Best Storytellers Poems
To my daughter who never listens.
Life is not as simple as a cliché.
It's not lullabies and butterflies.
Not all sounds are soothing,
not all flowers are faithful.
It's not as relaxing as a reverie,
rarely as poetic as a poem,
so you can't hide everything behind metaphors.
You have to express your true verses,
you have to serenade in your own melody -
but never forget the chorus to our song.
Life is full of storytellers who will lead you astray,
so never believe everything you hear or see -
create your own biography, make your own history.
Our existence is fragile like petals,
yet your birth created an oasis in my heart.
I remember when they said you would not blossom,
yet you flourished in essences of evergreen elegance.
I was the first to cradle you in my arms,
as I promised to protect you endlessly.
Hoping that you would soar forever,
spread your wings higher and higher.
We never truly realise the sacrifices of our parents.
I wonder if you will ever know,
how sometimes all I had left was my smile -
never would I reveal my frailties.
It was not a simple case of masculinity,
because even the most ferocious lion cries.
I hope you never face a struggle,
as difficult as the trials forsaken upon me
and
I'm sorry if at times you saw no emotions,
apologies for the tears I never let you see,
nor the fears I never allowed you to feel,
but it was the way I was brought up to be,
it's how reality curated my personality.
If the suppression of my feelings made you distant -
remember a father will always be a shepherd for his flock.
Wars from the past have infiltrated mankind,
yet there will be many battles to come -
just don't fall asleep among heartless sleeping souls.
I shiver upon the thought of our closing goodbye,
when my shield can no longer protect you,
as every knight has to eventually lay down his sword.
The world can be a cruel and wild place,
and I remind you there is always a rainy day,
so choose wisely the paths to ponder upon -
learn how to build your own abode.
You'll always be a baby in my eyes.
I'll always be so proud.
Even in silence... I will forever love you.
Dad.
The poems I never wrote are exquisite
Deep clear pools that reflect and reveal their readers
Nuanced and subtle, full of symbols and hidden meaning
Peeling back new layers upon each return
The poems I never wrote are bestsellers
Attenborough voiceovers and roadhouse storytellers
On bedside tables, dog-eared and marked up
The subject of disagreements over coffee house scones
The poems I never wrote are a perfect sigh
Lyrical, rolling off the tongue, effortless as breathing
Resolved with delight on the final line
Lacking nothing, possessed of no excess
The poems I never wrote are an enigma
An unanswered question desirous of much
A doorway into a new world fraught with possibility
Mysterious and unresolved, yet satisfyingly so
This is not one of those
—————
Written on 10/06/022
Dusk casts a sepia glow upon
sentinel specters of the wood;
another summer has passed and
the autumn shedding lay all about me
as I sit swinging and remember,
how the wildflowers filled
this glen a few weeks ago.
In the ephemeral light, whispers are heard.
I wait as she wanders between the gnarled
branches; I catch the impressions
from my muse, while she strolls
beneath these storytellers.
5-12-2021
ALL YOURS (May 12) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Let me hug you, human, and be one being,
Let the stars shine and go for sightseeing,
Let us share smiles under the moon,
Let our children play together at noon,
Let us be storytellers of justice and truth,
Let our people join our energetic youth,
Let us stroll in mountains and the huge lands,
Let us harvest and mix our colourful hands,
Let our souls heal the wounds of the past,
Let our hearts share lovely dreams so vast,
Let me make a step forward and close the gap,
Let me start a new page and recreate the map,
Let our lands be neighbours of one community,
Let me raise my head, at last, for the unity,
Let the rain fill my eyes so I water my mind,
Let me make a statement that we were blind,
Let these words make an epic song so original,
Let me become you, oh beautiful aboriginal,
Let the indigenous of you paint my words,
Let us swim like fishes and fly like birds,
Let me give you what is yours and all of what is mine,
Let us plan our future and for our past build a shrine.
Monday, 26th of November 2012
We were born with the gift of healing in our blood, we did not become healers along life's winding path,
We came as springs of solace, carrying the essence of healing like an ancient and sacred song,
Some of us are still searching for our deep roots in the soil of our being, discovering ourselves in the silence of time,
We came as storytellers, not by chance, but because we carried stories in our hearts always,
We are the songs of our ancestors, alive in every whisper of the wind passing through the vines of memories,
Some of us are still seeking our voice among the echoes of the past, weaving threads of gold and silver from history,
We were born artists, we did not become painters or sculptors under the weight of the world,
We came with art in our souls, we are rainbows woven into the fabric of life, vibrating with every color,
Some of us are still drawing our outlines on the canvas of destiny, seeking our own shades,
We did not become writers, dancers, musicians, peacemakers, but arrived as such spirits,
We are the symphony of creation, some still discovering their rhythm in the vast orchestra of existence,
We did not learn love along the journey, but came as love, we are the heart that beats eternally,
Some of us are still following the call, seeking to reveal love in every gesture, in every word,
We are explorers of the soul, sculpting reality with our bold and silent dreams,
As we seek meaning in the delicate weave of existence, we lose and find ourselves in the cosmic dance,
Like stars burning with pure passion, guiding seekers of truth along the paths of light and shadows.
You ignite the
romance of my dreams.
I wish to encroach your
lips with my
tasty sandwich of perfected
rosemary teat.
I'll make your brain
immune to my soul
so you become out
of breath when far
from your source.
My toes will python
your emotions,
make you feel good with
motions that can't be
found in Neptune.
Oh! my Fairy prince,
should I Massage
those fire clay
masculinity and
blow your mind out of its organ?
I'm devoured by the
moans of your consistency.
Devoted to the strings of
your intentionality.
Should I delineate your
cubes of grip so it
illuminates the lines
of storytellers?
Or are you too shy to
tell the world that,
You're the heel of
my heart, the calf
of my stamina.
The spine of the moon
and the Larynx of the dark stars.
Honey!
I'll let you dance to the rhythm of Calla
Lily while I paint in the beams of Zinnias.
Gifted ,imaginative minds
Storytellers , wordsmith extraordinaires
Creating masterful tales with words
Diverse , remarkable, rare
The name of this poem is "…" So the first line is shown.
The system would not let me put that in the title box. Sew, so...
...
Hear and now, know here and now, no! No!
It is all wrong, “aint” that a fact?
No. Really… no.
Aint, paint, saint, I feel faint.
! Yes. Use that one. ! Use it again!!! (! Symbol and then…)
How about a ? ? (? Symbol for question and then ? for punctuation correct)
That is odd. Let us not discuss txting. (texting, xing, dead when driving)
Small “c”, big “C”, capitalized.
What about the rest of the letters?
Are numbers okay to use, if I forget how to spell, to, two, too much?
Paints in the box. The letters the shapes the textures of life.
Smell them. Take them in with every wiff, whiff? (Onomatopoeia, can you sing that?)
Double “dd”, double “tt”, double “oo”, wrong word score.
Spear, fear, mear, mere, “find the thesaurus”.
Have you ever spent time reading one?
You should.
The dictionary was badly burned in 1963.
No one nose, no's, knows who set the fire…
We did not land on the moon.
It was a sad day, but our people came home.
Safe.
The world moved on…
Remember when they gave spelling tests?
Three times each and every word, every line, get one wrong then do nine!
Are you still wondering the name of this poem? (...)
Laughter is the best place to begin looking at ourselves.
Mixed paint in a tray. Pencils, pens, art in words…Free Speech!
Hold on to your flag...
We, all of us… build sentences,
erect paragraphs and dream up skyscraper stories.
We swirl and whirl words around until they fit together,
The effort to find the perfect match.
The ultimate combination of acceptance and understanding.
Authors don’t get to stand and sing on stage, we must be quiet.
Storytellers rarely receive the time they need to fix the uncertain details.
Maps are lost, tiny jewels fall between the cracks,
but swiftly pens capture, miracles and even an epiphany.
Patient warriors, working for no one on earth,
fixed on collecting nothing more
than the truth.
In the quiet corridors of my mind, where memory and flickering thoughts reside,
we tell ourselves stories in order to live, to find meaning in the chaos,
seeking sermons in the despair of loss, searching for lessons in violence,
where five snuffed-out lives become a moral parable,
a narrative we shape to comprehend an incomprehensible reality.
We are the weavers of our own truth, choosing the most viable threads,
interpreting what we see through the prism of our elaborate tales,
imposing a coherent line upon disparate images,
freezing the shifting phantasmagoria of our experiences
with the ideas we have learned, like anchors in the turbulent sea of existence.
Through this stream of consciousness, I wander deeply,
where tangled thoughts intertwine with hues of sentiment,
seeking to grasp the elusive threads of dreams and weave them into meaning,
we are adventurers in the landscapes of intellect and soul,
each story we tell a beacon, a light in the dark forest of the unknown.
We find comfort in the narrative line we impose,
an appearance of order in the whirlwind storm of existence,
where each moment is a passing phantom, each experience a fleeting shadow,
and yet, in this magic of storytelling, we find anchor, grace,
transforming the ephemeral into the enduring, the transient into the eternal.
Melancholy wraps itself around each story,
a whisper of beauty from sadness, a hint of light within the shadow,
each chosen word an attempt to freeze the fluid, to grasp the intangible,
to bind the phantasmagoria into something we can hold close to our hearts.
Life, with all its chaos and fractured pieces,
finds a fragile peace within the narratives we construct,
as we trace the lines of meaning with trembling fingers,
seeking to transcend the transient, to touch the infinite
in the sacred space of a well-told story, of a fleeting moment captured forever.
Through our stories, we become more than mere spectators,
we become the architects of our own destinies,
each story a spell, an enchantment against the inexorable flow of time,
and in this act of creation, we discover ourselves,
the storytellers, the dream weavers, the light in the storm,
casting a gentle glow over the phantasmagoria that is life.
How far back can you remember? I have glimpses of things from babyhood.
Things like a room, a doll, a funny little girl smiling, mother but how can that
even be, because I was just a baby.
a flowing blue stream
I lay upon a blanket
birds sang in tall trees
I recall the house where we lived beside a river, the many trees, and picking
raspberries with my mother and sister. Father holding me in his arms. Going
for long walks in the forest, but I was just a wee girl.
the forest whispered
in the shadows creatures hid
sweet the dappled sun
I remember the day my sister died, or do I? I was so young that day, and
coming from a family of storytellers that retold the story over and over, soon
it became my memory.
I often relive
the day death took her away
the snow was so nice
____________________________
September 3, 2020
Poetry/Haibun/I Recall, or Do I
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1283-249-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Consists of 3 Haibuns, Haibun with Senryu
Haibun with Haiku, Haibun with Senryu
Written for the contest,Let The Pens Flow - Haibun
sponsor, Jenish Somadas
First Place
Visits long ago
to the Blaskets Islands,
to untouched areas
on the Dingle peninsula
came to mind
on this sleet winter’s eve.
The peninsula,
nestled in heather mountains.
The coastline,
tongues of lonely white sand.
waved rocks,
drenched in blue mussels
tide pools,
alive with shrimps and periwinkles
A sea-salted life
unspoiled and free.
Only marine life remains,
but I still hear the music
our native language,
the voices of Seanchaí
the ballads, sean?s,
Peig Sayers
who shaped our school years,
her renditions of island life
her mad pise?gs,
handed down
from generation to generation.
Stories of
Islanders huddled together
under thatch,
open turf fires
cooking pot on a hook,
the sweet air wafting
of clay pipe tobacco
a pinch of snuff
sniffed from a silver box,
nursing a glass
of neat Poitín, uisce beatha,
the strong smell of tweeds
and geansaí báinín.
I think of times lost,
changed forever.
Cottage ruins,
where goats roam free,
An Blascaod Mór
my history, my heritage.
Gaelic words in this poem
* Seanchaí – storytellers
Sean?s – singing without music
Peig Sayers and her mad pise?gs – A Gaelic writer who we studied in school and her mad superstitions.
Poitín, uisce beatha – very strong alcohol made from potatoes, called the water of life.
geansaí báinín – strong sheep wool sweaters usually in a cream colour with complex patterns.
Is this a poem?
I will let poets decide
I read here, words and prose
How is it possible
Such ingenuity, over and over
Inspirations
Expressions of the heart
Kindness exposed
Bitterness sits in the cold
Storytellers
Poetic wisdom's
Lovers shedding words
Lost souls attacking verbs
Poets in mourning
Deep and emotional losses
Opening the gates of heaven
For the bereaved and forlorn
Poets dancing
Poets crying
Poets who dance and cry
Add some spiced rum and tears
Poets who ponder why?
Poets who offer comfort
Random words of the charitable order
Poets who cannot compose
Yet they are more poetic
Brutal exposure of the heart
Is poetic in its own right
Painters of poetic verse
Who disperse art like candy
I bow my head
In honor of you all
My last request
When that dark omen of death arrives
There shall be a poetic funeral
I shall write nor speak no more
Of lovers and poets
Drunk with words
You all, hoist some cheer
I wish to be surrounded
With poets
As all of you
“What are we ever going to use this for?”
Students ask every single school day.
So sit back, grab a coffee, get comfortable,
And all the reasons, to you, I will say.
Fundamentally it’s about allowing people to
Fully realize the value of their own mentality.
To make them know ethics and empathy,
Solve problems, be social, owning morality.
Education develops language and literacy,
Listening and comprehension sufficiently.
It develops an ability to solve small and large problems,
Solving them efficiently.
Students will learn, first hand, how to explore
An active community with a rich diversity.
And how to repair self-esteem, cooperatively respecting others,
Whenever they face adversity.
They will refine gross and fine motor skills,
Learn how to set targets and achieve their goals.
And whenever things seem to become too much,
They learn how to jump over potholes.
Education is not about capitalism which produces too much,
Sharing nothing, at too high a price.
And it’s not about communism failing as an ascetic morality,
Essentially a fool’s paradise.
Education creates peacemakers, healers, restorers,
Storytellers, and lovers of every shape and form.
It creates people with moral courage to make this world a habitable,
Happy, humane thunderstorm.
In youth I learned to jump
First off steps, then rooftops
Spirit of adventure
Nurtured in the heart of a child
Preschool acrobat twirling on my head
Grandma swatted my bottom
Repeated words like Tomboy
Never learned to be ladylike
Catholic school discipline
Uniforms, religion classes, daily mass
Never satisfied with any accomplishment
Even the nuns called me “perfectionist”
Blessed with storytellers in my family
Dad and sis would send me to dreamland
On the wings of a unicorn
Or Shakespeare’s amazing plays
Family and friends I hold dear
Each has influenced my thinking
I learned to offer support in troubled times
And to thank God every day for special people
Unable to have children
The most crushing blow
Accepted at a young age
But rued for a lifetime
Lover of Jack London, John Steinbeck
From Jack, I found adventure
From John, I learned compassion
Dickinson’s poetry touched my heart
If I can find a way
To make a friend feel joy
Then this is my mission
Comforter, nurturer
November 16, 2020
For Silent One’s “It's a part of me - Life and the perceptions and philosophies you hold Poetry Contest.”
Why are we the human race
rather than another extinguishing species?
Why not the human species
and not the cockroach race?
Why is human nature
intended as somehow supremely natural
not within but faster than,
above and beyond
inferior sensual nature?
Why is race,
inhuman embrace-conflicted context,
a qualitative noun,
stultifying stasis,
rather than a speeding verb
toward shared finish line
when everyone can win together
where no one fully wins apart?
Why is nature's race
not yet declared as one
indigenous Earth Tribe?
Bicamerally endowed
to celebrate Earth's rhythmic ordination
of regenetic liturgy and syntax,
grace racing veins
full-blooded diverse healing homes
of natural peace construction.
What happened to issue
as primal verb
when babies issued from progenitors
and words issued from mouths
and blood issued from wounds
and racing issued from DNA's polycultures,
storytellers weaving diverse generative threads
Remembering from whom and when we issue
back before embracing human memory
in dialectic dreamy nest of fractal tones
polychronic texture
4 dimensioned structure
rhythm rhyme dancing
polycultured racing
comic multicultural
co-operative opera.
Coincidental correlating races,
humane natural places,
issue forth to teach and humor
and recess back to learn and decompose
to mentor Nature's human embrace
radical solidarity race
rooted pace
secured by leaving none behind
Every living system ordained
to race redeeming issues
through singing flows of dancing waves
linked through all spacetime.
If race exponentially regenerates
intergenetic issues,
then this is more of a species relay race
during which boundary lanes
no more than trace and lace
our deep seasoned swimming synchrony,
blending genetic notes of freedom's harmony
toward nature's unfinish-lined
circling symphony.