Long Folklore Poems
Long Folklore Poems. Below are the most popular long Folklore by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Folklore poems by poem length and keyword.
HAIL THE KING OF NAPOLI (1)
The Chronicles of the old king, Diego.
An epitaph of his statue reads: "When I go,
I go away from you then this badge
loses honour and beats dead with no urge"
Like a slackened drum that fades afar5.
I call out for you against my jutted star
And shout into the wind ridges like I'm barking,
Calling out for a successor regardless of skin,
Man mountain like Osimhen who's very keen,
African-breed & blooded but the spirit of Maradona.¹°
He's not one to score PKs doing a rabona.
This club waited for him who would hold the sway
Then the masked mafia mustered his way
From Lagos Nigeria to French club Lille Metropolis,
shatterin' Weah's goal record like voices in the Holies,¹5
Surmounted surgery & the pain of facial disfigure,
returned from the sidelines with a happy demeanour,
and became the face of Napoli, a phenomenon.
Rose from a whole season among giants & gladiators,
but endure weights of expectations among spectators.²°
The city's folklore is rewritten in the stars.
This masked man, you won't smite his armour
while scoring goals, giving assists and more.
V.O 9 evinces predatory under the floodlights thrill
and sees blood in goal when'ver it's time for the kill.²5
Heaven gave us this day but Osimhen delivers it
And set the Diego Armando Maradona stadium alight,
denotating a blinding brand of lightning!
All like a day's job from he whose pace is frightening.
Naples, this city of thy worship, jumps in hysteria,³°
Set ever free! Free from the drought of Serie A.
Joy engulfs the air, devouring the hearts of men,
which pantest for lost glory returned by Osimhen,
Naked, beneath the lidless eye of the heavens!
Naples, Elysian City of Ocean Blue & Ravens,³5
calm enchantest amid mutinous air & sea!
Parade the heroes from Campania to the Tyrrhenian Sea!
Oh! What a Metropolis of ruined Paradise.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? May 2023.
He was one of those, you know, one who doesn't believe
That is the life he chose, so easy for the world to deceive
An atheist pure and through denying God's Glory everyday
A conclusion he drew without ever once seeking His Way
Well he got sick as next thing you know he ended up dead
Life is so very, very quick as already your youth has fled
Floating above as often heard but none of them could hear
For not another single word that reality had become clear
Then he was lead away by two as the fog became so thick
And then what they started to say the words made him sick
Soon they began ripping his skin..., yelling in pain, oh God!
This was judgment for all his sin and so shouldn't seem odd
But in the calling out of His Name the men just disappeared
So did all that blame as Jesus and three Angels soon neared
With his whole life laid bare before and told he must go back
This is not some folklore but the story of what so many lack
This man was extremely lucky as so we're all saved by Grace
He certainly did come to see but many never leave that place
Simply relaying a man's story who now has Jesus in his heart
If you know not His Glory, it will be too late, once you depart
folklore suggests that one more than just one
constitutes a party because small can be good
fewer can merit merrier times than congestion
and thus enforced Corona not denying its hardships
can bring an overdue smile to wrinkles and frowns
as isolation unmasks virtues values and meaning
and the veil of Christmas descends into truth
Santa Claus’ reindeers engage in social distancing
from each other and disperse the post-modern myth
that incalculable strength resides in inflated numbers
less driving power for uncountable gift-wrapped
revisits love caring compassion and kindness
and breathless animals stop for an intimate word
before they spread a message of souls over matter
some lights on the tree have not been replaced for
the sake of lock down and tinsel looks threadbare
unless cherished and untangled of imminent beauty
we who have a log on the fire and roof over heads
food and passion in our hearts fortunate and blessed
only require one candle and a match to see the light
may the reflection condense and grow in our minds
looking into a Yule Tide mirror without distraction
false face and persona reveal without any makeup
what has been there all along the disguised masquerade
that there is strength and resolve under flawed makeup
for we are not alone as we give thanks to our beauty
06th December 2020
What if..
What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon
Mommies whisking to kitchenette
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines
What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips
Some heading for evening tales
What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix
What if; it wasn't a lockdown night
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list-
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms
What if; it wasn't a lockdown
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust
“Absinthe”
Ancient petite green fairy,
dispenser of dreams vivid
In bar corners; this artistic
Madam, beckons the unwary.
Dignity falls beneath each pour,
dispenser of solitude encapsulates
between torn silk; its perfumed
whore, mont Venus in folklore.
Spinning giddy a celestial passion
dispenser of maggots all consuming
ego remains scattered; spilt lipped
wife, her lovers as dogs of a-fashion.
Oh petite liquid fairy so green
dispenser of timeless moon time
cold laying broken; a smudged jack
heart, jackass bitten, pale so lean.
Swirling in an andromeda ceiling
dispenser of ruination vomit bound,
breasts motion blurred; faceless mother
substitute, this fairy, with dawn deceiving .
When Filey's rebel rousing rats,
Were terrorising local cats,
Who would not engage in rodent wars
Refusing even, to go outdoors.
No match for rats, that scavenge scraps,
Instead they sat on old maids laps.
While alley cats who acted tough,
Those rabid rats ignored their bluff.
Until George Burton's name, became folklore
When he destroyed those vermin, by the score.
And with his most aggressive stance,
Those rodents simply, never had a chance.
Then he would say, when quite certain.
Another one's down, it's gone for a Burton.
1/ 10/ 2022.
This is a rather whimsical tribute to the pest controller
George Burton. Who helped the town of Filey North Yorkshire
to maintain health and safety. As a request from his granddaughter.
The story of the thirsty crow,
heard during school days as we grew...
How best in it its wisdom used,
to quench its thirst that summer day
An efficient use of available resource,
to realise a fruitful purpose..
A display of prowess in its fullest sheen,
a situational managerial skill !
Relating crow with intelligence is
not just a random chance factor
Research has already proven that-
This ave is witty and wiser!
Strong in memory,mimicry and
understanding humans as well..
How well this bird integrates in our life
with its adaptive behavioural skill!!!
Elegant black and beautiful
dissolved in it every shade...
Leads a gregarious life,
Shares its food, whenever it finds,
with its kith and kin...
Spreading a message of joy in sharing
and a cordial social life!!!
Chooses a single partner all its life,
Builds its nest, feeds the young,
Protects and nutures them with love ..
Family values and responsibility, I wonder
how it plans and executes so well!!!
Corvus brachyrhynchus-
this is its scientific name...
Genus corvus has in it species numbering forty
American crow, hooded crow, house crow....
List stretches in continuity!
Oh crow! You have your place in
every walk of life!
Research, religion, ritual,
Mythology, folklore, cultural...
Irish mythology sees in you- Morrigan,
God of death and birth
Hindu religion regards you as
their departed ancestor!
Tibetian buddhists associate you with Mahakala
Omens of you are believed to bring
signals from the uncanny world!
You are treated as a connecting link in
the cycle of birth and death!
Oh darling crow! Cheers to you!
This poem in thy name!
A werewolf can be a shape-shifter,
I have never seen a werewolf drifter.
You change just like the weather,
are you good~bad~together
I love you anyway and forever.
Date Written: 5/5/2022
Honorable Mention
Note: Shape-shifting can be found in folklore, mythology and in fiction.
They say, it is the ability to physically change one's self. Example: Changing from a person into a werewolf or into a vampire.
Shapeshifters and Shapeshifting Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent
A barefoot lad, in blue overalls, laying in a meadow
of green growing clover appearing to slumber,
His green Irish hat lies over his face under
the shadow of a willow.
A pot of fantasy Irish gold sits by his shoulder.
In whisper snore, and relationship
with nature’s warmth fellowship
And wondering thoughts of plunder
A poetic vision in the figure of an Irish rover,
A high boisterous fun with mischief of sin
feeling the senses of lilt rhythm within,
music, song, scenery, and good weather
He steals a look at the stars carrying
in the day and a benediction it finds.
The harmony of being together, a meeting of the minds,
an instinct that is stronger than his upbringing.
What came, that which is unseen on our island home before
For a flavor of a rainbow and a mystical Leprechaun and blame
the thrill to the eyes. And plunder his gold and hope he won't reclaim
Triumph on the lore of his essence of identity and not blarney Irish folklore
8/27/2016
Five Rhyming Stanza's - 5 only - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
abba rhyme scheme