Long Teller Poems
Long Teller Poems. Below are the most popular long Teller by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Teller poems by poem length and keyword.
A funny thing happened on the way to my hanging
Couldn't sleep the night before my head was banging
I was innocent of a crime that I did not commit
But they roughed me up and got me to admit.
The face on the wanted posters said it was me
Anyone seeing those posters would be inclined to agree
I was in a horse drawn prison wagon with bars down the side
Thinking to myself, it will be my last ever ride.
Heading for the gallows then onto Boot hill
To pay for shooting a bank teller that I didn't kill
Two miles from the town all hell did break loose
Unbeknownst to me I'd be dodging the noose.
For ten desperados' brought the wagon to stop
Then ordered the guards, their weapons they drop
Some gang members got me out and they set me free
The gang leader approached and he looked just like me.
He said " in this life you look out for your own "
Then he told me something that I hadn't known
" We were Separated at birth and we had the same mother "
And that this mean desperado was in fact my twin brother .
" We heard that you'd been framed for our crime spree
But you are my brother and that's why we've set you free.
The teller had died because he went for his gun
We grabbed all the money and went on the run ".
He gave me some money and said " start a new life "
Told me head south, settle down and find a good wife
There was so much I wanted to ask him and so much to say
My brother said " some other time, best be on your way " .
Written on 4th July 2018.
For a funny thing happened on the way to...poetry contest, sponsored by Robert Haigh.
Me and my good friends
We gather beneath the lantern of my tales,
their faces blooming like poppies in sudden sun—
petals wide, throats bright with laughter,
drinking the nectar of my words
as if they were honey poured only for them.
Still my friends,
When I turn away, the poppies close.
In the dark between gatherings,
their stems twist, thorns unsheathed,
whispering my name into the soil
where it rots into gossip and sour earth.
These good friends,
As stress coils around my ribs like wire;
I reach for help, palms open.
They arrive with bottles, amber rivers
that promise to loosen the knots—
a temporary anesthesia, generous, glittering,
gone by morning, leaving the wire tighter.
To my friends again,
I speak of land, of roots, of something solid
to stand on when the wind turns cruel.
At once they become bridges,
smiling merchants guiding me across
to a seller who shakes my hand
while their hidden margin swells
like a tick beneath the skin of the deal.
They are mirrors polished only on one side:
I see my reflection shining back,
warm and welcomed.
They see me clearly too—
a fountain to drink from,
a field to harvest in secret,
a story to spend
until the teller runs dry.
I tell you I have friends,
Whose faces blossom like rosses,
But have spines beneath petals.
They are sweet cactus fruits
With spines all over them.
Yes, they are green leafy nestles
Reach out to them for itchy sting!
Inferiority Complex As A Kid And Adult!
I recall father, (now behold
at near ninety years old - maintains stronghold
on life, cuz born of sturdy mettle -
rumor claims bullion – ne'er did buckle nar fold
meaning bull + lion rolled
together and processed
April 9th, nineteen twenty nine),
fortune teller foretold
envious longevity, perhaps
just shy of eternity
older than anyone polled
occasionally got a bit
short tempered as patriarch
( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime)
over any five members of Harris household
with me, and timid, meek,
and fawning did scold,
and mother, (who passed away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told,
sans November 13th, nineteen thirty five),
no matter both parents (more mom)
did abhor applying stronghold
tactics vis a vis corporal punishment,
though the late Harriet Harris, not so gold
din as totally carefree disciplinarian
confessed many moons ex post facto lost hold
of her appreciable tolerance,
than quickly crumbled like broken scaffold
after she spanked this monkey upon bony posterior
(an endearment, but NOT spanking
ever since mama did withhold
though kept pet name, which
ideally suited me as a little boy),
both her hands went limp and cold
apology immediately iterated,
cuz she felt mortified, and sold
reparation with self restraint
against further instances tubby brazenly bold
possibly contributed,
fostered, and inculcated mold
ding mine shy characteristic.
Me, this twangy nasal kid
(courtesy of split uvula we did
discover rather a speech pathologist
six grade minor congenital defect
i.e., submucous cleft palate), aforesaid
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
this vulnerability compounded amid
my undersized and socially withdrawn demeanor
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid!
I sat with a reluctant story teller
My legs crossed
Holding my breath
The fabric of her mind
was tightly folded
Tucked in at her edges
I reached for a thread
gave it a gentle tug
Hoping that it would come loose
My desire was to know her secrets
Her's were the tales I so desperately craved
She smiled a knowing smile
Looked deeply into my eyes
I gazed back resolutely
Searching for my prize
She whispered
"Listen close
Within my hands
I hold the ghosts
They scream with force to be released
You will not be protected by your Priest
I'm trying my best to hold them back
If they escape
They will attack"
My childish wonder turned to fear
Could real Ghosts have followed her here
As I wondered she began to laugh
Within my soul I felt a draft
I got my wish
Storied spirits made me cold
I could not handle the tale she told
I ran away through the forest
Spirits close behind
her thread had attached
quickly to my mind
The reluctant story teller
she knew me best
My little mind had failed her test
The ghostly spirits
wrapped silver threads around my soul
My eyes of blue turned black as coal
I am a reluctant story teller
The fabric of my mind tightly folded
Tucked in at the edges
You sit cross legged
Holding your breath
"Come a little closer
so that I might whisper in your ear".
Dedicated to my Friend Vicky a story teller Extrodinaire.
angels are all around
they're present everywhere
guardians of our souls and bodies
of us they take special care
angels of the Kingdom of God
sent down from above
angels our own personal escorts
agents of God's love
they can come in any form or fashion
or personality
they are everywhere on earth
but of them, not everyone can see
an angel could have been that man
who helped you change a spare
an angel could have been that dog who barked
and of the coming danger you became aware
an angel could have been that teller at the bank
who informed you, you're due back extra change
an angel could have been that teenage boy
who for you held the doors on the train
an angel could have been that salesclerk
who told you that same dress was on sale down the street
an angel could be anything and anybody
you've encountered or just happen to meet
God sends His angels
to help us in our times of need
God sends His angels
to guide and protect us from harmful deeds
angels in our midst
of our welfare they are concerned
angels all around us
but of them can you discern?
Let’s sail away to Acapella,
A celebrity haunt owned by Penn and Teller.
I shall act as your prince, you’ll be Cinderella
When we’re sat on a beach in Acapella.
It’s not as sexy as Cannes or as dowdy as Rhyl
But their choirs and ensembles will give you a thrill,
Acapella compares well to old Casablanca,
As you will observe once we have dropped anchor.
Their libraries don’t hold any musical score,
Acoustic folk singers are considered a bore,
All keyboards and trombones were sold overseas
And whistles restricted to football referees.
So you won’t hear the bagpipes of Kenneth McKellar
Or repetitive bass notes plucked by Paul Weller.
Your voice will entrance all the ladies and fellas
Once we’ve moored in the harbour of Acapella’s.
There fishermen bring ashore haddock and bream
Having sung shanties as a well-rehearsed team,
The salty sea breeze gives their voices a rasp
And the youngest amongst them let out a gasp!
Melodic and manly, the crews ride the waves,
Proud of their seamanship, masters not slaves,
They heed the advice of their mothers and aunties
But rarely acknowledge the source of their shanties.
Once a solitary busker was found in a yacht
And by all accounts he deserved what he got,
He was forced down the plank at the tip of a sword
Then his vintage viola was flung overboard!
On the pier you’ll find orators and callers at bingo,
But no jukebox is pumping out John, Paul or Ringo.
Pop or rock music gives locals the creeps,
It’s no wonder that George’s guitar gently weeps.
So, if Customs Control takes your squeezebox or trumpet
Don’t seek compensation, you’ll just have to lump it;
Those instruments go to a processing plant
Because singers are welcome but musicians aren’t.
We shall seek out the nightlife in numerous bars
Where the locals all sing without playing guitars,
Dodge the Lambrettas in quaint cobbled alleys,
Then stride across hills and along peaceful valleys.
So, if you’re tired of concertos or singles by Queen
Book a cruise to a place where they’re considered obscene,
It’s a magical island owned by Penn and by Teller -
The remote principality of Acapella.
So let us sail forth across the briny
In a luxury yacht - well furnished and shiny
To where your vocal range will be valued quite highly,
And you won’t have to sit through Baba O’Riley.
From the maelstrom inside
the ring a rose of fire-pit
We blindly stoke in order to
create , make and turn
Grains of sand we can then
metamorph into such
magnificence and finery like
Toy marbles for children with
kaleidoscopic eyes trapped
inside to play with
And on a even grander scale
Windscreens aboard a shuttle
rocket so astronauts can see
and plot safe passages ahead
To clouded frosted mystical
crystal ball's so fortune teller
Can relay to all of us what
danger lies ahead in all ours
future's
When alas rather instead we
choose to waste our time
burying our heads in said sand
Than making far better
use of whatsover time we
find ourselves having
being lucky enough to
be blessed with
Like proving something
as dank and dark as sand
Can with a minimum amount
of effort and a little help
eventually become
Something as transparent
and far more beautiful
As a crystal chalice exuding
the colour of a rainbow
LIES.. It's very Tricky
A deceitful
crafty craft
Too Sucky
ingratiating and obsequious.
Picky is the teller
fussy, faddy and choosy
a picky eater
Pick the MOUTHS Up
The teller
Leaves the EAR Down
The told
And the BRAIN fooled
Living you
Vulnerable and vandalize
Living in absolute
Deceits and fear
LIES... Very bitter
When the TRUTHS
Prevails
Nothing can be
Hidden forever
LIES... It blocks your
Chakra
The consequences
Spiritual!!!
LIES... It brings you
Instant gratification.
be the victor
Physically!!
LIES... Some are illusion
For survival, Being
Told for GOOD reason
And others for
Manipulation just
to Destroy another.
G'day friends, I'll be fer intraducin' me self ta ye. I be Periwinkle, cook ta the High Court of Fairieand teller of tall tales. Hang a peony seed round ye wee ones necks, so ye donna lose them ta the fairie and I'll begin.
Todays tale is of Asclepias's pod boats. Fer drunk wus God on Ascle's wine when He made the whole world.
As told, Mordan had brought fall to the land and stalks dried. They fell from Ascle's arms as charcoal gray pods. The soldiers of the Seelie* Court took them and made boats with butterfly sails. How proud wus Auscle that his milkweed pods would serve the Fey King. All of Auscle's parts were precious ta the fey his seeds served as stuffin' for the Fey Courts gamesons. His flowers brought butterflies. And so, as fall passed to winter Auscle's gave, he gave his life's blood to heal the wounded, his boats brought war.
*Asclepias Milkweed
*Seelie are the good fairy the beautiful ones
It's hard to be Harry's Mommy
He is like a raving Tsunami.
"Why didn't you do the homework Harry?"
"The letters were gulped by the papers, Mommy".
"Why is the bedsheet so messy, Harry?"
"It wanted to dance like me, Mommy"
Should I scold Harry for the lie
Or pat on the back of my tale-teller boy?
"Why didn't you finish the lunch, Harry?"
"Madam butterfly said she'd join me but missed, Mommy"
"Why did you hit Tom in the class, Harry?
"Was trying to wake him up from sleep, Mommy".
Should I scold Harry for the lie
Or pat on the back of this quirky boy?
"Teacher complained you're so naughty, Harry"
"She kissed and said I'm just like her son, Mommy"
"Where's all cheese in the fridge, Harry?'
"Photographer said cheese and I gave it all to him, Mommy"
Should I scold Harry for the lie
Or pat on the back of this quick-witty boy?
"Why is your shirt so dusty, Harry?"
"The garden soil was feeling lonely, Mommy"
"Why did you remove the car's mirror, Harry?"
"Doggy Donald wanted to see his beauty, Mommy"
Should I scold Harry for the lie
Or pat on the back of this waggish boy?
But Harry is a peppy and kind brainbox
He's so brave that he cares no blocks
I'm so glad to be his mommy
Will slowly explain what is fun and what is stormy.