Best Folktale Poems
The First Texian Macabre Arena Ballad (The extended free-fallen edition)
In another life, is where I first saw your face!
One summer afternoon, lying wounded next to the dead
Unopened gun powder, mass destruction, a land of disgrace
A blood thirst battlefield is where I first saw your face
The sound of war, hidden behind bleeding hands
Crawlers, render their lives giving grace
Jaws of steel, broken, embracing, warm feelings
Summer rain, lungs filled with blood, one last post
Glorious by numbers, screaming blades
Gemstone in touch with the Holy Ghost
Soldiers come in a little close
Crawling, missing limbs,
Twisted nightmare with no ending
Macabre reminder, retracing the aroma of eternal life
Secrets buried like a treasure under walls of sudden death
Revolutionary tears found on a rusted Bowie knife
Lanterns, crackling against the dying wind
Dirt piles of crushed windpipes -- sudden death
Rummage like garbage, the dead Texian
A Falling Alamo Star, taking one last twinkle upon the sky
Forgotten Patriots, I can't remember the names
Written on walls, I can't remember the names
A folktale arena is where I first saw your face
Fairness of stuttered surrender slicing through iron brace
Crawling, with the hunger to live, a clean finish with grace
Exposing, scars needing mother's hands, mothers face
Across infested meadows, the aroma of burning skin
Distant, before Texas and her annexation,
Gruesome, before I lived, Texas and her mortal sin
I pledge, my love, the honor, a legion, I'm a full blown Texian
To Every Forgotten Texian Patriot----- We Win!
By: PD
STORIES TO LIVE BY
Oh! tell me tales that lift the spirit, energise the soul
Inspire a faith that gives the strength to drive toward a goal
Let not the story of the nation be a book of shame
That current generations may seek solace couched in blame
Though there may be dark chapters of our history beset
With episodes of evil we now view with deep regret
True annals yet tell stories of bold quests by those of daring
Who ventured forth with courage, thought of self-preserve foreswearing
To conquer craggy peak, cross frozen continent and sea
And some of grace faced tyranny, risked life to set us free
Let victimhood and pointed accusation not prevail
Nor guilt and self abasement write a gloomy new folktale
As every day a page is turned to quicken and advance
Our lives, should we not be the author of our own romance
Then one day hence we may recount in parable or fable
A legend that all may embrace to hearten and enable
BOLD
I made them majestic people from the land that formed.
Strength courageous in the way they have overcome.
Lack procrastination they continue their journey.
Today they are mystical when their history is the conversation.
Say what you want they will move forward.
Economical will be their glory.
Many suggest they will never be anything other than maritime people.
Life will show all they are the people from the sea.
They swam like whale and fought as a shark.
Whoever speak ill about them needs to shut-up.
This is their topography and their origin.
I wrote a verse of folktale and one to entice.
I told you to travel to their land and spend the night.
I said your endeavors are what you take on.
Spend more than one night stay all week long.
Go fishing, canoe, hunt deer, gather wood, and when night comes, light a fire and sleep good.
Defy your own knowledge of safe.
Be a daredevil take a risk.
When all is over and you ready to return home, reflect on the enrichment.
Be bold and beautiful!
Its time to tell the truth untold,
why do we have to fight?
must we shed blood?
ever wondered why able bodied men
go to war,and come back half,
or even dead,
the pity of war, the pity of war distilled
i was sworn in to handle the situation
am in the perfect position?
though courage was mine, and i had mystery
wisdom was mine, and i had mastery
days strolled,
weeks jogged,
months passed,
years flew,
finally it ended
yes!!! the war ended
oh no!!! i was attacked
i parried but i couldn't and i lost
when will this war end???
Now Let Us Sleep
THE ISLANDS OF SAN JUAN - TIMESHARE
[FOLKTALE]
IN A PORTION, A SPELL IS CASTE.
THE PEOPLE ARE CALLED NUGLUMMI.
IN A TRANCE STATE, THEY EAT HONEY AND BEES ARE FORM FROM THEIR EYES.
INSIGHTFULLY THEY BEGIN TO TRANSFORM THE TERRAIN AND ISLANDS FORMED FOR THE FREEDOM OF WOMAN AND MAN.
THE PEOPLE OF THE SEA ARE FREE IN THE PUGET SOUNDS.
DOUGLAS FIR GROWS TALL.
THE LANDSCAPE IS EVERGREEN AND THE LUMMIS ARE SALISAN.
DIALECTIC VERSIONS OF THIS LANGUAGE ARE POSSESSED.
THEIR LOGIC IS HOW THEY TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES.
*
THE PENINSULA THAT RESIDES IN THEIR TOPOGRAPHY IS VAST IN SHAPE AND FASHIONED BY THE UNINHABITED PORTAGE ISLAND WHERE THEIR RESERVED LAND NOW LAYS. LIKE MANY NORTHWEST COAST TRIBES, THEY GASTRONOMY CONSISTS OF THE COLLECTING OF SHELLFISH, GATHERING OF PLANTS SUCH AS CAMAS AND DIFFERENT SPECIES OF BERRIES, AND MOST IMPORTANT, AS SALMON FISHERMEN, THEY DEVELOPED “REEF NETTING.”
THEY ENJOY POTLATCH ON THE ORCAS ISLAND, SAN JUAN ISLAND, LUMMI ISLAND, FIDALGO ISLAND, PORTAGE ISLAND, AND NEAR POINT ROBERTS AND SANDY POINT.
IN ALL NUGLUMMI, WERE COMMERCIAL TO THEIR TRADE.
THEY GREATER HARVEST IS TODAY.
THE PADDLE TO LUMMI IS 68 CANOEING FAMILIES PADDLING HAND-MADE CANOES TO THE LUMMI RESERVATION FROM PARTS OF WASHINGTON STATE AND BRITISH COLUMBIA.
**
[TODAY]
THESE ISLANDS OF THE PUGET SOUNDS IS TOO FAR AWAY TO HEAR.
WITH A GRAIN OF SALT, THE SEA SWEEPS THE BEACH.
REMEMBRANCE IS IN WALKING SILENTLY AND HEARING THE TRIBAL SINGING IN SALISH.
THESE ISLANDS ARE A CASTAWAYS HAVEN – A HARBOR OF CONTENTMENT, WHICH LAY IN BRITISH COLUMBIA AND THE NORTHWESTERN UNITED STATES.
ROMANTIC ENDEAVORS ARE BASED ON YOUR IMAGINATION.
THESE ARE THE SAN JUAN ISLANDS OF WASHINGTON STATE.
MAY YOUR VISIT BE SAFE!
***
She was standing there lonely
That beautiful girl
Her shape was so lovely
Her silhouette could tell
She was made
Her mind-sizzling smile wasn’t a folktale
You could see that when you talk to her
Her body wasn’t for sell
She knew she was going somewhere
Her life was full of advice
And she refused none
She took every advice
And scrutinized them one by one
At thirty, she wanted marriage
And she did choose a good boy
A good boy with morals
Did she choose him at teen age?
That was only known by her boy
A wedding came her way
And people could say what they loved to say
Lobola was paid for her
And they all rejoiced
She respected her groom
Her groom also respected her
Because she had had learnt morals
Stay well Nelia
God loves you Nelia
Kind refreshing words,
like a soothing balm on wound,
make my long face beam.
sharp piercing words,
like great Esimuda's sword
twist my face to frown.
Esimuda was a legendary figure in my tribe's folktale. He was a warrior with a sharp two-edged sword.
Since it’s such a nice and beautiful day
why not become a piece of cloud myself
or a stream of water, and go.
If it happens to be a cloud,
looking down a side of a mountain floating in the middle of the air;
or if it happens to be water,
bathing in the basin under the shade on a foot of mountain at times
and merge in the plain drifting through the valleys.
How do I do manage today? Because it is raining all day.
Should I visit a tavern and have a drink to get mellow?
Or become a tree frog(1) and cry my eyes out?
If neither of them are feasible,
walk in the rain to find my place to stay and when my feet are mired,
just stand there to become a totem pole and chitchat with the rain
by a roadside stream.
Why the wind howls today?
Is it because Jonah incurred God’s anger?
Or because Shimchung(2) has to throw herself in the raging water?
Oh well, since no one knows where the wind comes from,
why not blown myself in the wind become a Manjang(3) and
visit the netherworld where Hades reigns.
1. Korean folktale Chonggeguri. Story of a disobedient tree frog.
2. Korean fairytale Shimchung-Jon. Story of a filial daughter Shimchung.
3. A streamer made with a piece of silk, cotton, or hemp cloth on which funeral ode is written. This streamer is carried by a person who goes before the colorfully decorated bier to let the people know that dead person is coming as well as to express the mourning for the dead in Korean traditional funeral procession.
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
I believe
I believe that true love will always prevail,
When soul mates reunite, it's much more than a folktale.
Once found, a love eternal that can never fail.
Chosen by angels before their birth.
Precious as jewels, an unfathomable worth.
Drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
Crossing time to meet again, our gift to reclaim.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine)
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logi, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
It was an old crow medicine show
At the border of Louisiana
I was looking east toward savannah
Caught a train out of Jackson
Now I’m stranded somewhere near Atlanta
Sing me asleep, in a midnight hour
Sing me away, like a folktale crier
Sing me asleep, on the back of the bus
Sing me away, you’re the only one I trust
Back in Kansas City
Lost my shadow on the rails
Found myself no pity
In the land of poverty tales
Vouching for a pass
Last stop for the Jefferson bus line
Bed time stories
Were nothing more than lies
Found a trail of tears
Collecting my wildflowers in spine
Sing me asleep, in a midnight hour
Sing me away, like a folktale crier
Sing me asleep, on the back of the bus
Sing me away, you’re the only one I trust
Heard the banjo playing
Missed the band wagon
Trying to hear
What the old man was saying
Heard the last call for supper
Persimmons unripe with a pucker
Learned the art of resilience
From a west bound trucker
"Tales of a no one"
It's about time we talk of ruins.
So, let us talk, for you never know,
How long ears of hope will remain receptive.
Your lips are missing, and your kisses fall,
Like ripe plums and tint my confession,
Like coffee stains with smell of rust.
Looking back, dreams had stories,
About laughters blooming in dews on trembling grass,
With roots growing into layers of blue skies.
That dark sweater you began knitting,
Lies lifeless by a woollen ball,
Like buried half of a rainbow.
My greys are silvery now, and my smile
Looks like a scar, but my heart
Keeps shredding dead skins.
Footprints covered by caddish shadows
Of hubristic tongues,
Never to be retraced, and
The wish to carry your whispers beyond life,
Scavenged by beaks of time,
Is nothing but a piece of
History's torn chorion.
Entangled in my pensive repentance,
Memory of a girl (assuming),
Whose playful steps ruefully erased
Even before she was assisted into the world,
Stares back from an obsolete painting.
I sense blood seething in my veins,
But with no ill-will.
If only i could stop this hour from passing away,
And touch life one more time,
Gently and wisely, perhaps sweet palpitations
Would be heard knocking from within.
Lying in the heap of fallen bricks
Of dilapidated castle of Eros,
Where, once upon a time,
Our romance was folktale for angels and fairies,
I'm supposed to be bleeding the high-noon sun
To feed yesterday's vampiric fleas.
My body no longer lives on bread and grains,
But on tears and prayers, and
Keeps on living, surprising the undertaker and
my foes,
Who begin to think
I am here to stay indefinitely.
So, I labour to hasten my swan song
To gladden those who want to witness my exit.
The yarn with which
I began weaving a flag,
Has been sold to brothels of politics,
Where patriotism is only a slang
In perorations of capricious pimps.
My nights are haunted by ghosts
Of betrayed slogans
I once coined on fisting graffiti.
Standing amidst graves of words
Spoken inconspicuously,
I see soldiers placing putrid shocks and
Ugly boots
On books strewn across the floor
Of my old school's library
Which is now a fortified barrack.
But when I see tombs sleeping like babies,
In quietness of a cemetery,
I beg you -
Don't let me die without a wound, and
Even if it is in pretensive nostalgia,
Bury me with bloodstained kiss.
A folktale
There is a small country sharing part of its border
to a giant country, both have been friends for
over 300 years during world war two they came
helped the small country to get rid of the enemy.
Then propaganda articles appeared in many papers
how bad the government in the big country was,
(Let us make it easy the small country we can call
Norway and big the country Russia) the Norwegian
took no notice, they visited Russia often to buy
vodka, cigarettes and other items that are expensive
in their little country; and some travelled to Moskva
which has a rich cultural heritage.
Then the Americans/NATO held a proxy war and
the American soldiers and tanks got in the way
of tour buses, needless to say, the soldiers were
confused that the people from the tiny country
we’re not afraid of the big bear this because of the
US combatants were victims of lying propaganda.
Well, the military nonsense ended their proxy war
the Norwegian continued to travel to Russia to do
their shopping and as always they were welcomed
and no one mentioned the silly manoeuvres by
the misguided military personnel were playing in the snow.
No man's too small to hoist a helping hand,
Nor any a deed too small if well-meant,
Nor a task too tough for a noble end,
Mind can if means can't make a mighty dent.
A journey of a daunting task off shore
Begins with but a single step forward,
‘Drop by drop filleth lakes’ is no vain lore,
An ounce of action… oft have we this heard.
Many a learned man knows this truth well,
But rather than help he spins hyper hypes.
Intention matters more, how a squirrel
Strove to earn mythical laurels and stripes,
So goes a tiny squirrel's tallest lore,
Silent did she work building a barrage—
An episode from an epic of yore,
So sang sage Valmiki of ancient age.
A folktale, an aside from Ramayana:
Rama's spouse abducted was to an isle—
Confined to a far off spot by Ravana,
That came camouflaged in a monk's fair guile.
When lured and mislead by a golden deer,
That too was the demon's bewitching guile,
In stealth when cried out, ‘O Lakshman, my dear',
And destiny unfolded in a while.
In Rama's voice the wily demon cried,
And Sita beseeched Lakshman, forcing him
To render help; what followed, a bad dream,
For, Ravan waited hiding in monk's hide.
The search began thence in woods and deep vales,
Hilly terrains, meadows and leas and dales,
And they came searching to where ends the land,
An ocean spread forth, looking like no friend.
Hanuman, Rama's key aid, a legend,
To whom no task too big was, such was he,
Then volunteered to leap across the land
To luring Lanka, a land across sea.
And returned soon with hopeful but sad tale:
Captive Sita’s safe in Ravan's red hands,
Who, in no mood peace parleys to avail,
Oh had to be dealt with on Lankan sands.
________________________________________
Originally Ramayana was written in Sanskrit by Valmiki, a sage who was a fierce bandit in his early life.
Epic | 06.04.13 |
Continued in Part II