Long Storytelling Poems
Long Storytelling Poems. Below are the most popular long Storytelling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Storytelling poems by poem length and keyword.
We have chili and oyster stew and the kids sneak desserts.
There is a plethora of storytelling going on.
Lots of laughter; Uncle Bill says things that are not for children.
He gets dressed down and acts compliant but isn’t.
We have gathered at grandma’s house. It is a potluck.
Six of the seven children are here; we speak of the seventh.
But he never comes; his wife’s family claims him every year.
We might see him in the summer, but only if she allows it.
There are seventeen cousins, and we have to open one gift at a time
While the grown-ups laugh and make fun of some of them.
There is always a gag gift, which we are encouraged to open first.
My gag gift was a 42 double D red bra when I was in 7th grade. Horrifying.
A family prayer before the meal; we gather around the table, hold hands.
When we do not all fit, we still hold hands, but from the next two rooms.
We know the handholding is imperative before the meal.
Always a burp and we accuse Uncle Bill who seems immensely pleased.
I had no idea how bleak Christmas would be without Uncle Bill.
But he passed of lung cancer in 1997, and it was a different Christmas.
Son Mike did his best to do the burping, but he was not as good at it.
We began setting a place for Uncle Bill and told stories about him after that.
All my life I have been a big dreamer
and a big storyteller,
my mom used to say, I had imagination, just like my sweet grandma,
gosh, she was a great story weaver . . .
at first the tales formed in my mind were just things unwritten, and
I liked to watch grandma's face and all the expressions within her voice,
so, soon with storytelling- I was bitten and smitten.
Grandma created wonderful characters and scenes,
and because of her this I was blessed too.
But, oddly none of her stories were ever written on paper, not a single one,
no pen dripped on paper for grandma,
but my own words have fallen to paper over and over.
All her stories existed in her mind and she stored carefully each script,
and when grandma died at ninety-four
sadly she could not speak a single word,
so I tell her stories remembered in words written.
____________________________
October 17, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/A Big Storyteller
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 1117-309-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, End Feb 2019
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
Racism is a systematic prejudice
that includes issues of gender and class
and religion
and disability.
Empathy is not enough we need meaningful
dialogue and not just storytelling.
We must end inherited white privilege access
to education, housing, employment, medical care !
Why cannot society and laws
right the paradigm and inequality ?
Will the Critical Race Theory
ever bring enlightenment ?
_______________________
June 22, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Critical Race to End Prejudice
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1366-089-22
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Critical Race Theory
sponsor, Anthony Biaanco, Judged 07/21/2021
Listen
Our ancestral blood flows deep through the Nile,
Carrying a sacred journey of the Ndebele.
Listen to the thunder call of the Djembe drums.
Blending with the melodies of Tanzania.
The mighty Zambezi River speaks in whispers,
Streaming ancient storytelling through the waters.
The spirit of Ubuntu binds us.
A sacred Indigenous community.
Honor Serengeti’s great migration,
An epic, breathtaking voyage,
Beneath Africa’s purple sun shadow.
Like the great herds, we share this moment
Leaving our legacy behind us.
AFRO, listen to their heartbeat.
Of the Baaka tribe’s drum,
Awakening South African memories.
Our roots and our rhythms.
Return to the cradle of humanity's origin.
Listen,
Be still and know,
As the Ancestors speak.
Dragon
The mystical dragon pictured in today’s print and movies never existed.
Many mystical creatures are based on exaggerations of a creature that did exist.
Possibly, a medium sized tree lizard with the ability to jump from tree to tree in search of food.
It had very strong stomach acids laced with biological silicone gas. The gas slowly rose from tubes to fill pouches on both sides of its mouth.
When confronted by a predator, it hissed releasing the silicone gas toward the predator.
The gas was self-igniting in air, and the flames burned the predator.
Over centuries, seeing fire in very tall trees and telling and retelling of the story with additions,
Give us descriptions of the mythical Dragon we see today.
A large flying reptile with wings and the ability to release huge flames at will.
In Gboko, where the dust motes dance and play,
A town, a city, a people, some would say.
What defines its spirit, a riddle, a quest,
With a gait too familiar, putting all to the test.
"Gboko!" he calls, by name, with a grin,
"Seems we're acquainted, where have you been?"
For here, familiar strangers, a curious clan,
Know each other better than any single man.
Party crashers abound, with a joyful shout,
Praise singers serenade, no shadow of doubt.
Fantastic storytelling, a vibrant, grand art,
Where habit and culture play a blurring part.
A bikeman, young, in a change-fueled fray,
Declares, "Woman dey here, food dey here, wetin I dey go find for your place?"
Such pride and contentment, a truth so stark,
In a town once welcoming, now bearing a wary mark.
In hay days of yore, a Tiv capital grand,
An industrial hub, with BCC at hand.
Ivo I msam – the tailed goat lap, a delight,
Ishu I bee nya ke tyo – fish, so perfectly white.
When women, with skill, seasoned chicken with grace,
Before the slaughter, a culinary embrace.
Families flocked in, from the hinterland's call,
For hope and new society, standing proud and tall.
Money flowed freely, like a river so wide,
Vanity and funfare, with nowhere to hide.
On paydays, men painted the whole town in red,
Trays of spiced chicken, till late, they were fed.
Imported lager flowed, in a frothy, grand spree,
And megalomaniacs, grandiloquently,
Would bluster and boast, with a haughty decree,
"Orvesen, m tse u ke kitchen ga!" – Sir, not in your kitchen, you see!
Courteous profanity, a delicate art,
Where titles and greetings played a respectable part.
Before venturing forth, with venom and ire,
To "dress down" their target, a verbal hot fire.
So Gboko gives chase, to the past and the present,
An intriguing weave, both funny and pleasant.
A place of contrasts, of laughter and grit,
Where the spirit of the people, forever is lit.
The believing man said:
"I wanted to bypass many things then...
My story was solemn and virtuous.
After storytelling came a momentary pause,
To understand your body, without losing all
And a realization came with a sheer pain
Let us talk together, I’m just getting started!"
The believing lady said:
“Don’t you have this concept of love?
One body wounded, sends signals of pain for all ?
Unites one soul, strong and bold
And in poems and prayers, together we hold!
Let us talk together, I’m just getting started!”
"Our global charm is minimizing day by day .
Are they not in our refrigerated perishable items?
Is it not your TV watching time ?
Or newspaper reading time?"
With a consoling voice with agreeable options ,
He replied, “Let us talk later, I’m just getting started!”.
Both of their inspiration was in poems, big and small
She dreamt of a generation gap mitigation model tirelessly
Through the power of positive tones of poems and poets.
Yet, often times both used to find poets , wandering out there
Jobless, faithless, devoid of energy, passion and emotion
Like a lemon served already in life, for quite a while, understood
And a funny paradox is that, I’m just getting started!
'I'm just getting started' Contest
Sponsor
John Hamilton
9-21-2019
Lazy boy chair and an Old Man
Storytelling for sure
Not a fairytale, but wisdom from the shoulder through experience
As the old man started to narrate, it came to mine of his war years
Devastation and Destruction confronted faced the battles head on
World War 1 to be exact
I was drafted into war to do battle
Not a choose I wanted, but one I had to face
He was fighting on unforbidden soil
The enemy was carefully observing us
As they say, “War was Hell”
It was beyond measure with no pleasure
Soldiers were dropping like flies on both sides
I received one would in my arm, had to maneuver through the ordeal
Ammunition had to be ready to strike at any given moment
Bombs upon bombs were dripping
Ceasefire was no option
You had to be courageous throughout no matter what
I witnessed babies dying in Soldiers arms
It’s not a sight to see when you are a Soldier
I remember spoken words of command
Yet my thought of war back then in my Lazy Boy chair in my moment to reflect back to those days
Death could have been imminent for me
Now I see as a blessing and a lesson for survival
I am still here at 90 years old to share with young people in general, and my grands and greats
What a life back then
No one knew the pain and agony a Solider goes through for battling for freedom
One never knows unless one experiences of what could have been in finale of life
Sleep on my little one’s
Your life will be better as promised
Take it from an Old Man
Wisdom at large.
In a bright yellow, the big bus stands still,
Its lights flash a warning, a sign of care.
Giggles and waves from tiny hands inside,
A moment to pause, where safety’s embraced.
Red lights flash, and the bus is waiting,
You’re in a rush, but safety calls loud.
Around the bend, a cop might be watching,
One moment’s haste, and you face the consequence.
The ticket’s not just a fine, but a lesson,
Every stop sign guards lives we hold dear.
In their small hands, trust is given, so slow down,
In that brief pause, we see the cost of rushing.
Police might be near, keeping an eye,
What seems easy is wrong when caution’s ignored.
So slow down, remember, these kids count on us,
Let kindness guide your actions, respect the bus.
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.