A faerie tale, folk lore, imaginary thoughts
and rhymes to live beyond the ordinary days
of a life destined to become immortal.
Filled with true love from a prince among men,
loyal cohorts, trustworthy, kind and generous
with all their gifts and love;
still sharing the adventure to the end.
Feats of daring-do, fables,
foibles and defeats, dragons slayed,
evil witches left behind to bask
in the caldron they turned life into;
Wizards teaching subtle ways
to make it through the never-ending days
of dread pirates who build their fortunes
in such illusive ways.
Avoiding superstition on a path
to happily ever after,
where waltzing on the rainbows
casts a spell of magic
across the landscape of the past.
Patching together the fabrications
saved unto the end;
spinning a yarn that’s hard to imagine -
yet - happens now and then.
All my charmed days
now dreamlike on cloud nine
where the fanciful quest continues
and - I
become a legend in my own mind.
Were they the perfect gang?
Since off the same song sheet they sang
Looking out for each other the norm
Weathering each and every storm
Idea generation when they met
Nothing in stone was set
No challenge was ever too great
Solutions always carried weight
Success bred success indeed
But alas it also bred much greed
Limelight grabbing opened cracks
Telling tales to newspaper hacks
And so dark clouds gathered above
No chance of reconciliation via the peace dove
The perfect gang would be no more
As their perfect storm became folk lore
The Last Organ Grinder
The last Organ Grinder gave his barrel organ
to his grandson, now working in JP Morgan
He preserved that as an antique piece.
Also that is honoured by his nostalgic niece.
Great entertainer was the last Organ Grinder .
For children he brought fun, enjoyment on wonder.
In core of heart he had to cherish sorrow.
His days are gone. No space for today or tomorrow.
The last Organ Grinder to be remembered indeed
through tales of Grandparents narrated to Grandkids.
May be like a fairy tale or a nice folk lore :
Yet not to ignore but to honour and adore.
It’s you who I adore,
I want you more and more.
I’d even be your whore,
Your own Pussy Galore;
Ignore your wretched snores,
Believe your life’s folk lore,
Let lie our settled scores.
I’d empty out my stores
And meet you at my core,
?Where you’ll find even more.
I’ve told you this before:
It’s you who I adore.
Jazz clarinatist Acker Bilk
vibrato-rich soft as silk
Famed for 'Stranger on the Shore'
now in musical folk lore
Green Gremlins were all the rage in nineteen seventy-four.
I am not talking about creepy fat-headed full bellied tiny beings.
I am talking about cheap cars with a V-8 and four on the floor.
Everyone had one, so common, most of us were tee-heeing.
Painted a variety of colors, and riding in them made you kind of sore.
We wore hip hugger bell-bottoms and had a hippie-like look.
This was in ’74, and believe it or not, this is no folk lore.
If you do not believe me, just look up a Gremlin in a picture book.
Each pore a door, so spake folk lore
God’s abode is within
Pure of heart feel blessings in-pour
Bliss bubbling on our skin
There’s nothing to apprise
Each breath offers surprise
As love pulse thus does rise
Why ask for more
Each pore a door
17-March-2022
Quietus
Tales in Norse folk lore of
these mythical creatures,
though sadly nowadays
they are better known for
trawling the internet
targeting people on
Twitter and on Facebook
Pleiades T Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Merryman
6 syllables per line checked with HMS
04/26/21
The music
is her breath,
or…wind…
into the open
bottle. The songs
of folk-lore.
***
Around her bon-fire,
embers sear the sleeve,
of her Hoodie;
The sparks
are as red
as the blood
of a burst
aneurism.
Thus...
she could have
a "broken heart".
The sparklers
in their hands,
the flames
of our Sun,
dressing
the edges...
of Sorrento Cliffs,
that think
they could
conquer
the sky.
The beach
in a dream...
melts the sea
and sky
into a flesh-
colored
palette
of all
light browns.
I said,
She listened...
I like her.
***
A chord,
of a guitar,
strummed;
a piano
played
by ear.
Meg rocked
to the melody
of her life.
Human-like
spirits...Gods…
in her eyes.
***
He remembers:
The 1940s-
a decade
as dark
as a tree
in the night…
to me.
A poet’s verse.
By
Walt Whitman.
The "Nor' Easter"
crushes...
yet...
the snow
falling:
hush...
such a
yearning
is mine.
***
Dissection…
of the sentence;
a line...
" No, this is a true story!"
The story…
as simple
as the BUD
in Spring,
as complex
as the flower,
as it BLOOMS.
Rednecks and hillbillies having a war.
They fought and they spit and both were so sore.
It got bloody. There was much ugly gore.
We scratched and we bit just like the folk lore.
Cousin found gold and announced it to four.
Hatfield who ran off to find their own ore.
I scratched him and slugged him, this cousin so poor.
The rednecks ran off, as we hillbillies broke down their door.
So if you think the feud is forever over, and no more,
Remember we McCoys are as ignorant as we are poor.
We will be feud’n and fight’n, until we are sore
Or we chase that other family, for squabbles we adore.
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
Tamped way down deep in a garden snake’s tail
Beyond anything beauty had in store
Campfire fires brought on by dark ale
Guarded and protected by faerie’s strong
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
Cool winds through the trees sing lovely songs
Hidden in mushroom magic and folk lore
Unveiling a simple truth. Nothing more.
Potions and poisons there for the taking
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
Fairy magic has mushroomville quaking
Garter snake escapes underneath the floor
Where brownies and faeries and munchkins soar
An underworld devils tend to cleave
Secrets well hidden in the forest floor
WHO ARE THESE AMBITOUS MEN
WHO STAND BEFORE ME
ARE THEE THE SAMETHAT TAKES
BARLEY FROM THE FEILDS
AND STORES IT IN THE CAVES
MIGHT THE MEN OF THE FEILDS
SHAVE YOUR BEARDS
TO SHOW YOUR FACES
OR SHALL THE WOMAN
OF EVENING
CAUSE YOU ILL
TO HAVE TRACK OF WHO
YOU'VE BEEN WITH
DO YOUR COUSINS IN FAR AND DISTANT LANDS
UNDERSTAND OUR WAYS
THAT YOU MIGHT SEND TO THEM
THE BARLEY OF OUR FIELDS
TO BRIGHTEN UP THEIR DAYS
DO PEOPLE EAT THE BREADS
FROM OUR BARLEY ON DISTANT
SHORES
SHALL I SEND MEMOS TO
DIFFERENT PLACES
SINCE YOU SEEM TO IGNORE ME
SPEAK THAT I MIGHT
HEAR YOUR LIES
STORIED TO A PERFECT DETAIL
WHERE ARE THE GRAINS FROM MY FIELDS
HAVE YOUR SATANIC PLOTS
PREVAILED
WHO'S SHIPS ARE HARBORED
TO RECEIVE GIFT OF THESE GRAINS
THEN THE CAPTAINS AND THESE SAILORS
CHORE TO DELIVER
THESE IMPORTANT THINGS
I SPEAK YE AS KING
ANSWER MIGHT
I THEN KNOW
SAY TO ME WHAT I ASK
THEN MAYBE I'LL LET YOU KNOW
This story is one of great rapport
About a boy and a pasty long told evermore
And an auntie who really couldn’t cook
Who made a pasty right out of a cook book
But alas the recipe wasn’t all it seemed
As it was shared around as the China gleamed
It didn’t take long for their bowels to work
As toilet bowls were painted by the family screaming, “It hurts”
The days lengthen whilst the suffering went on
From their tops and bottoms in a sickly song
But not for one of the favoured sons
With no stomach ache occurring his laughter so long
Winning the title of “Cast iron Guts” with digestion so strong
And the legend still lives as it remains in folk lore forever along.
© Paul Warren Poetry
You have heard love stories, but many were truthfully nightmares or folk lore.
He wore himself exceedingly well, I looked up at him nice and slow.
Pureness and goodness oozed out of him – honesty and love, which shook me to my core.
His hazel eyes and long dark eyelashes knew how to say hello.
His guiding hand and open heart whisked me to a never before known shore.
His goodness leapt from the depth of his soul, sweet, pure goodness -not any way a show.
No one loved another this hard, no matter how many love stories happened before.
He was by far the kindest man I would ever meet, I instantly did know.
There was nothing unseemly about him, he was my lovely forevermore.
I was ready to say take me now, for I was indeed ripe and ready to go.
His attention, and vibrations shook me wholesomely to my inner core.
In his presence I had turned into an angel, a woman with a sparkling glow.
That was almost fifty years ago, and I could have never asked for more.
Keep looking for your forever one, it will mean more than you could ever know.
Pieces of this were written: July 2018
Edited for this Contest 12-02-2018
Contest: Color of My Heart
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Here by this lake
Cotton clouds quest,
Colours now take
A festive zest.
Misty moods float
As kin and kind
Gather to gloat
Fond peace of mind.
On earthly grounds
Mid-autumn comes,
Moon glow floods round
As laughter sums.
Rapture and feast
Grand harvest reaps,
Love floods the gist
Of feelings deep.
Culture floods more
To anchor will,
Mid-autumn shores
As moon glow thrills.
Old folk lore shows
An esteemed way,
Hearts seem to know
How purpose pays.
Moon cakes and food
Move fond delight,
Meet gracious good
With warm hearts bright.
Watch children play
Prized lanterns here,
Old chorus sways
Such happy cheer.
Bright sparkles show
A profound touch,
Love as we know
Blooms joy so much.
Falling leaves tell
Of changing times,
Mid-autumn gels
Such lovely chimes.
Moonlit lake bright
Enchants that heart,
A spellbound night
Love arrows dart.
Mystic moods glow
In tale and myth,
Autumn now shows
The moon gate drift.
Now here we sit
With hearts at ease,
Share pun and wit
Sip teacup bliss.
Leon Enriquez
26 September 2017
Singapore
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