Long Storytellers Poems
Long Storytellers Poems. Below are the most popular long Storytellers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Storytellers poems by poem length and keyword.
We’re not just poets.
We’re reality speakers.
We take raw truth and carve it into words the world can’t ignore.
Voice to the voiceless.
We amplify whispers into roars.
We speak for the silenced, the jailed, the forgotten,
and give their pain a microphone.
Educators without classrooms.
We teach with metaphors.
We teach history with heartbeats,
teach children their worth,
teach nations how to unlearn hate one verse at a time.
Storytellers.
We keep the fire lit.
We rescue yesterday from being deleted
and stitch it into tomorrow.
In our poems, ancestors speak.
In our poems, lost homes still stand.
History researchers.
We dig where textbooks fear to go.
We find truth in lullabies, in protest chants, in scars.
We archive joy. We document the war.
We make sure the future cannot lie about the past.
Healers.
We take shattered pieces and make art from them.
We name the grief so it shrinks.
We name the hope so it grows.
We sit in the 3am dark
and turn it into morning medicine.
Prophets without pulpits.
We see the cracks before they break.
We warn with beauty.
We call out injustice with rhythm.
We call in humanity with courage.
Warriors with pens.
We fight battles without weapons.
We dismantle lies, expose corruption,
and defend dignity with a single line.
Builders.
We build bridges with syllables.
Between rich and poor. Between languages. Between enemies.
One poem can make a stranger feel like home.
We start movements with a stanza.
We change minds with a metaphor.
We refuse to let the world go numb.
So to every poet with ink on their fingers,
typing at midnight, performing to 3 or 3000
Stand tall.
Your words are not extra.
Your voice is not loud.
It’s required
Because when laws fail,
when leaders lie,
when silence gets too heavy. Poetry is what keeps us human.
We’re not just poets.
We’re necessary.
We’re undeniable.
We’re the conscience of the world.
jumping hurdles in the sky
i can say that i know how something feels
i can now tell stories to other storytellers, and i feel fine
jumping hurdles in the sky
i can say that i have been there
i can now give descriptions in depth to other describers, and i feel fine
jumping hurdles in the sky
i can say that my calendar is full
i can now schedule things with other schedulers, and i feel fine
jumping hurdles in the sky
i can say that my world has been rocked
i can now continue to listen to other storytellers describe things in their many schedules, and for me that is completely fine
Praise be given to the deep thinkers,
bards, writers, poets, and yarn spinners.
Sharing their wisdom through the ages,
they address both losers and winners.
Talented wordsmiths use witty words
to expose chinks in the human heart.
And allow us to experience
the emotions that their words impart.
Thank the artists who've taught us to see;
for they've opened humanity's eyes.
And as a collage of kindred souls
poets, ensure free thought never dies.
We grasp onto the reality
of our existence with a firm grip.
And yet, storytellers and actors
encouraged us to let that grip slip.
Awe tends to fade with maturity,
doubting the miracles that we've seen.
And spanning a lifetime of stories,
dreams take thoughts to a fantasy scene.
Last call for alcohol, embargo
on the cargo headed for Fargo?
Bootlegging articles of?
"ConfederationNow",
Boot logger, droned Over all? Foggered... Froggers, sprawled. Farms attacked by competing vows. ++
Blood drained Cows.
Imagine, Gaia hype- our brainwashing, a
sacrifice to a Paul Bunyan Nephilim type, "Savior" moonshining wormwood tea in exchange for Sheep. Believing them to be. Stoned blind in Texas, right wing.
Liquid Media medicinals, points for eveyone West of, Diagonal the Allegheny, best of show, suggestion,
allegiant, allegory. (Oh...allegedly.)
As The King of the North fights zombies that believe the Game of Thrones just fantasy. Conspiracy_ Storytellers of propagandolf, minds of Sauron to keep
eyes Wide-Shut. By Aristocracy.
To "pass" on the proof of those stoned blind in Texas, shekeled, bought, brought a Rose, of Sharon,
from Ticked Karen's, in their own Eden.
Those non-Citizens,
"Christians of the un-Enlightened" l"unacy of Old',
thoughts? NoahmadicHeathens!
Of the tide turning; going South.
The dark side of the moon,
a journey scape of wet dreams in swoon.
To partake the half empty side of drink.
Salt of thirsts.
Cup of wrath of the Directional Winds.
A piracy bloodbath of Nationhood in martyred demarcation zones.
Cusp of swilling blood of the swill,
Apocalyptic feel, fills,
notes of the unveiling of the Whore who Rides the Beast on the Seven Seas. Leviathan is leavened,
rising, ready to eat.
Now, there is censorship on speech on the internet,
then is, when, is then en-Tyrely.
The Gatekeepers at Fallens keep,
keeping freedom, voices "Crying in the Wilderness"',
Peeps out of reach.
Accept for Government (entities) with algorithms, keyloggers, identity id thieves, imagers of the Beast.
Spell binders binding
their articles-of-New-World-Sourcery-Cheaping-Rumpelstiltskin-Seamstitchery-Tailoring-Truth- blinding-digital-mining-slaves for the Wolves,
Kings of the East, Trading Company.
Trading souls for an hour with the Beast.
With a fondness of life,
jest and pleasure
You’re a lover
of unmeasurable attention as ever
In the third sign of the zodiac
known for storytellers
Of elements Fire and Air,
masculine considered
Diurnal or day orientated,
Physically or mentally related
Primarily focusing
on spirituality and activity
Being adaptable, eloquent,
versatile and lively
Youthful, witty, logical,
spontaneous, communicative;
All thes bing positive traits
are held back by the negative
For you’re changeable, inconsisatent,
cunning, nervous and inquisitive
Restless, superficial,tense
and gossip – well you’re talkative
You hate to be stuck in a rut,
or being left alone
Love novelty, variety,
anything unusual or unknown
Working multiple projects at a time
you’re addicted
Disliking mental action, conventional learning,m
being restricted
Gemini’s inclined to direct energies
into the world around them
Anatomy – rules arms, shoulders,
lungs and nervous system
A strive to learn persevearance
and culture depth
Subjects are lovers of language,
poets, bard, or wordsmiths
We are the weavers of our words
We weave the blanket that covers us
Gives warmth to our bodies
And peace to our souls
We weave the picture of us,
The hawk, the fish, the deer,
The stream, the snow, the winds that blow
The sun that rises and the stars that lead us
They are the spirits of earth and the heavens
We weave from the spirit in the wool
With words from the legends of our ghosts
Our hands are the storytellers
Teaching the hearts of our children
For we weave to tell them the story
So they will not forget the words
Our words are like the breath of who we are
We breathe in to take in the life we need
We breathe out to give back to our world
All that we are and have created
We speak our words of joy and peace,
Of the drum of war and the thunder of our gods
Listen to the crying of our people chanting
Of the life that was before they divided us
The threads we weave are bound with the blood
That flows from the rivers of our circle
Known as UNALAYEE
The gathering place in our heart
The sacred seed of our people
So gather now in friendship, love and peace
And warm your spirit with all the stories
Set upon the weave of our blanket
And know how your life is given
March 3, 2023
Strand Pemiere No 1194 Poetry Contest
Father, who entrusted me with his mission of salvation
Will provide me with labourers to realize this goal.
Pondering, he roamed around in disciple formation.
They will, like fish, gather to the kingdom of God, each soul.
Waves of humans from every walk of life were collected.
The new teacher, as though a magnet, attracted everyone.
His smile, like full-moon elegance, seemed secret-reflected.
The author of all, he's not an authoritarian
The breeze blew gently in his presence. Buds bloomed. Trees stood still.
Schools of fish swam onto the sea surface to get a glimpse.
Children, as though seeing a miracle, flocked, filled with thrill.
Poets, playwrights, and storytellers composed suspense-filled scripts.
Odd persona opted as though it's a play of honour,
Did they realize it was a calling from the Father?
Ottawa is derived from the Algonquin word adware,
meaning "to trade" when the indigeous people;
used the rivers in the area to fish, hunt and camp,
they portaged rivers known now as the Ottawa and Rideau;
but called these waterways "the great river and the grand river".
The city of Ottawa, originally called Bytown because it was,
founded by Colonel John By an engineer who designed;
the Rideau Canal(the best preserved example of a slack water canal),
which was created to move goods, and lumber for trade;
in 1826 Bytown was renamed Ottawa and became the capital of Canada.
Canada is often called the Great White North because we are so cold,
and yes, we are with temperatures minus 20 or more in winter;
but Ottawa is clean and beautiful and a safe place to live and full of history,
I am proud to be part Ojibwe, the original people, a people of storytellers;
and anyone who knows me can vouch that I am a storyteller.
The indigenous people have many stories of how it all came to be !
___________________________
February 25, 2020
Written for Your Favorite Legend
sponsor,, Chantelle Anne Cooke
You ignite the
romance of my dreams.
I wish to encroach your
lips with my
tasty sandwich of perfected
rosemary teat.
I'll make your brain
immune to my soul
so you become out
of breath when far
from your source.
My toes will python
your emotions,
make you feel good with
motions that can't be
found in Neptune.
Oh! my Fairy prince,
should I Massage
those fire clay
masculinity and
blow your mind out of its organ?
I'm devoured by the
moans of your consistency.
Devoted to the strings of
your intentionality.
Should I delineate your
cubes of grip so it
illuminates the lines
of storytellers?
Or are you too shy to
tell the world that,
You're the heel of
my heart, the calf
of my stamina.
The spine of the moon
and the Larynx of the dark stars.
Honey!
I'll let you dance to the rhythm of Calla
Lily while I paint in the beams of Zinnias.
I will always remember my Grandpa
he came home from the war a bit quiet
of course, I was not born yet . . .
But as the years rolled on he changed
and with me he was soft and gentle
and when a wee girl and he was old
I sat on his knee at the breakfast table
and he would share his toast and tea
In time his great laugh had come back
but he never talked about the war
he put away his medals in a drawer
and this is big in a family of storytellers
Grandpa died suddenly of a heart attack
no time to say goodbye, no kisses
but he lives still in my heart forever
especially when I have toast and tea
I have a picture of him on my wall
in his uniform and with his medals
and I am so proud of him every day
______________________
January 29, 2021
Poetry/Bio/Yes Sir, Grandpa
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1324-701-29
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (Jan 29 )Contest 909
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 01/30/2021
First Place