Long Folktale Poems
Long Folktale Poems. Below are the most popular long Folktale by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Folktale poems by poem length and keyword.
It's about time we talk of ruins.
So, let us talk, for you never know,
How long ears of hope will remain receptive.
Your lips are missing, and your kisses fall,
Like ripe plums and tint my confession,
Like coffee stains with smell of rust.
Looking back, dreams had stories,
About laughters blooming in dews on trembling grass,
With roots growing into layers of blue skies.
That dark sweater you began knitting,
Lies lifeless by a woollen ball,
Like buried half of a rainbow.
My greys are silvery now, and my smile
Looks like a scar, but my heart
Keeps shredding dead skins.
Footprints covered by caddish shadows
Of hubristic tongues,
Never to be retraced, and
The wish to carry your whispers beyond life,
Scavenged by beaks of time,
Is nothing but a piece of
History's torn chorion.
Entangled in my pensive repentance,
Memory of a girl (assuming),
Whose playful steps ruefully erased
Even before she was assisted into the world,
Stares back from an obsolete painting.
I sense blood seething in my veins,
But with no ill-will.
If only i could stop this hour from passing away,
And touch life one more time,
Gently and wisely, perhaps sweet palpitations
Would be heard knocking from within.
Lying in the heap of fallen bricks
Of dilapidated castle of Eros,
Where, once upon a time,
Our romance was folktale for angels and fairies,
I'm supposed to be bleeding the high-noon sun
To feed yesterday's vampiric fleas.
My body no longer lives on bread and grains,
But on tears and prayers, and
Keeps on living, surprising the undertaker and
my foes,
Who begin to think
I am here to stay indefinitely.
So, I labour to hasten my swan song
To gladden those who want to witness my exit.
The yarn with which
I began weaving a flag,
Has been sold to brothels of politics,
Where patriotism is only a slang
In perorations of capricious pimps.
My nights are haunted by ghosts
Of betrayed slogans
I once coined on fisting graffiti.
Standing amidst graves of words
Spoken inconspicuously,
I see soldiers placing putrid shocks and
Ugly boots
On books strewn across the floor
Of my old school's library
Which is now a fortified barrack.
But when I see tombs sleeping like babies,
In quietness of a cemetery,
I beg you -
Don't let me die without a wound, and
Even if it is in pretensive nostalgia,
Bury me with bloodstained kiss.
Gratitude suffuses me today
at prospect to plumb the depths
of a fledgling friendship
(respecting fidelity to wife)
even one bound
within the parameters of cyberspace,
I feel courtesy your amazing grace
figuratively stitching omnipotent binding
with virtual satin and lace
proceeding cautiously to experience
belonging to human rat race.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail,
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine),
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logical, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than
nine inch rusty nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
Adieu from Matthew Scott Harris
who tapped out this message
while holed up in his mancave
situated within Southeastern Pennsylvania.
I have a slavery folktale of my own
I am Mae Rock, and I was once a slave
Always taught being black you must behave
How did I get the name Mae Rock?
I was named for Unbreakable, Unstoppable and Strong as a Solid Rock
The Plantation owner named me that for that very reason
I would often rebel after being beaten and refused the plantation ways
I knew I had to getaway
During those slavery years, you would find me reading the word and praying morning, Noon and night
One slavery night, I tried to escape
I crossed the river that was in South Carolina on state line heading for North Carolina
Ever so close leading to the North
When morning came, the plantation owner discovered I was gone
They had their dogs to track my scent and foot prints, but because I went through the river, they loss total track of me
I was determined to never go back to the plantation nor slavery live again
Sometimes I would tire, but knew I had to push on with all inner strength I could muster
The Lord guided me throughout my journey
I met fellow slaves along the way
In my Southern Draw is all I knew
I encouraged the other slaves to make their way North and escape to Freedom
Mae Rock’s words were, “You have to live and breathe as any person walking this Godly Earth. The Heavenly skies spells “Freedom”. The ways of the oppressed plantation owners could no longer being tolerated”
Suddenly a crack of Thunder, Flash of Lightning came along with the pouring rain and a rush of the mighty winds
It was decreed at that very moment that all slaves had to be free
It was as if that was God’s decree, and he had spoken
Freedom came loud and strong
All the slaves knew where they belonged
Head North for a better life
Mighty and true
Success in pursue
Mae Rock’s Legacy for generations to come, “Live out your dreams with spirit and destiny. Be true to yourself and to others. Don’t ever be silent, but always vocal. Time will come in your favor, but you must believe”
A Slavery Folk song says “Dance before the Lord as he is the melody through circumstance, and breaks all barriers. Enrich your mind and voice on one accord. It’s assurance that comes from the Lord”
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine)
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logi, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
No man's too small to hoist a helping hand,
Nor any a deed too small if well-meant,
Nor a task too tough for a noble end,
Mind can if means can't make a mighty dent.
A journey of a daunting task off shore
Begins with but a single step forward,
‘Drop by drop filleth lakes’ is no vain lore,
An ounce of action… oft have we this heard.
Many a learned man knows this truth well,
But rather than help he spins hyper hypes.
Intention matters more, how a squirrel
Strove to earn mythical laurels and stripes,
So goes a tiny squirrel's tallest lore,
Silent did she work building a barrage—
An episode from an epic of yore,
So sang sage Valmiki of ancient age.
A folktale, an aside from Ramayana:
Rama's spouse abducted was to an isle—
Confined to a far off spot by Ravana,
That came camouflaged in a monk's fair guile.
When lured and mislead by a golden deer,
That too was the demon's bewitching guile,
In stealth when cried out, ‘O Lakshman, my dear',
And destiny unfolded in a while.
In Rama's voice the wily demon cried,
And Sita beseeched Lakshman, forcing him
To render help; what followed, a bad dream,
For, Ravan waited hiding in monk's hide.
The search began thence in woods and deep vales,
Hilly terrains, meadows and leas and dales,
And they came searching to where ends the land,
An ocean spread forth, looking like no friend.
Hanuman, Rama's key aid, a legend,
To whom no task too big was, such was he,
Then volunteered to leap across the land
To luring Lanka, a land across sea.
And returned soon with hopeful but sad tale:
Captive Sita’s safe in Ravan's red hands,
Who, in no mood peace parleys to avail,
Oh had to be dealt with on Lankan sands.
________________________________________
Originally Ramayana was written in Sanskrit by Valmiki, a sage who was a fierce bandit in his early life.
Epic | 06.04.13 |
Continued in Part II
I. Daybreak
what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses
the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble
here the old Norges and RCAs
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard
the scattered habits of a mechanic
early chests exhale
crankshafts turn
Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb
II. Kids
dirt streaked
all our bellies were round
dirt streaked
consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs
dirt streaked
we all ate dirt
dug tunnels
played trucks
dirt streaked
the swing set whistled
rocking hard
in the recesses
of an afternoon
III. Locked
the day lost in some
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist
locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads
fixed like the eyes of the
police
it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking
why housewives keep doing
their laundry
IV. Production
nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out
come secretaries
run with the wolves again*
migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words
for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls
the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original
cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington
coal miners
dig loose the words
hiding under Kentucky
the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
the pot of a quiet army
let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms
* Taken from an old folktale
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
THE ISLANDS OF SAN JUAN - TIMESHARE
[FOLKTALE]
IN A PORTION, A SPELL IS CASTE.
THE PEOPLE ARE CALLED NUGLUMMI.
IN A TRANCE STATE, THEY EAT HONEY AND BEES ARE FORM FROM THEIR EYES.
INSIGHTFULLY THEY BEGIN TO TRANSFORM THE TERRAIN AND ISLANDS FORMED FOR THE FREEDOM OF WOMAN AND MAN.
THE PEOPLE OF THE SEA ARE FREE IN THE PUGET SOUNDS.
DOUGLAS FIR GROWS TALL.
THE LANDSCAPE IS EVERGREEN AND THE LUMMIS ARE SALISAN.
DIALECTIC VERSIONS OF THIS LANGUAGE ARE POSSESSED.
THEIR LOGIC IS HOW THEY TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES.
*
THE PENINSULA THAT RESIDES IN THEIR TOPOGRAPHY IS VAST IN SHAPE AND FASHIONED BY THE UNINHABITED PORTAGE ISLAND WHERE THEIR RESERVED LAND NOW LAYS. LIKE MANY NORTHWEST COAST TRIBES, THEY GASTRONOMY CONSISTS OF THE COLLECTING OF SHELLFISH, GATHERING OF PLANTS SUCH AS CAMAS AND DIFFERENT SPECIES OF BERRIES, AND MOST IMPORTANT, AS SALMON FISHERMEN, THEY DEVELOPED “REEF NETTING.”
THEY ENJOY POTLATCH ON THE ORCAS ISLAND, SAN JUAN ISLAND, LUMMI ISLAND, FIDALGO ISLAND, PORTAGE ISLAND, AND NEAR POINT ROBERTS AND SANDY POINT.
IN ALL NUGLUMMI, WERE COMMERCIAL TO THEIR TRADE.
THEY GREATER HARVEST IS TODAY.
THE PADDLE TO LUMMI IS 68 CANOEING FAMILIES PADDLING HAND-MADE CANOES TO THE LUMMI RESERVATION FROM PARTS OF WASHINGTON STATE AND BRITISH COLUMBIA.
**
[TODAY]
THESE ISLANDS OF THE PUGET SOUNDS IS TOO FAR AWAY TO HEAR.
WITH A GRAIN OF SALT, THE SEA SWEEPS THE BEACH.
REMEMBRANCE IS IN WALKING SILENTLY AND HEARING THE TRIBAL SINGING IN SALISH.
THESE ISLANDS ARE A CASTAWAYS HAVEN – A HARBOR OF CONTENTMENT, WHICH LAY IN BRITISH COLUMBIA AND THE NORTHWESTERN UNITED STATES.
ROMANTIC ENDEAVORS ARE BASED ON YOUR IMAGINATION.
THESE ARE THE SAN JUAN ISLANDS OF WASHINGTON STATE.
MAY YOUR VISIT BE SAFE!
***
"If we have a cracked vessel we may discard it because of its fault, however, true love is knowing a person’s faults, and loving them even more for them." Quote by: Rabindranath Tagore
The story of "The Cracked Pot" doesn't have a single, definitive origin but is a widely circulated folktale with versions found in various cultures, including India and China. Its roots are most likely ancient, with variations attributed to China, India, Morocco, and even the spiritual tradition of Zen Buddhism. Contest Name: Myth & Memory Sponsor: Vanya Evangeline
________________________________________
Carrying two large pots, they were heavy for the old lady.
She carried them at twilight when it was cool and shady.
Daily she brought them far to collect water from the stream.
Someone to unburden her, from her load was her dream.
Reaching the stream, she would fill each pot to the brim.
One pot was cracked, chances of it staying full were slim.
She’d empty both pots into a huge tub shaped like a bath.
One pot would be quite full. One leaked and only held half.
Still every day the old lady completed this arduous task.
The leaky pot spoke and said,” I have a question to ask.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
She replied.” Didn’t you noticed I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
Your Crack does the job of giving the flowers a shower.
And dear pot, all those colourful flowers as I walk, I adore.
When you were perfect, I loved you, when you were not, I loved you more.”
The First Texian Macabre Arena Ballad (The extended free-fallen edition)
In another life, is where I first saw your face!
One summer afternoon, lying wounded next to the dead
Unopened gun powder, mass destruction, a land of disgrace
A blood thirst battlefield is where I first saw your face
The sound of war, hidden behind bleeding hands
Crawlers, render their lives giving grace
Jaws of steel, broken, embracing, warm feelings
Summer rain, lungs filled with blood, one last post
Glorious by numbers, screaming blades
Gemstone in touch with the Holy Ghost
Soldiers come in a little close
Crawling, missing limbs,
Twisted nightmare with no ending
Macabre reminder, retracing the aroma of eternal life
Secrets buried like a treasure under walls of sudden death
Revolutionary tears found on a rusted Bowie knife
Lanterns, crackling against the dying wind
Dirt piles of crushed windpipes -- sudden death
Rummage like garbage, the dead Texian
A Falling Alamo Star, taking one last twinkle upon the sky
Forgotten Patriots, I can't remember the names
Written on walls, I can't remember the names
A folktale arena is where I first saw your face
Fairness of stuttered surrender slicing through iron brace
Crawling, with the hunger to live, a clean finish with grace
Exposing, scars needing mother's hands, mothers face
Across infested meadows, the aroma of burning skin
Distant, before Texas and her annexation,
Gruesome, before I lived, Texas and her mortal sin
I pledge, my love, the honor, a legion, I'm a full blown Texian
To Every Forgotten Texian Patriot----- We Win!
By: PD
Mysteries into mysterious
The thought just makes one curious
History having accounts within its own log
The wonders through the creation of the seas
1871 was a year when cargo ships would sail through unchartered waters of LAST CHANCE ALLEY would often disappear
The crews were never found
Some say the Devil would be aboard their ships
But there is no record of witnesses who can contest to that
All you hear and feel are the sea breezes
Many ships dare not to go through Last Chance Alley fearing that their ship would be loss and never be seen again
Captains and crews heard stories about Last Chance Alley, but feel the name should be changed to PROHIBITED ALLEY
Mysterious doesn’t make it obvious
Once mystery still a mystery
History has stated the Devil being disgusted as a monster aboard all the previous downed ships
One would think the many storms feeling like a monster itself
Imaginations gone wild
Some see Fishy ship tale being folktale
Perhaps it surrounds too much ale
Yet many ships have disappeared without any findings or known abouts
What’s the reason, and why no investigations out?
Unknowns still uncertain
A torn curtain with splits could be a beware
Was it the sea or storms themselves being lies of the Devil Sea?
We can only guess the many assumptions being nothing conclusive
Only suggestive
The Devil’s revenge
Myth or theory?
We will never know
We don’t know what is happening below
Maneuver your mind and continue to wonder
Devil Sea with an evil approach
Madness and controlling
Fulfilling in offsetting