Long Folktales Poems
Long Folktales Poems. Below are the most popular long Folktales by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Folktales poems by poem length and keyword.
The Maiden of Carbury Hill
I remember a story told of a red-haired girl who never grew old,
who died when there came a great famine.
In one pale hand she owned a sheep's knucklebone,
the other a sprig of winter jasmine.
Though her kin all left for distant shores she still lies in repose,
near the ruins of Carbury castle in Ireland.
Irish lore has it written that the lass was once smitten,
with a young lad who went off to war and then died in.
Alas, it's been long that she's been dead and gone,
listen.., you can still hear her mournful tune.
She sings when gales blow near two barrows of old,
o'er the green heath nestled 'neath Carraigdhoun.
Crestfallen, he sails through still waters where dwells, Kilcullen's lost daughters,
well preserved in the dark peat bog of Carbury.
Be careful where your feet fall lest you join them in the deep halls,
where the lost maidens of Own na Buidhe lie buried.
A Sitka Sunset
Mute wind chimes on the Totem Trail
Ring through purple mists in
Platinum testimony to evergreens adorned in dusk
And leftovers from raindrops splashing from totem beaks,
Cedar poles rise from dense fogs
Of myths and warriors and family lore
Shrouding thunderbirds in legends as day retreats.
Life cycles carved in family crests on tribal poles,
Guardians of the lodge with ancient ancestry
In pounding drums of blue-violet
Borrowed from aurora’s glistening breath -
Neon rose from realms of the faithful midnight sun.
Wide eyed, the trickster’s face looks
Upon long violet hours of summer nightfall,
A borealis golden glow on still waters
Recalls the carvers awl and plane
Tools that capture crystal enchantment
Like newborn waves from Orca’s fluke.
Eagle, bear and beaver, with sentient eyes,
Bathed in fragile rose of a waxing strawberry moon,
Follow long sunbeams wending through forest trails
In twilight colored prisms
For silent storytellers,
Prophetic voices chant through days of midnight
And frail twilights
On the Totem’s Trail as sunset rises.
5-24-23
Contest: Sitka Alaska Sunset
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
In Alaskan folktales the Raven is the trickster
Thunderbirds, bears, orcas, beavers, eagles are prominent on totem poles made of cedar.
In Sitka there is a park displaying totem poles.
Cliché’
"Nothing comes to a sleeper but a dream", While I slept I tried to figure out how "death looked eating a soda cracker". It's very poetic yet makes no sense. No one stops to think things through; People just say things because someone said it to them.
Cliche's are fun -Some over used - Some have gotten " lost in the sauce " but they make a powerful direct point with fewer words.
I believe I hated it when I was told that "you don't believe fat meat is greasy" Well, people hated to answer questions back then and when I’d ask them to prove what they were stating they would say the “proof is in the pudding” -"Yeah right"...!
They had no proof to back up their stupid claims on subjects that were taboo- Knowingly, the answers
I sought were not "as plain as the nose on my face”... But what they said about
“no good deed going unpunished” seemed truer than them all.
Now Cliche's are different from Stereo types: When someone talks foolishly they could be told “you talk like a duck with no beak” Even a dunce could understand what that must have sounded like. Cliche’ yes, but very easy to describe a foolish person, that quacks horrible.
"If I knew then; What I know now". I would have challenged the old cliche terminology. “youth is wasted on the young". “I say that, to say this”. Actually I had more wisdom as a youth; because, It hurt me not to know things, Not knowing could even kill me.
(what you don’t know, won’t hurt you) So untrue.
.
As a youth "I had the time of my life”; Understood as much as any senior, and appreciated the wit and humor that figurative and literal the cliches' gave to our blues, songs, and our folktales -- Since "all is well that ends well “
I will end this prose by saying two of my favorite cliches' are "What's understood needs no explanation" Cliches are a real fun part of our language, poetry, and Metaphorical Prose.
If you don't agree then "grits ain’t groceries” “eggs ain’t poultry"...and "Mona Lisa was a man".!
She is more than a tourguide
but a warrior within her soul
who is a champion of Bahamian hospitality ambassador of the natural environment
and a pioneer with a spirit
for creativity and innovation
quenching the thirst
of her progressive mindset
where curiosity is her superpower
She is a teacher and a storyteller
who set the standard for visitors
and how to become a true, true Bahamian
through historical landmarks, folktales, cuisine
Rake and Scrape, bush medicine
blueholes and endemic birds
to create an atmosphere
where everyone would recieve
the Bahamian VIP experience
whether they are from Miami,
Puerto Rico, China, or The Netherlands
She is a visionary and servant leader
behind the warrior found within her
ahead of her time
who is very selfless and approachable
always willing to put the necesities
of her team ahead of her own accolades
like a tree feeding Pigeon Plums and Seagrapes
to the White Crowned Pigeons
instilling inspiration in their hearts
to become more than only tourguides
but to become the guardians and stewards
of the authentic Bahamian adventure
for generations to come
The summer has thickened,
it has turned the hare into a dervish,
the raccoon to a pantomime villain,
made mice sing in the beaks of owls.
The woods are bare now
trees rattle, grackles cackle,
blue Ice chimes in the deep freeze.
Witches flirt and flit
They have skeleton corsets,
they ride upon racks of lamb.
Their mousy, grey moon petticoats
are tattered by thorns.
By December the land crunches
under tread, the snow creaks
like a an unearthed catacomb.
Reckless children are lost
In the rumors of dark folktales.
The year turns, tinder burns,
lovers remember an inner climate
where limbs blush
when kissed by a kindness
as soft as sunlit rain.
Now and then, and yet again,
clouds circle a bright fanlight
of sky.
Seasons return only to sail
on by.
While we dwell to this dreidel,
I seek to know before a sear,
Even in the most ineluctable dandle,
The fruit to which may indeed bear;
In the imbue oblivion, I tell a riddle,
Most morass yet merely in fear,
For the sake of fiduciary wheedle,
Let me share with you my compadre,
The reason for this lachrymose!
We seek solace, I seek a motley,
Of a jejune yet quite leonine__
I’m carrying a huge cornucopia;
__And the temerity to extirpate
The gloaming quiddity, the fireflies.
With my cries not perceptible;
And this sandbag is too heavy a burden;
The earthquake of demands,
With the hallucination of needs,
Have starved my conscience Mekeba!
For I do not come to you by chance,
By chance found you in my utopia.
To be a man calls for a hybrid of habits,
The fluctuation which efface intrinsic,
Hapless of a jaded impaired grift.
To be a suitable snitch in the sight,
Of your serene pugilism with skylark,
A batty revelation of chains of choice!
An honest opinion of soft sips.....
A turpitude scent of petals niche,
The jurassic meld of mundane’s prig.
In my desolate the burning throbs,
The anxiety to revert my paunch,
The antithesis of the flamboyant story;
The entangled facts from the realities
This is the precarious situation smelling,
Around the jungle with fear or shame.
The ornery of your aesthetic breach,
And they vaunted to a great suffice,
Tales of a teller telling them in a folktales.
Everyone with his own dilemma;
In the gamut of this conjecture,
Who will help me muster this burden?
I have reached the dovetail for perfection
For I’m no longer a peer, so I see different,
From the way I saw ages ago in oblique.
This pot of inferno has exploded and this fire,
The inscrutable fire has engulfed my head,
I’m burning in clandestine fray....
I’m in moribund and so I bloviate for help,
In this helpless world that help only the dead!!.
Locked in the pages of a book
I find sanctuary, a quiet nook,
Where I often retreat and find
the kindest heart, the vilest mind.
Whenever I feel like getting away
From the rigors of life on any day,
I step through the portals of a book
into a fantasy world and take a look:
At the mythical realms of dragons
Fairies, nymphs, demons, gorgons,
At the dreams, adventures and magic
of life and death purpose and logic;
Folktales of love, miracles, covenants
Of knights, heroes and revenants,
Of saints, seers, demigods and mystics,
Priests, pundits, mullahs and clerics.
A vast chronicle of betrayal of trust
of reverence, innocence and lust,
Of deceit, debauchery and debacles
of witches, vampires and oracles.
Deeds of dictators, despots, czars
The chaotic world of wasteful wars,
swarming with malicious mobs,
fawners, snivelers and slimy slobs.
Be it poetry, mystery or tragedy
Racy romance, fantasy, comedy,
Oh, just give me but a book any
I will forgo a damsel’s company.
In the Library contest by Isaiah Zerbst
But wherever you are, I no longer want to be:
for you are thunderstruck moonlight,
and I am a scarred sunset ~ a secret in saffron,
melting into the myth that floats forever,
within silenced dunes of scorpion stones,
where the cryptic coldness of sand feels like~
Cupid’s daggers piercing through
my aching skin and bones.
Frost-kissed vines wrap around
my wintry heart,
screaming for a sacred release
from the tethered torment
of satanic sapphires,
breathing within the haunted caves
of unending nightmares ~
and the twilight that wanes
behind flatlined promises.
Tonight, I feel like arrows of angst,
ricocheting within these woeful walls
of my melancholic mausoleum,
mirroring the heat of a burning breeze ~
like an epitaph lost in the sweltering air.
The clover of golden green glimmers,
like fireflies around my wrists,
luring distant ravens,
croaking above paralyzed dreams,
to untangle the crooked lines of lies,
crawling within clouds of comfort,
oblivious to Lilith’s serpent slithering
around my fragile feet in slow cadence,
pushing me to the darker dusks
drawn above the prying
valley of putrid prunes,
where these wistful musings
will remain as mere voiceless ashes,
cremated in vain,
with flames of forgotten folktales
echoing as faded music within a glass urn.
So, if tomorrow I’m gone, remember me ~
I still breathe silver snippets of hope,
a frozen quiescence,
etched in seven arcs of stardust,
longing to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps as the last verse of your poem,
or could I be the lone rose,
forever thriving in the galactic gardens of love,
where hate and greed, tangled in
jinxed jewels,
dissolve into nothingness ~
like rusted ribbons of the crestfallen lunar.
I hope lilacs and lavenders will bloom
in hypnotic hues, to calm raging rivers flowing
within the arctic arteries of a dark poet,
longing for a home
away from hellish hands,
so I can serenade songs of survival
and rhapsodies of resilience,
while watching every tear I’ve shed
crystallize into pearls and diamonds,
like born-again stars in violet skies.
I am the mother of chaos and beauty,
You can either love or hate me.
I behold the mythology of the Greek gods,
The book of Folktales you been told.
I am your oracle, you seek my guidance,
At night you come to tell me all your dreams and secrets.
I gave you my strength to be strong and bold, like a Taurus bull,
Or cunning and deceiving, using my Scorpion sting.
Some of you are mesmerized by my beauty,
I bring the Virgo out in you, to be complex and still lovely.
As I sail over the seven seas, your curiosity, captured me,
My Pisces personality watches you calmly, wishing we are like Gemini.
But because I am also chaos and not only bring hope,
Libra judges you with her scales,
And when I convicted you,
Sagittarius released his arrow and gave you pain.
During the day I hide like a hermit Crab, away from your eyes,
Not to see how my loneliness feel.
But remember I will always be on your subconscious mind,
Because I am the Constellations, you need me.
Lithe, light and lovely, Luanna mourned her elf friend’s death
Wearing the flowers he had always loved, increased her grief.
The rest of the fey understood her predicament,
the meadow was empathetic, eager to help, enthusiastic about her.
Her gossamer wings were pearlized, shining in the moonlight
She said a prayer for her buddy, and then the dancing began
Festivities included frolicking, florals, and faerie folktales
Elvin, her friend, would have loved this.
He would have raised a glass and told the best stories
A nymph came by and said “I loved him too”
Then the stories began; not as great as his, but close….