Long Fey Poems
Long Fey Poems. Below are the most popular long Fey by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fey poems by poem length and keyword.
You made up your mind to view the world
With different eyes —eyes recessed, eyes inundated with lustre,
Straining to catch every flight of the dancing seasons that hurled
Man and beast beyond frontiers with baluster.
You are the town-crier of our time, delivering messages printed on banners
That hail the energy of the heated earth.
What a voice you possess! So smooth and euphonious, it rings loud and clear
With the gumption of a king’s augurer, leaving behind manners
That haunt us pleasantly with bliss and mirth,
Suggesting frantically the suavity of a seer
Journalism has come to judgement, fragmented by words and the eloquence
Of time and grace. Are you not equal to the task?
The world admits you certainly are! And with supreme relevance
Your disciples are many, Dear one, flaunting the mask
Of imitation — they litter the world like tiny red beads flung and scattered
Beyond boundaries stretching from sea to coast
You are a lover of words, speaking with valour even on the arcades
Of fright, charming viewers with the powers of gathered
Attention when rainy nights and dewy mornings boast
Loudly of integrated existence of cascades
An anointed raconteur you are, reeling off tale after tale
By moonlight of cosseted playgrounds
I assume you frequented gatherings, prelapsarian, on a scale
So great that the sage spoke on select backgrounds
How do you do it?
Do you burn candles with scented tallow, and without
Need of a flint —thus reluming primitively dark alleyways?
You are the light that shines on tenebrous path and grit,
Revealing fey monsters responsible for the drought
That burned the pennants of truth posted on archways.
I never before knew an institution of mass communication
Until the bright age of running news crowned your labours
By way of a universally attended coronation
The world attributes to you the favours
Of heavens and caverns of Eudemons.
Arise, Dear One, arise and claim your special flair,
Make noise with the reeds of the Nile and dance gracefully
As you dine on stewed cinnamons
Rest assured you’re deeply blessed, Dear one with a dare;
I assure you mightily, speaking faithfully.
"Lemonade"
Agency sent me to
the territory of
Lemonade dreams
where secret rendezvous
were disjointed
and criminally spent
shooting the cool breeze
she blew hot and cold
covertly coquettish
while they waited for
absent common sense
to repent in her confessional booth
like diamonds their eyes twinkled
their smiles stroked
the changing colours of her
scaled existence, waiting
she smoked their egos
like she was patting
lackadaisical fur
she reminded herself
they were all reptilian
lazy nights with the
Blue Iguana
lounging long legged
stilettos sharp and lethal
schmoozing sonorously
with shiny wet lipped
slick talking smooth
barflies and lizards
talking tangled tongues
they kissed the air
hissing, this of course,
blithe and thin,
full of promises
and sensual missives
taking their lives
with shots of time
tempering caresses
along the tumultuous
tears in the fabric of a frayed life
short skirting the rim
swallowing a small esse essay
while they gobbled wild turkey
straight,
shooting words like bullets
no ice and bent stories
they would appear as monks
religiously flagellating
regular and on point
tomes of despair
lacking their one
shot at a heroine
whose fair addiction
psychoanalysing
muddled minds
bubbled like lemonade
cool, she was a long tall glass
sucking dreams up
her sucking straw
seen through her cut green
glassed shards of mirrors
they were all transforming
into colourful big beaked
squawking macaws
while she read lines
with her man Coleridge
and considered everything
“as if this earth in
fast thick pants were
breathing”
she turned their bent pages
fey and crooked and
burned the leaves for mystic tea
an aphrodisiac as sacrificial offering
to a plot twist
dei ex machina
surely all gods would come soon
in time to a party
bare of good men
where the rule
was no law
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"There was a moment, a hole opened in the sky
A chance to join that pantheon
For all the times they never heard your battle cry
Now even angels sing along"
Walking lonely through the dark
In the night time I did embark
Upon a mission to clear my mind
Answer to questions I wish to find
I walk onward through quiet streets
My footstep noises aloud repeats
As I approach in the nightly dark
To my destination, the local park
Though its shady tree lined lanes
My mind wonders stressed and strained
And as my boot falls echo gently
My minds progresses differently
It swirls and curls and rages on
All concentration is withdrawn
To solve the riddle in my mind
To the key I’m currently blind
As I progress across the grass
My shoulder acquires a new mass
A crow there sits as black as night
Fixing me with its beady sight
I jump and start and this intrusion
Causing a stumble and contusion
But the crow it seems wants to stay
So my shoulder its weight will weigh
So as I return to my cogitation
This crow proved an aberration
It speak with a voice all gruff
And a manner that was quite bluff
It said in its own raucous way
That I was being rather fey
To let this matter of heart intrude
And drag so long with no conclude
I tried to shoo this troubling bird
Finding its gruff advice absurd
Who is this thing to offer opinion?
Surely it is the devils minion
The avian conscience would not loose
Just offer more words of seeming abuse
Telling me to lay this love to rest
That in this matter its advice is best
Failure to remove this nasty creature
Caused me to ignore the feathery preacher
I thus returned to my deliberation
Trying to recover my old elation
But my new friend continued to tell
That I was the cause of my personal hell
Thus he proceeded until at my door
When he return to his home once more
That night my sleep was trouble and light
With the voice of the crow ever a blight
His words slowly sunk into my brain
The gruffness was gone but the sense was plain
I awoke from my dream with clear mind,
Wondering why I had been so blind
I have been living in a world gone by
Missing the wonders of a sunny July
I thank that crow so noble and black
For finding my life and giving it back
I now move forward into the light
I will no longer walk alone in the night
Of Calydorn he speaks each night while drinking bitter ale.
Of battles won and battles lost out on the planes of Veil.
His own armorment of sword and shield, leather and chainmail.
The mighty stead he rode in battle and hunting the Great Thorn Tail.
The blackened stone of fortress walls, from Dragons fiery breath.
Wizards who cast their magic spells at a kings request.
The bewitched moat the encircles the castle and it's spiked drawbridge entrance.
The way the two moons violet light gave it all a spectral appearance.
The inner halls he walked and could feel the magic's whispering ways.
It flowed as wine upon the air to affect all things fey.
Yes, his tales he will share with you anytime, for a cup of ale that's free.
Each gulp he takes germinates the details like a seed.
The young men and the old, gather round him to listen,
Captivated by his words and the unfolding vision.
While ale is flowing freely, he speaks low as if he shouldn't tell
About the other beings that lived within Calydorns realm.
he tells them all about the Gnomes who lived in the woods.
Grumpy tricksters that they be, kept most trespassers lost for good.
How the green and silver Pixies tended to the flowers.
Flitting here and there, tirelessly for hours.
Then he tells them of the Brownies who never really worked a day.
They use their mystic little powers to do their chores so they can joke and play.
Of his favorite creature he loved to speak was the Majestic Unicorn.
With it's powers over life and death and golden rings within its horn.
Yes, he tells of creatures unheard of by them, that he experienced each day.
And how when people choose not to believe, magic will simply die away.
That was the times within his telling he seemed to fade into his own mind.
His red rimmed eyes would go dull and his teeth he would grind.
Then a single tear would slide down his stubbled cheek.
And once again he would drink and continue to speak.
Solemnly he now tells of what befell his world.
And how he landed in their midst, while his drink he would swirl.
To Be Continued..........
Far within the forest deep,
where Pixies play and the Willows weep.
There lies a pond with lilies pink,
that within the night, the stars do wink.
Those that the pond loves and feels,
has respect for the Magi ways, will reveal,
to the one who gently sips,
the wish it will grant from whispered lips.
Not far from there, within a glen,
resides a lovely lass named Rose-Lynn.
With hair the color of brandied wine,
adorned with sweet Hydrangea entwined.
A fey woman-child, our Rose-Lynn be,
who walks between dreams and reality.
Born to the woodland Fairy folk one night,
from a Star Flower in the moonbeams sight.
Raised on honey and Humming Bird eggs,
sprinkled with stardust and nutmeg.
Her skin as pale and smooth as Thistle milk,
she wears a dress spun from soft spiders silk.
In the forest she spends her days,
her laughter like bells, while she plays.
Though she loves the life she's given,
it is the wind in her hair, to which she is driven.
She watches the birds while they fly,
as they dip and weave, she gives a soft sigh.
As she watches she wishes with all her might,
that she could join them in their flight.
One day she chanced to find the cool pond,
that called to her to look upon,
its surface that reflected the world around.
Rose-Lynn curled herself, next to it, on the ground.
Rose-Lynn heard her name sweetly spoken,
as though a lover, offering a token.
It bade of her to gently sip,
and whisper softly, her fondest wish.
No sooner had she sipped and whispered thus,
the ponds surface was rippled in a wind gust.
Upon the surface settling once again,
there was a new reflection of Rose-Lynn.
There from her shoulders were wings, snow white.
That would enable, Rose-Lynn her flight.
The voice told Rose-Lynn, the wings would be hers,
all she need do was to whisper one word.
Rose-Lynn stared at her reflection,
at the wings pure perfection.
She didn't need to take time to guess,
with a smile, Rose-Lynn, whispered "yes".
Paula Swanson
For the contest: Reflection
Sponsored by Constance "A Rambling Poet"
Placement: 1st
Growing older is a garden of graces . . .
disgraces, wild goose chases, closed in places.
It is an imperceptible tottering of time on a
conveyer belt, where at the end time drops
into the slipstream and becomes the mobius .
Growing older is wanting to be older when
you are young and younger when you are old.
You wish away the days, never dreaming that
you would give a king’s ransom to have them
back once again, treasured, appreciated.
In our youth, we squander time, kick it to the curb.
In our older years, we try to tie it to ourselves.
Age sneaks around when we aren’t looking, spreads
its poison pollen and is gone without our seeing.
The business of living distracts us from noticing
until it is too late, when we look into a mirror,
only to behold the ruthless signs smothering us.
It is realizing men no longer turn and whistle.
You have become invisible, crayoned out until
some young man says, “Grandma, the time?”
Growing older is smelling of Icy Hot instead of
Beautiful by Estee Lauder, seeing people sniff.
It is keeping L`Oreal in business long past the time
you want to stop, but can’t bear those gray hairs
that are the mute testimony to the inexorable decay
Growing older is breaking the shackles of propriety
Wearing that purple, and at least four sweaters.
It is joyously realizing you don’t care a fig what
people think or say about you or anything else.
You can laugh at the absurdity of fashion, style.
It is the delicious capability to say anything
you want, vent your opinions, disagree.
You say the most outrageous things freely,
and are forgiven, because you are getting
more than a little fey and just a little dotty.
And, oh, growing old is the sweetest blessing,
for you no longer are frozen in fear at death
and it's coming soon, for your years have
worn you out and everything changes so much
there is scarcely anything left of your world
What does it matter what god you worshipped
This earth has been hell enough for an eternity
and if there be heaven, it is icing on the cake
Distressed by Rob Barratt
My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table
The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose
The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered
The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery
The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's
The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic
The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues
The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser
The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines
The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth
The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard
The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden
The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato
Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!
(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.
Once, inside o' an Irish family's Derrygoolin farmhouse in the 1940s,
A boy named Anthony heard the woman whose word is death, himself, foreseen.
When the reaper's cloak appears to those who choke,
And his cowl upon ye' prowls,
She who's bound to the royal lassies and blokes,
Will warn her kin within a howl.
For once upon a time there lived a group of regal Celtic kings,
Whose love was made to those who ring in the zephyr as they sing.
Aligned were the crowns of man and fey,
Together tied by what they bore,
Whose birth brought forth the foremost day,
Whence the walls between their worlds tore.
And so the children of those five Irish kings and their fair-haired fairy maids,
Live on today with the mind of man and intuition of those who which they laid.
So that night when the teenaged Anthony was working in the family barn,
He heard the vengeance of the wind and a woman screaming from afar.
He ran back to his house where his family had been,
To see if they were alright,
For he knew what he heard before and when,
The wind blew by the banshee's might.
"We're alright, Tony," his twelve siblings and parents had said confused,
As their brother and son looked at each of them with a smile, yet unamused.
Later that evening Tony could not sleep,
And tossed and turned in fright,
For in his head he could not help but keep,
The thought of the banshee he had heard tonight.
So the same insomnia had invaded upon poor Tony the following end of day,
As a fear inside him grew and growled, which he failed to tame and keep at bay.
The next day, horror struck the family:
Tony's two year-old brother Victor had passed away,
Of what, the doctor could not see,
And the smiles of his family had no more to say.
This story is a true familial anecdote about my now-passed Uncle Tony,
Who died two days after I was in my yard and heard in the wind a cry of the banshee.
Fisherman's Luck
The rocks brushed by the waves,
caressed and embraced by the ocean,
slowly wearing down the land,
to be carried away in pieces
back to the depths of the beginning.
Marla Mayhem danced.
She pranced across the sand,
like it was open land.
She was a fisherman's wife.
She knew that the day had come,
and her man would return.
He would give her a fish,
and a wish...
Yet, out on the sea that day,
somewhere out beyond the fey...
The old man struggled still.
He could not make it home.
He paddled at will,
yet his boat had taken its fill.
He was floating
just above the level of the line,
that told the time...
it would take to take him...
down to the very bottom of
the dead man's world.
He tried to get home.
but he was alone against the wilds of the wilderness,
a desert, the undrinkable sand... of seawater.
He knew his woman was waiting there,
but he could not care
more about that,
except for the mermaid...
he had trapped.
She lay in the nets just off the bow,
singing her last song, so long,
he would never forget the sound,
all around, as the fish wept in her passing.
A whale watched,
and could watch no longer.
The beast dove beneath the waves.
He came up again entangled with the net, wet...
snagged by the barnacles on his skin.
He pulled them all in.
Then again...
to the deep, he swam
to the end of the rainbow.
To the world beyond this,
and far into the next.
In desperation...
the fisherman took his knife and cut himself loose,
moments before the world would fret...
saving himself and losing all he was worth.
A treasure that no one would believe,
grasped close, and lost by fate.
Marla was still waiting,
standing by,
and she tried hard,
not to cry, but it was too late.
It's funny isn't it?
We all work so hard to be different,
Which makes us all the same.
We all play the same game.
"I want to be the best!",
"Better than the rest!",
And in that quest,
We are all united in the dream for difference.
We all wish to be the hot new product,
Wearing our new designer style Prada.
So we can obtain attention we never got before,
Thinking it'll make us feel a whole lot more...
Special.
And this is what brings all people together,
We all want the same thing,
To be a little different in this ring,
We call society.
So if you want to be different,
Understand that everyone makes a difference.
But you must do it in your own way,
Don't just go out and copy Tina Fey.
Because you do have something to offer,
And you are special.
But you are special in your own creativity,
Not in your copycat version of Justin Bieber "Believe in Me".
You are the superstar version of yourself,
But not when you are trying to copy someone else.
Be the UFC superstar you dream of,
But don't think you can copy Anderson Silva.
Because he has fought his journey and chased his own dreams.
But now it's time for you,
To show them where you set the bar to.
Let everyone else try to copy you,
From North America to Timbuktu .
Be the best,
But don't copy the rest.
Role models are great to have,
They are what set the bar.
But that bar can be a ceiling that isn't too far.
Making your potential smaller than it could have been,
Because you looked up to your father whose cleaning out a trash bin.
With a potential greater than Einstein,
Your working at McDonald's looking up to the supervisor with overtime.
With more power and strength than King Kong,
You're sitting at home playing with your ding.
Be more than the rest,
And be better than the best,
By being...
Yourself