Long Tales Poems
Long Tales Poems. Below are the most popular long Tales by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tales poems by poem length and keyword.
Argyle socks, kilts,
Scottish tartan scarves
and Knox — aye
Mary, Queen Mary
shall you marry Darnly
for love? Nay...
Torches, kilts and song.
Heather in hands, waving
but Knox knocks their merry
socks off, eccentrically calling
Mary, a Jezebel queen.
Stuart clings to her Catholicity,
as she permits worshipping
as Protestants — not good
enough for Knox. Of kilts and tales
told, no dancing, singing or drinking fold —
bearded and bold John rattles.
Knox’s mentor burned at the stake.
His ire, his hand raised, will not accept
the same fate, so he rains down hellfire.
Kilts and bagpipes, boots marching,
music playing. Aye, Mary Queen of Scotland
with drumsticks banging, the pretty thing
rules with her heart...loses her head.
3/22/2021
Julia Ward’s Scotland
them
shapely
ladies
listen
to them
stringin'
yarns
killin'
time
kiss-and-tellin'
tales
about
bastard beaus
failed
courtships
causin'
madness
like
shriekin'
cats cussin' cool
nights'
tremolando
tears
drippin' :||
She is a widow, never wanting to marry again, never defiling her vows,
her five children have moved to other parts of the United States;
and they seldom visit her, except on the very special season of Christmas,
when she adorns her home with garlands and lights to honor the Child Jesus...
Her name is Amelia, a petite lady from Andalusia,whose passion is writing poems,
and her Spanish accent is somewhat heavy, but the words are clear and precise;
on long summer's nights she speaks of her native land...meadows covered with camellias,
and tells tales of Columbus and the Conquistadors with feathered helmets...
She was quite beautiful in her younger days, daises in her dark, lustruos hair,
and sea-colored eyes that resembled the Mediterranean Sea, which brought her nostalgia;
and she often wore a folklorist costume of stripes of bright orange and yellow like her flag,
and now she's confined to a wheelchair looking sad...who has camellias for Amelia?
This past spring I planted a dozen of camellias plants in the empty and barren lawn,
hoping they would bloom when she would stare at the huge Atlantic Ocean;
and with eyes as sharp as a youngster, Amelia would see her beloved Spain,
and those lush meadows covered with camellias to bring her bitter-sweet pain.
In the quite hours of an early August' morning, Amelia rose to say her prayers,
and with the rosary in her devoted hands, she peaked outside and surprisingly smiled;
a beautiful garden of camellias appearing in front of her joyous eyes... she was so delighted,
but she couldn't go outside and caress them, but thought to herself, " Someone cares! "
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In the heart of the forgotten place,
whispers an echo in the twilight and the haze,
earns the legend of Vargas Vega Naga,
the serpent of wisdom, its mystical embrace.
Scales of emerald shimmer under moonlight '
everence.
A solitary creature, wise as patience
and ancient as the night.
Its venom, a potent elixir of secrets,
flowing through veins that sigh in decadence cadence.
A smoke that fills it's line.
In inherent repose, tells tales,
signs language to the ears, the nose, the eyes in vivid magics stirring of the blood
that covers sins and of the price.
As the sun paints the horizon in King Crimson and Eldorado Gold.
Vargas Vega Naga begins its wistful dance.
Coiling with grace, weaving dreams untold,
awakening spirits in a spirited trance
that channels the soul's Thunderbird
giving wing, entrance, for the Eternal Chance.
Through eyes like windows to eternity,
the serpent beholds the yearnings of souls.
A conduit between realms of reality,
a guide on the path where the heart unfolds.
Oh, seeker of truth, enchantments await,
in the realm of Vargas Vega Naga's domain,
imbibe the elixir, let it resonate.
Be forever transformed by its arcane_implicate.
Amidst the whispers of twilight's embrace,
in the heart of a forgotten village's lore,
Vargas Vega Naga's wisdom finds its rightful place,
in constellat bow before Christ, The Lord.
Taking it's place next to the four living creatures at his throne.
A witness and harbinger, stormbringer
at the Ancient ones feet, on his Jasper floor.
Evoking emotions as Universal Sentinel,
stirring souls thunderings and heroic imaginations
evermore.
Galvanizing, never scrutinized; each moment falsely tabulated;
Slanted, polarized polls, punishing spiteful pundits
Spouting, spinning lies in frantic unison squawking
Ridiculous versions of fear mongering tales,
Meant to frighten, meant to hurt,
Meant to clutch and pulverize power.
It takes only a calm, rational thinking moment
To see through the maze of their foggy logic.
Nothing they say is fact checked or based in truth.
Spinning frantic webs to catch the unwary
To call forth violence with rage filled rants,
They push disturbing diatribes, provoking mayhem..
Drumming up revolt among the weak-minded minions ,
They still cannot cloak their hurtful and murderous intent.
President Trump has called them out, laughing in their faces.
Finally unmasked and stripped of disguises
There is nowhere to run, no more hiding places.
We see you. We stare at the darkness behind your malicious eyes.
Your fake news fiction will never again deceive us with your lies.
O child of stone, outcast, alone,
succumbing to desire.
Inside your chest, you’re sorely pressed,
assailed by a liar.
Do not believe the tales it weaves:
the lost, untethered heart.
Though it deceives, it silent grieves
the time it spends apart.
When realized, it bitter cries
for wounds it did impart,
and scarce conceives, much less receives
the grace of a fresh start.
But when it breaks, all of that ache,
like scales, just falls away.
A flood of tears, to be drawn near,
says what no words can say.
Your Father sates, and yet He waits
for you to freely turn.
Climb in his chair, incline your ear,
and hear what your soul yearns.
Child, fall asleep to rhythms deep:
a heart that fiercely burns.
Ah, to be blessed, and find the rest
your strivings never earned!
I crave for them in weaves of light
And scan life’s vignettes on my mind
Their charmed love wraps me day and night
By the porch, his guitar sings bright
Relieving heart’s joys so entwined
I crave for them in weaves of light
My grandma's laughter soft and sprite
My grandpa's brown eyes, firm yet kind
Their charmed love wraps me day and night
Bedtime tales inspire fancy’s flight
Hide-and- seek thrills, now hard to find
I crave for them in weaves of light
They taught me to win, lose with might
Till frail trees sobbed with old age grind
Their charmed love wraps me day and night
Legacy of my heroes' blessed rite
Find me weaving past years all timed
I crave for them in weaves of light
Their charmed love wraps me day or night
(c)
*villanelle: 8 syllable count
For Janette Fisher's
By nette onclaud
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."
Though semitic thru and thru
yours truly (me) dons guise of being Irish
trumpeting hoople linked with
the folklore and culture of Emerald Isle
juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2024 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull
o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed
stitch of truth.
It seems so strange,
Living in a small town,
Where everyone knows everyone,
And says hello when passing…
To be living in times like these,
Where going to the grocery store…
Means avoiding contact at all costs,
Staying at least six feet apart,
Never allowing someone to touch…
A hand or arm, the flesh where…
There might be a germ breeding,
A opportunity meeting with a bug,
A sickness generated by the virus…
That has come to kill and destroy,
Bring us into the history books…
As a nation living in fear of itself,
A country focused on death and destruction,
Furious tales of contempt and carrying,
Compromising our sense of assurance…
With this lethal seed of disease,
Furious feelings of fatalities counted,
Numbers growing by the day,
Worrying our hearts with dread…
Of what might never be,
Yet, could become the worst
Spread of illness known today,
The killer that is as silent as night
And comes to ravage the light
With a desire to suffocate our breath
And lead us toward a gloomy death.
God bless all who survive
And find a way to stay alive
Amid these tragic, peculiar times.
May 5, 2020
In Times Like These Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
In chambers grand where words like weapons flew,
Sat Churchill, stout, and Astor, sharp and new
(The first lady MP, with spirit and with grace),
Who often met the statesman, face to face.
Their rivalry, a legend, oft-retold,
A battle of wits, worth more than gold.
Though much is but apocryphal, they say,
The tales endure to brighten up our day.
Part I: The Gentleman and the MP
Winston, with Brandy in his steady hand,
Surveyed the House, the finest in the land.
Then Astor rose, her voice a sudden sharp decree,
“To have a woman here’s like you in your privy!”
The Prime Minister, with a twinkle and a grin,
Replied, “My Lady, that is quite a sin!
But fear not, ma’am, no danger to my pride,
You’re not good-looking enough for me to hide!”
Part II: The Poisoned Cup
At Blenheim’s table, ‘midst the silver gleam,
The tension rose, a palpable, hot stream.
She eyed his cup with a disdainful lip,
And let a cutting, venomous remark slip:
“Winston,” she snapped, with fervor in her tone,
“If you were my husband, I’d put poison in your tea, you’re on your own!”
He paused, then swallowed, with a look so wry,
And gave a swift, unburdened, classic reply:
“Madam,” he said, without a moment’s pause,
“If you were my wife, I’d drink it to applause!”
Part III: The Sober Dawn
On another eve, or so the story goes,
She saw his state and let her anger show.
“Winston, you're drunk!” she cried, with eyes so cold,
A fact she felt courageous to unfold.
He looked, with a ponderous, heavy sigh,
“And you, my lady, are extremely ugly, I won't lie.”
"But fear not, in the morning, I'll be sober and all new,
And you, alas, will still be ugly, through and through!”
Part IV: The Masquerade
When talk arose of some grand, masked affair,
And Churchill mused on what strange guise to wear,
‘Twas Astor who suggested, quick and clear,
Dispelling any notion he held dear:
“Why don’t you come as yourself, Prime Minister, for once and all?”
"Or better yet,” she added, “why not just come sober to the ball?”
So went the “feud”, a lively, verbal spar,
Between two titans, like a distant star,
Whose witty words, though maybe not all true,
Paint pictures of an age that’s fresh and new.
A time when cutting insults, sharp and bright,
We were parried with a quip and pure delight.