Best Folktales Poems
But wherever you are, I no longer want to be:
for you are thunderstruck moonlight,
and I am a scarred sunset ~ a secret in saffron,
melting into the myth that floats forever,
within silenced dunes of scorpion stones,
where the cryptic coldness of sand feels like~
Cupid’s daggers piercing through
my aching skin and bones.
Frost-kissed vines wrap around
my wintry heart,
screaming for a sacred release
from the tethered torment
of satanic sapphires,
breathing within the haunted caves
of unending nightmares ~
and the twilight that wanes
behind flatlined promises.
Tonight, I feel like arrows of angst,
ricocheting within these woeful walls
of my melancholic mausoleum,
mirroring the heat of a burning breeze ~
like an epitaph lost in the sweltering air.
The clover of golden green glimmers,
like fireflies around my wrists,
luring distant ravens,
croaking above paralyzed dreams,
to untangle the crooked lines of lies,
crawling within clouds of comfort,
oblivious to Lilith’s serpent slithering
around my fragile feet in slow cadence,
pushing me to the darker dusks
drawn above the prying
valley of putrid prunes,
where these wistful musings
will remain as mere voiceless ashes,
cremated in vain,
with flames of forgotten folktales
echoing as faded music within a glass urn.
So, if tomorrow I’m gone, remember me ~
I still breathe silver snippets of hope,
a frozen quiescence,
etched in seven arcs of stardust,
longing to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps as the last verse of your poem,
or could I be the lone rose,
forever thriving in the galactic gardens of love,
where hate and greed, tangled in
jinxed jewels,
dissolve into nothingness ~
like rusted ribbons of the crestfallen lunar.
I hope lilacs and lavenders will bloom
in hypnotic hues, to calm raging rivers flowing
within the arctic arteries of a dark poet,
longing for a home
away from hellish hands,
so I can serenade songs of survival
and rhapsodies of resilience,
while watching every tear I’ve shed
crystallize into pearls and diamonds,
like born-again stars in violet skies.
If tomorrow never comes
my heart will be kept in your hands
you remember me when sword is seen by
my words will never lie like an eunuch wind
i tried hard to discard those ugly image of war from my heart
once and more, another image came to me
raw and shocking, causing me to flush and bite my lips
and i thought how cruel life could be.
how heartless and uncaring nature treat me
rivers of darkness, i swam in pains
as the battle line is drawn ahead of me
i want you to know how much i love you
have no doubt in your humble heart if you see me no more
i work in shield, against the charnel house
memories that threatened to engulf me
and i could not shake free from the cold hands of the past
let my image be caved in your heart
down on the alley are more good memories kept behind
that would shield you for ever
change has not come yet
to this part where life is a race
in which the strong trample the weak
remember my wills written in the wall
sound of my music flowing in your veins
down the river band behind the iroko
i tossed the bed of roses you gave me
although they seems stale but stagnant they stood
waiting for the remarkable day to come.
let my feelings and emotions remains not silent
welcome charity in sound mind
orphans and the homeless forget not
feat not alone in my wealth
least you become miserable
say me well to Michael
the son of short Ogbu Efi
we have known each other since ages
climbing hills and trees
take care of our children
wait no longer
teach them the myth and the culture of our kindred
and those folktales mother told us
tales of their father's tribulations, forget not.
this lonely road i walk
fighting for my country
the green leaves howl in tears as i trampled on them
in anger
i wear courage like a shield
attacking the enemies in the battle field so wide
thousands are slain and millions held captive
no retreat no surrender
my hands are stained with innocent blood
as i shrouded in mystery
know you that the love i gave
would for ever last if tomorrow never comes.
The Maiden of Carbury Hill
I remember a story told of a red-haired girl who never grew old,
who died when there came a great famine.
In one pale hand she owned a sheep's knucklebone,
the other a sprig of winter jasmine.
Though her kin all left for distant shores she still lies in repose,
near the ruins of Carbury castle in Ireland.
Irish lore has it written that the lass was once smitten,
with a young lad who went off to war and then died in.
Alas, it's been long that she's been dead and gone,
listen.., you can still hear her mournful tune.
She sings when gales blow near two barrows of old,
o'er the green heath nestled 'neath Carraigdhoun.
Crestfallen, he sails through still waters where dwells, Kilcullen's lost daughters,
well preserved in the dark peat bog of Carbury.
Be careful where your feet fall lest you join them in the deep halls,
where the lost maidens of Own na Buidhe lie buried.
With his back lying on a torn mat
Consuming the thoughts of tomorrow
Gazing at its fruit
Heavy was the mind to lift
His heart burned in sorrow
Darkness took over the light
How it would be for the tender souls?
How they wished to remove the yoke
Orphanage was not a joke
So interesting were the nights
The nights of folktales
Tears we could shade in dreams
The sober minds conquered
conquered with complicated dreams
A hard morning to believe
With a darkest shadow
What a sorrow departure he had
Never to return
Mother heaven , earth
Men cut off the navel-string
heaven soared up high
(Inspired by ancient Indian Legends and folktales)
If you were an animal
I could summon the entire village
On the hunt for you we could be
Only if you were the forest
I could set you on a terrible flame
You are something unseen
Where you are I can’t get hold of you
Neither can my ears enjoy you whispering
You silently tiptoe
Among us the standing pillar you snatch
Like bird picking grains
You turn villages into deserts
Only if you could be overcomed
Forever we could enjoy grandpa’s folktales
Like a bright flower in the rising sun
Our sisters’ shinning was to be everlasting
But when will your hungry stomach be full
When will you fully quench your thirst?
For how long will you be in merciless theft?
Till when will the river flooding down our face stop?
You have made me an orphan
Cause of you am widowed
Why did you chose to make me homeless
From my side you took her now am hopeless
With your hardened heart
My face is covered with tears
Cliché’
"Nothing comes to a sleeper but a dream", While I slept I tried to figure out how "death looked eating a soda cracker". It's very poetic yet makes no sense. No one stops to think things through; People just say things because someone said it to them.
Cliche's are fun -Some over used - Some have gotten " lost in the sauce " but they make a powerful direct point with fewer words.
I believe I hated it when I was told that "you don't believe fat meat is greasy" Well, people hated to answer questions back then and when I’d ask them to prove what they were stating they would say the “proof is in the pudding” -"Yeah right"...!
They had no proof to back up their stupid claims on subjects that were taboo- Knowingly, the answers
I sought were not "as plain as the nose on my face”... But what they said about
“no good deed going unpunished” seemed truer than them all.
Now Cliche's are different from Stereo types: When someone talks foolishly they could be told “you talk like a duck with no beak” Even a dunce could understand what that must have sounded like. Cliche’ yes, but very easy to describe a foolish person, that quacks horrible.
"If I knew then; What I know now". I would have challenged the old cliche terminology. “youth is wasted on the young". “I say that, to say this”. Actually I had more wisdom as a youth; because, It hurt me not to know things, Not knowing could even kill me.
(what you don’t know, won’t hurt you) So untrue.
.
As a youth "I had the time of my life”; Understood as much as any senior, and appreciated the wit and humor that figurative and literal the cliches' gave to our blues, songs, and our folktales -- Since "all is well that ends well “
I will end this prose by saying two of my favorite cliches' are "What's understood needs no explanation" Cliches are a real fun part of our language, poetry, and Metaphorical Prose.
If you don't agree then "grits ain’t groceries” “eggs ain’t poultry"...and "Mona Lisa was a man".!
Sounds of music
are here, there, everywhere!
in this, in that, in that!
They give rhythm to everything around us;
be it the crack of dawn,
fiery sunny days,
or mellow twilights.
I hear the sounds of music
when the cock crows faithfully signaling dawn;
Cocko-ree-oo-cooo mmmm!
and when the Muslim devotees
are called to prayer by the mwazin;
Allaaaah….Akubar!
Sounds of music confer zeal to my hands
as I kneel at the grinding stone,
grinding millet seeds and dried cassava pieces.
As the stones kiss each other they sing out to me;
Kigwak-kigwak-kigwak Itendo kwon ga’ngo?
Atendo kwon girigo ma nyoro baba onyewo!
Sounds of music that silence my rumbling belly
as I cook magira at noontime;
while the flames lick the blackened ayiga bottom,
she sings out in giddiness;
Alu-lu-lu chal ayidha mugoy pyere umaido!
Alu-lu-lu chal ayidha mugoy pyere umaido!
Sounds of music swing me to action
when I hear the milk cow mooing
in tune to the herdsman’s calming whistles;
and before adhadha orders me
I rush gaily for the milk stool
turning and twirling in tune
to the whistles of the milkman and the mooos.
Ah, the enticing sounds of music
that thrill us around the night fire
as adhadha regales us with folktales;
awili nyoro ‘wili nyoro fodi ‘kitwi dhudho?
a mama, mama, dhudho nyaka woc.
Mama dikini ‘kidwok nwangan
Mama ogwang nyoro ‘luwo kodan
Mama dikini ‘kidwok nwangan
Mama ogwang nyoro ‘luwo kodan.
There is an old tall tale told by the elders in the Village.
It says that the skulls come up from the dead.
That their bones deteriorate and the skulls are only valued.
When the moon is full and the darkness coagulates,
the skulls become spirits of others graves.
They are the blood of the Irish and Scottish in a diverse place.
They congeal to those newly buried taking their spirits away.
In world of darkness, stands the werewolf
transformed from a bite of a wild dog.
Vexed by his troubles of loving his blood,
this man desired a werewolf woman.
He loved his wife as he loved himself.
He knew that a drop of his blood would covet.
Therefore, he decided not to worry and confound his existence.
They dined that night and red wine they drank.
His blood he saw on her lips was viscous.
She licked.
That night in sleep, she did change.
They became vested and they world became sane.
Lucid and bright is how the sunsets.
A time of twilight is for youth to thrive.
No children left in the darkness about life up to now.
The truth must be told about humankind.
You see we are people created by the omnipotent.
His supremeness is an almighty presence.
No one has every witness him in the United States of America.
We are a discovered country formed from immigration and slavery.
The origin is the blood of my people.
They state that we are from the land creatures.
Our bodies evolved at night from their presence.
We sat in the trees as primates.
We found country that they did not habitat.
We became human beings in the twilight.
TO BE CONTINUED UPON REQUEST!
________________________________|
Penned April 23, 2014!
For Jakitz A. Contes Dark Poems Only!
In ancient looms of my homeland,
Fairies once shuttled across threads of rainbows
Weaving folklores of gods and goddesses.
Our tapestry needed no haberdashery of
Brabubahanas and Chitrngadas or a vijay panchali,
For no tantric-needle knitted our folktales.
I want to go back and melt in folk songs
Of shamans, who rejoiced in carnival of ripening rice,
Possessed by jingling moans of a pena.
I want to orchestrate, one more time, the ballad
Of Luwaopa and Koubru Namoinee, and
Feel the heartbeats of Henjunaha and Lairuklembi.
I want to burn my poetry in immortal angst
Of Khamba-Thoibi, and blow the ashes
On winds above Loktak's gentle ripples.
I want to defy traditions, once again,
By falling in love like Chingsompa and Panthoibi, and
Tell the world I inherited their sweet arrogance.
I want to retrace petals of
Thainagi Leirang, leaving no stones unturned,
Until I find the lost quill in ruins of alphabets.
I want to ask children of my land
To perform Eemagi Pujah by planting a Madhabi
On the stage of another Shingel Indu.
I want to revisit a forbidden village in my past, and
Reopen the second chapter of Jahera
Sitting by the old mosque with a green door.
I want to hear young Khongjomba sing
Lamphel Patki Kombirei, while I sip chilled Atingba
From a bamboo mug, in a karaoke bar.
I want to see Pidoinu dance in a discotheque
To the exotic tunes of Khulang Eshei, while
Her Moirangphi floats with iridescent embroidery.
I wish to put my ears on grandpa's clay courtyard, and
Listen to Leipaklei's sprouting sighs in a crack,
For the last time in this lifetime.
Finally, I like to be frightened again by Tapta, and
Wake up in a faraway dream where
My homeland shines as silvery as the milky way.
Note -
Names of mythical characters and entities from our folktales, history and books are used in the poem.
Pena is a stringed traditional musical instrument, played with a bow with tiny bells, of my homeland.
Loktak is a lake in my native state, which is the largest fresh water lake in eastern India, where the world's only floating wild life sanctuary lies, on which the almost extinct brow antlered deers known as Sangai, in native dialect, are preserved.
Atingba is a locally brewed rice beer.
Leipaklei is a rare orchid which sprouts out of cracks in dry soil/grounds.
A Sitka Sunset
Mute wind chimes on the Totem Trail
Ring through purple mists in
Platinum testimony to evergreens adorned in dusk
And leftovers from raindrops splashing from totem beaks,
Cedar poles rise from dense fogs
Of myths and warriors and family lore
Shrouding thunderbirds in legends as day retreats.
Life cycles carved in family crests on tribal poles,
Guardians of the lodge with ancient ancestry
In pounding drums of blue-violet
Borrowed from aurora’s glistening breath -
Neon rose from realms of the faithful midnight sun.
Wide eyed, the trickster’s face looks
Upon long violet hours of summer nightfall,
A borealis golden glow on still waters
Recalls the carvers awl and plane
Tools that capture crystal enchantment
Like newborn waves from Orca’s fluke.
Eagle, bear and beaver, with sentient eyes,
Bathed in fragile rose of a waxing strawberry moon,
Follow long sunbeams wending through forest trails
In twilight colored prisms
For silent storytellers,
Prophetic voices chant through days of midnight
And frail twilights
On the Totem’s Trail as sunset rises.
5-24-23
Contest: Sitka Alaska Sunset
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
In Alaskan folktales the Raven is the trickster
Thunderbirds, bears, orcas, beavers, eagles are prominent on totem poles made of cedar.
In Sitka there is a park displaying totem poles.
Locked in the pages of a book
I find sanctuary, a quiet nook,
Where I often retreat and find
the kindest heart, the vilest mind.
Whenever I feel like getting away
From the rigors of life on any day,
I step through the portals of a book
into a fantasy world and take a look:
At the mythical realms of dragons
Fairies, nymphs, demons, gorgons,
At the dreams, adventures and magic
of life and death purpose and logic;
Folktales of love, miracles, covenants
Of knights, heroes and revenants,
Of saints, seers, demigods and mystics,
Priests, pundits, mullahs and clerics.
A vast chronicle of betrayal of trust
of reverence, innocence and lust,
Of deceit, debauchery and debacles
of witches, vampires and oracles.
Deeds of dictators, despots, czars
The chaotic world of wasteful wars,
swarming with malicious mobs,
fawners, snivelers and slimy slobs.
Be it poetry, mystery or tragedy
Racy romance, fantasy, comedy,
Oh, just give me but a book any
I will forgo a damsel’s company.
In the Library contest by Isaiah Zerbst
Fourteen frenzied folk dancers telling fairy tales
Finding fifteen frisky folk singers, some with tails.
Friendly folklore frightening fools, freckles and more.
Forbidden folktales foraged by frisky faeries galore.
Fitting a folksy framework of fulfillment in field number four.
I am inspired to folk dance my way out there, my interest doth soar.
Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength
from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight.
as we walk to the farm, the
morning breeze brush our
body from the billowing branches.
We pick up our hoes and cutlasses
and keep our basket and calabash,
the big Agbadas of the elders and our little
catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant.
Under the tree in Africa we relish
the radiance of reality as we rest
after the rigor of raising ridges.
we break the dried branches to make fire
to roast the harvested maize;
we stroll with the spirits as we slumber,
listening to the whispers of the wind
and wake up to feast on the roasted maize
with some cold water from the serene stream.
Under the tree in Africa we share
the shield of shadows,
shying away from the sun
as we walk back to the village.
We use our traps to tame birds;
making some meat available mama's,
meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some
ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness
and get some fruit for friends and family,
we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains
and goodies that gives us passion and pride.
At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa,
the elders drink from the cup of culture.
Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm
wine and bush meat to go round,
quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes
of the evening resounds.
The day's delight are shared, friendships are
found and formed as fresh fragrance flows.
The children chant with vibrating voices, moral
melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under
the tree in Africa.
Graceful games and spirited sports go on as
communal creeds cruise in their conscience.
The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom
as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to
be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight..
In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices
as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia
under the tree.
nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat
for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin,
at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle,
to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household,
as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends
gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through
the leaves under the tree in Africa.
I invite you to visit my mountain
To drink from my fountain
To feel what gives my power
To meet the actual snake with a flower
I have heard stories of my demise
Folktales given by the unwise
Storytellers with no ear
Dishing out tales to cover their own fear
Tales of a great evil
A face around me built by the devil
Escapades covered in sin
Delivered with a lust’s grin
I have heard how I have led all into temptation
The path of right and wrong always leads to confusion
Storytellers say I always will lead you down the wrong path
The pipers marching you to the devious bath
Folklore states that all souls are in my treasury
Amassed by traits of debauchery
Living in heaven, lined with sin
The tales and where they begin
Storyteller’s muse must all be true
Tales of terror that must be thought through
Fires of hell surround my throne
A kingdom built on my own
So, I do invite you to visit this mountain
Share in the gift of the ever giving fountain
Where no judgment gives the power
To this snake with a flower
March 11, 2008
©Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2008