Long Storybook Poems
Long Storybook Poems. Below are the most popular long Storybook by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Storybook poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh, give me a nook and a storybook
there at my mother’s knee.
Or tucked in bed, a pillow at my head
as father reads to me.
To hear nursery rhymes - wonderful times
when Mother used my name
inside a rhyme. Oh, for childhood sublime!
Old age is not the same!
Of Cinderella and a cute fella
I used to listen to.
Romantic the tale where all ended well,
and love they said was true.
But I’d graduate from my childlike state.
Alone I soon would read
less beautiful things, in which a prince brings
no rose; instead, a weed.
Oh, to return to before I could learn
of life’s realities!
Where endings were good I’d go if I could
reliving memories.
In that nook I’d be, my mother with me
where books I’d learned to love.
That would be enough because it’s the stuff
fairy tales are made of!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The castle is bold on the blue beyond, rising upon the hill as if its stones are created from the sun's early morning rays. It appears like a storybook creation--each stone even and square. I imagine unicorns dwelling in the courtyard. “If those towers exist, why not?”
turrets' pointed tips
reaching for the morning dew
humble, sacred place
the battlements, worn
time's gentle touch, a patina
stories whispered there
in each stone and brick
stories, secrets, and tales
mystical delights
courtyard’s silent, deep
fountains sing sweet melodies
magic in the air
in each tower's keep
faith, hope, and prayer take flight
touching morning's light
In a story book, I got stuck
and couldn’t find a way to break free.
What a lousy day, just my luck!
Wondered why this happened to ME!
I looked for little Alice, she
wouldn't show me her window – dumbstruck!
Jack Horner, he could not believe
in a story book, I got stuck.
I looked all around and snuck
a brief word with the fairies three.
They tried to raise a pumpkin truck
and couldn’t find a way to break free.
With all my might and self-esprit
I began to huff, puff, and cluck.
What could I do stuck on page three?
What a lousy day, just my luck!
What a mess was this stinking muck.
Aha! I’d find Humpty Dumpty!
He was cracked, but not a schmuck.
Wondered why this happened to ME!
Humpty cheered when hearing my plea
He was looking to gain a buck.
No wallet, we two couldn’t agree,
so I am still running amuck
in a story book.
Of those to admire, or crusaders we've known
pulled from the movies, or comic-book clones
there is one to consider, I wish I had known.
I'll say "Mr. Rogers", and eyebrows will raise.
Considered, perhaps an unlikely name.
Not the hero we're used to or one to seek fame.
Just an everyday fellow, with a soft-velvet voice
Humble, and gentle, you might call an odd choice.
With a gentleman's warmth, he would open the door,...
then ask us to join him for a neighborly while.
He arrived on the scene when my children were small.
Would reach for his sweater, from a hook on the wall,
and, change into sneakers that lay on the floor.
Inviting us in with a comfortable smile
He opened that door to a new state of mind.
Never demeaning, always thoughtful, and never unkind.
Puppets and people, and storybook poems,
and a neighborhood trolley that always came home!
The postman, McFeely, and Lady Elaine...
A neighbor called Aber, and memories to frame.
Each day was a lesson, with uplifting traces,
taking my children to other-world places
Yet, what mattered the most, was a presence with heart.
His endearing examples, and the lessons he taught
such as loving your neighbor, or helping a friend,
or how grief could be softened, when worlds come to end.
He encouraged our children to take things out of that box,
when parents got tongue-tied, or stumbled a lot.
He could gently, with wisdom, look into their eyes.
where they found understanding, and the lessons of life.
How do we describe our heroes today?
Do they kill and destroy, and the enemy slayed?
Have we not learned the message that came softly spoken?
Our children still listen and will thrive or be broken.
Some will look for their heroes in the comic-book craze.
I'll claim Mr. Rogers ..... as a hero today.
________________________________________
the witches creed was “to no creature do harm”
jealous men were annoyed by their confidence
Brothers Grimm used witches as storybook villains
attempting to take them down a couple of notches
witches were always for the greater good
they were gardeners, nurturers, and healers
Their balms and remedies were created to help others
jealous men twisted their cauldrons into evil instruments
I hope that men do know the difference between right and wrong.
My life’s creed depends on it; it is “be yourself always”.
I imagine the witch-tormentors must have figured it out.
If they had not, the Salem Witch trials would be happening today.
I like to think that they were horrified when the innocent drowned.
Proof they were not witches.
I like to think we shun away from evil.
My mantra “be yourself always” is not meant for serial killers.
The family was in a state of distress
The mom stood pleading with the dad in her pink dress
The motif on the fireplace was quite elaborate
On the table nearby stood a vase, with flowers to decorate
The pattern on the rug was of exquisite design
And the room was well furnished, very refined
Father stood sternly his pants tucked in his boots
They were in shock as they found out the truth
Attired in a white dress, their daughter sat in a chair
looking forlorn and filled with despair
As her" beau" stood by the fireplace across the room
The whole house had an air of gloom
The young lass was pregnant and she had no groom!
Her dad was outraged by this devastating news
And was ready to beat up her "beau"
Her mom pled with her dad
Saying "Please don't harm the lad"
The young man did not come to ask for her hand in marriage
Causing the family's reputation to be disparaged
To add insult to injury the lad said he was already married ! (mother was in tears)
This was too much for the father to bear
On that fateful day one shot was fired
And there by the fireplace the young man expired
No storybook ending, no happily ever after
But love did triumph....a father's love for his daughter
In the quiet whispers of the night,
I hear the impending dawn chuckle
a shadow verse
of glimpse of soon-coming,
like a white horse, hero of a romance looming.
Blue sides echo with turn,
a long standing joy taking burn.
But down in the water below,
Leviathan stealths, deep and low,
in demi-urge- surging,- mingling with
the flowing pangea of dreams,
a birth pang showing.
mirrored creation phi relativity.
As I listen to the water's song,
On nights where reflection reflects strong,
It seeps into my being, magnetically long
Becoming part of my very throes in ideallic throngs.
The quietness creeps into every nook,
worn sense lingers in each shadowed look-
looking back.
A heavy burden I must brook,
cup it into my hand at my appearance took.
Yet in the midst of all the pangs,
pancreatic paleolithic lithographic phi heart strings.
Smoking jackets - storybook glistening spines,
nightcapped bungalows of review and time.
Love still shines through- in endless flame,
in projector rewind of black and white
memories seeking colors divine.
Life, though fleeting, is not in vain,
though it endlessly tortures me,
it also brings lights and
thunder and quenching rains.
What truly matters, that is what will be,
bee to remain for my queen.
Through avenues of the dead intertwined with mine?
In this life, my purpose I find-
sticks and stones, haphazard bones of
nothing but stark reality, alone.
That is, what we will sea.
The Deep,
of matters keeped.
My thoughts of rose- picked by hues of meter
by my sense of prose in
magic's clothe s.
Or is it salt-peter.
She walks around wearing the biggest smile
But those who really kno her see right thru her disguise
Knowing its only there to hide the pain and the tears that fill her eyes
The emotions that only come out in the dead of night
She spends all day trying to fight
But alone at night she knows what lonely feels like
And everything she hides inside finds its way out
Everyone she’s ever loved, those who’ve let her down
Those are the things she finds herself thinking about
All the words she didn’t have the courage to say
Again and again in her head they replay
The ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could’ve been’
If she’d only done things a little differently
A tear falls as the start to another sad song begins
Another blank sheet of paper and another pen
Writing has become her secret escape
That being said another poem comes to an end
But soon very soon
She’ll find herself here again
To tell of another tale
Or in this case…
Another story of what seems to be
Just another ordinary day
In this storybook starring me!!!!
Millions of lives and souls untold
And to account it all
Words, lines, films
Imagination trims
A sliver of soft, scarlet ribbon
Hollywood rounds
Quills deliver
Writers flare with passion so strong
Filling minds with fantasies, reveries, histories
Tragedies
We consume it all like freshly baked bread
We feed until we are engorged and fed
A viral, universal mess
Ideas and unmade memories
Nothing more or less
My eyes remain glued to the screen
Living it all out
Tears dare to flow—to doubt
I should have thought of that
Can I truly let myself believe,
Someone else lived that!
Pound away your directors, script-writers, fighters
For miles and miles of stories remain unread
While the unknown remain in the grounds of humble malnourishment
Dead
Careers for the mind with a twist of the fable
Left us savage for the meal and the crumbs under the table
I can never let the raw truth rest
Naked, bare and empty—soothed
Nothing more or less
I cringed for originality
Observed the world through the unedited scripts
The very act, the poetry pact
The wild animal drooling in the back
I was slapped in the face by my boss who had cracked
As the reviews bloated less and less
They wanted something awful, something flaw-ful—something new
And this empty brain in agony—HISSED
I have lived in no epic battle of account
Of the collateral sufferings of my brothers
The stories the red carpet smothers
And still I ache to create
Before the other ones discover
I returned with ‘‘oh me’s’ and ‘oh my’s’’
With a work of pure genius—a storybook of lies
Nothing more or less
Little have I lacked to dream
Of contortioned pulls and dramatic fire
Stories that rarely brittle or tire
I fiddled with precious glass on edge
Foully eager for self-damage
As if it would trigger some legitimate spark
Searching for creatures and features in the dark
No one unlocked the passage that night
For the starving idea-parched malice of right
But all welcomed with open arms
A pale mannequin filled with jewels and charms
Consuming, fuming dooming
All ghosts hoping, screaming, looming
Hoping that one day they would find themselves on the big screen
Their legacy real as it can possibly get
Nothing more or less
In Philadelphia, in the year 1929,
an actress was born that had a career that was fine.
Grace Kelly, the daughter of Jack and Margaret Kelly,
came from quite a distinguished Irish Catholic family.
Her father was successful as a self-made millionaire;
her brother, an Olympian and town councilman there.
Grace’s uncle Walter Kelly was a vaudeville actor,
and Uncle George Kelly, a Pulitzer-winning writer.
Any film critic would tell you her acting was quite good.
She was one of the beautiful women in Hollywood.
Among her films were, “Fourteen Hours”, “High Noon”, and “Mogambo”,
and Alfred Hitchcock’s “Dial M for Murder” and “Rear Window”.
For “The Country Girl”, she won the Oscar for Best Actress.
In several other major films, Grace made great progress.
Included with “The Swan”, her other great pictures would be
“To Catch a Thief“, “Green Fire” and “The Bridges at Toko-Ri”
Her last film would be with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby.
This was the Cole Porter musical “High Society”.
Later that year, Grace would marry Monaco’s Prince Rainier.
She retired from the screen and became a princess that day.
Grace had three children, Albert, Caroline, and Stephanie.
With her husband, she ruled the tiny principality.
Grace’s life ended abruptly when she was fifty-two.
Her life was like a storybook fairy tale dream come true.