Short Storytellers Poems
Short Storytellers Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Storytellers by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Storytellers by length and keyword.
Gifted ,imaginative minds
Storytellers , wordsmith extraordinaires
Creating masterful tales with words
Diverse , remarkable, rare
Dream
Dream if you can
Dream of a world with no storytellers
No poets or musicians
How boring of a world would that be
No way to share our thoughts
Our feelings would stay locked away
And we would not know how to dream
There is an indigenous piece of wisdom
I believe more people today should to keep in mind…
The planet does not need more successful people.
It needs more peacemakers
more healers
more restorers
more storytellers
and more lovers of all kinds.
We are
Storytellers
In our speaking
Conversing
Interpreting..
Seemingly
Making sense of
The indescribable
Spontaneity of this..
Death of the
Storyteller
Frees the story
Telling itself
With a character
Fondly
Known as the
Storyteller...
fierce fire-elk transforms into a skeletal elk during a forest fire
the few who have seen her, recognize her powers through prophecy
These storytellers do not last long, for they are not forest fire survivors
if you get caught in the woods during an inferno, beware of the fire-elk.
Threaded history - boney fingered
Ancestries woven connections,
Stitched brail of wordless inscriptions
Meaningless decorative presence
Saturated with the timeless reverence of
Boney fingered storytellers.
6/4/2016
THE BEST OF 6 – Poetry Contest
visual #2
fuchsia rose was captured in the early sixteenth century
her legend was passed through many dynasties,
then storytellers got bored with her, and forgot her story
she waited for her chance; twinkling and dazzling newbies
enticing one to release her from her Pandora prison
the unlucky instigator of the pandemic
Wiccan’s creed is
to no one do harm
to no animal, plant or human
Is it weird that male storytellers were so fearful
that a matriarchal society might come about
that they turned them into witches
and made them appear mean and ugly?
Not at all.
it was the norm
back in the day
hopefully we know better now.
Wiccan’s creed is
to no one do harm
to no animal, plant or human
Is it weird that male storytellers were so fearful
that a matriarchal society might come about
that they turned them into witches
and made them appear mean and ugly?
Not at all.
it was the norm
back in the day
hopefully we know better now.
Questions rise and answers fall
Lies crumble and the truth stands tall
Doubters are deceived and the trustworthy fail
Storytellers are mute while the silent leave a tale
The ones once bonded are free to do such
While the smoking gun is free to the touch
The followers are now ready to lead
The most lost are now forever ready to succeed
The planet doesn't need more successful people
it needs peacemakers, healers, restorers,
storytellers and lovers of every kind
It needs people who live well in their places
people of moral courage willing to join the fight
to make the world, habitable and humane
Qualities that have little to do with success
as we have defined it to be.
?? David W. Orr, Eco Literacy
Storytelling
Each of us has stories to tell if only we had the
courage to try
But what if they laugh at me?
or worse say they don’t like what I wrote
I don’t think I could survive that,
laying bare my story, exposing my
most raw hour
We must uplift our future storytellers at every turn
Stories are where we can safely moor, set our
anchor, rest and write
Who would become so fundamentally foolish
to separate a strong dancer
from her flowing dance?
The secular singer
from his sacred song?
Mountainous storytellers
from our rivered story?
Felt humane communion
from our most nakedly divine communications?
Spirited habits
dispirited from Earth's natural habitats?
Evangelical legends
from love's integrity,
passion's timeless curiosity?
What madness
We are killing the healers and paying their killers
Bound to the pound and signed our own fate
Consuming its rot confiding in demons
looting the land and soiling the seas
The mother is burning the father is frail
Its shadow is creeping its whispers are vile
The machine it runs rampant its controls are all broken
Our storytellers are paid to swim with its tide
Is this the best we have to offer?
Slogans selling you tomorrow
Dusk casts a sepia glow upon
sentinel specters of the wood;
another summer has passed and
the autumn shedding lay all about me
as I sit swinging and remember,
how the wildflowers filled
this glen a few weeks ago.
In the ephemeral light, whispers are heard.
I wait as she wanders between the gnarled
branches; I catch the impressions
from my muse, while she strolls
beneath these storytellers.
5-12-2021
ALL YOURS (May 12) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand