power and prowess they will lend
Betray it and they won't be any room for to mend
It could be a gift from above or below send
Baccoo moves in the night hiding in plain sight
Big eye's long arms, legs and half your height
These creatures could give you a fright
Or sometimes help out when things aren't right
But you can never keep darkness in light
Mama always say don't pick up bottle from sea side
Cause anything could be inside
Especially if washed up by tide
But hard ears pickney don't know how to abide
For they don't know the world is wide
History of folklore in T & T
Influence by West African and Creole Spirituality
Narrated and told around kerosene lamps, our folklore
Characters, deities in ancient tribes before
Legend and stories fused with intricate mythology
Still inhabit conscious vulnerability
PAPA BOIS, the protector of forest, master of animal
DOUEN, child like entity lure children into the supernatural
LA DIABLESSE, the seductress temptress symbol of lust
MAMA D’LEAU the river fairy-maid with long hair, beautiful and lush
Bloodsucking ball of fire SOUCOYANT
Shape changing LAGAHOO phenomenon
Mischievous trouble makers are JUMBIES
Night roaming Ghost afraid of salt, called DUPPIES
The Folkloric tradition preserved by our ancestors
Be it your imagination of half man-half bird atop a car
We’ll always hear stories of all kinds of Folklore and folktale
La! La! La!
©Copyright February 25, 2019 by Brian Pierre-Alexander
© All Rights Reserved
Don't eat the bear
and the bear won't eat you
Don't stomp on flowers
Don't spit on the dew
If you are a bad person
your life will worsen
But if you are good
then there's no need for cursin'
Yoi yoi la la la la yoi yoi la.
Reflected in the pellucid ripples
That thither upon the welcoming shore;
The majestic angel oak unruffled beauty tickles
The water's edge draped in orange honey ore.
Whose boughs dost bend like elbows on its shore,
To all who wilt hark to its chants and tales,
Of ghosts of former slaves
Appearing as angels around its feet.
Like gossamer threads dulcet whispers
Waver trailing off on the back of the wind as it meets.
2/29/2020
Gif #1
Under Free Verse since all words do not rhyme
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angel_Oak
The oak derives its name from the estate of Justus Angel and his wife, Martha Waight Tucker Angel.[6] Local folklore tells stories of ghosts of former slaves appearing as angels around the tree.
pine cone in the ground
one day a tree will grow there
will tell many tales
Mountains rise far above valleys below
As shadows morph into morning's hued light
Celestial shades cause mountains to glow.
Out of marauding mist birds soon take flight.
Menehune folk are known to abide
In mountain ranges or forests, they keep
Away from all humans, they seek to hide,
Live off 'aina with bananas they reap.
A divine essence floats through tropic air.
Hawaiian night marchers of past up high
Still chant along cliffs with torches, beware
To let them be if you don't want to die.
Most kama'ainas respect island lore
With many legends they tend to adore.
5-14-19
*Menehune are a dwarf people in Hawaiian tradition who live in the mountains, deep forests and hidden valleys of the Hawaiian Islands, far from the eyes of normal humans. The Menehune were said to be craftspeople. Legends say that the Menehune built temples (heiau), fishponds, roads, canoes, and houses.
*Hawaiian Night Marchers:
According to Hawaiian legend, night marchers (huaka‘i po in Hawaiian) are ghosts of ancient warriors. They supposedly roam large sections of the island chain, and can be seen by groups of torches.
What to do when happening upon a night march in progress? The ghostly procession must never be interrupted. Legend has it that resting your eyes upon the Night Marchers could signal a grim fate for the perpetrator, a friend or relative, so witnesses are urged to crouch low to the ground, "play dead" and avert the eyes. Any sound or movement could invite a Night Marcher's deadly glance. These Night Marchers are set diligently upon their destination and are not considered spirits that will deviate from their path to haunt humans nearby.
*kama'ainas are Hawaiian native born equivalent to kama child, person + 'aina land, earth
* 'aina land, earth
Tír na nÓg - A Tragic Epic Saga
ye hear, of a leprechaun and a unicorn who met in a field’s corner
a he and she, she killed by a tree, when it fell he couldn’t warn her
https://allpoetry.com/group/show/33202-Eastern%20Slavic%20Folklore%20Poet
...For years they both lived there
in the crisp mountain air,
the rolling ridges were their home,
it was not written down,
so what pleasures they found
are only to history known.
Come several years later
word spread of some raiders
attacking the valley for cows,
some claimed that Winisook
from their stocks freely took,
they had to move and do it now.
They formed up a posse
with one Joseph Bundy,
out seeing to avenge his shame,
they pursued the rogue braves,
and as they made their way
in the mountains Winisook was found.
No one could say if he
was the thief they did seek,
but nobody cared all that much.
Bundy saw his rival,
felt his anger in full,
drew his gun to end the man’s luck.
Bundy said, “I must civilize you
by letting daylight into your heart!”
Bundy then took aim, sought to bury his shame,
fired, and the bullet struck hard.
He fell against a tree,
and when his wife did seek
she found him dead, sitting upright,
though the loss truly burned,
she refused to return,
would never more be Bundy’s wife.
By the sight where he died
a new lodge did arise,
she would never be far from his grave,
and with Winisook’s kids
that is just what she did,
and lived there the rest of her days.
They say that tree remained
to speak of this great pain,
right into the last century,
but a railroad came by,
built an embankment high,
now it rests in the earth quietly.
Now the tale is near lost,
three long centuries off,
forgotten except for place names,
like Big Indian town,
the Winisook Lake grounds,
and folklore to speak of their fame.
[paraphrase of a Svan folk song]
Tamar's mother said, "Tamar,
You were born fully grown.
Child, I saw you in a dream
I looked into the starlit sky and saw
That you were the village
And you were the world."
Good Goddess Bona Dea
We celebrate Your rites
Female only festivals.
All men are out of sight.
You safeguard our fertility
As we worship at your feet
With flowers, wine and vine leaves
And a serpent, when we meet.
So Bona Dea praise you.
Give us fruitfulness in birth.
Empower us to be feminine
And champion our worth
The woodland beckons me, calls me within
It's musical chorus can be barely heard
A mystical presence, a tone prevails in the wind
I stumble on wild thickets on the ground
Absent of pathways, thorny brambles instead
Moving along on foot, not easy I have found
Wild sumac, and aggressive vines grows thickly here
But this mysterious music draws me further in
These woods are an impossible hike I fear
Pulling twigs from my hair, I stare
A clearing, moss so deep that feet disappear
In the dappled light dust sparkles are seen in the air
Rapid movements I see to my right
The music is stilled, not a sound except
Quick tiny footsteps taking flight
Folklore of elusive music-playing imps
Vanish magically leaving dust sparkles in the air
Only a brief glimpse I saw of these tiny scamps
A faint single note played, I thought I heard
In a meadow lush and green,
by a lake grand as a sea,
there once was a lonely house
small and brown.
Inside it someone would wait
for a man who went away,
a man who was long ago
in the ground.
It was here the two would meet
and exchange words tenderly,
until the day he went off
to fight Rebs.
The first months the letters came,
after that she’d wait in vain,
folks on that lake all said that
he was dead.
But no body was returned,
so the young woman held firm,
and would not leave that place on
Champlain’s shore.
So she built a rugged shack,
every nicety she lacked,
and she would not leave the spot
ever more.
None could make her see the sense,
and she kept that hovel hence,
folks would bring her food so
she’d not starve.
She’d spend hours on the sand,
waiting for her missing man,
with an empty stare that made
folks alarmed.
They would leave her their alone,
and go home and hug their own,
thanking God that they knew naught
such hard tears.
As the decades rolled on past,
and trees grew up through the grass,
her hair and face were weathered
by the years.
Then one bright morning in May
a young girl did pass that way,
saw two people dancing she
did not know.
They were young and full of life,
dressed like a new man and wife,
in a sprint to the village
she did go.
When the elders all came out,
the stench there left them no doubt,
the woman had been dead for at
least a week.
Then just buried her outside,
they all shook their heads and sighed,
no one remained to even
stand and speak.
The hovel was quickly burned,
into memory it turned,
but folks still see two souls dance
by the lake.
Perhaps it’s a trick of light,
or things finally are right,
and God has seen to fix a
great mistake.