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Meysa Apr 2020
I feel
less volatile
less awake.
I've been biting my lip
livid.
Wearing my own blood as lipstick,
tears as mascara.
Whilst solidarity whispers dark words into my ears.
Meanwhile,
the crowds
they tell tales
of how pretty
I look.
- please see the definition of toska, as no single word in the English dictionary has the ability to encompass the depth of the word
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Small Tales
by Michael R. Burch

When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr
were but scrawny lads
they had many a ***** adventure
in the still glades
of Gwynedd.
When the sun beat down like an oven
upon the kiln-hot hills
and the scorched shores of Carmarthen,
they went searching
and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr.
They fought a day and a night
with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten),
rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer
and told quite a talltale or two,
"till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true."

And these have been passed down to me, and to you.

According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector’s court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere) might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or “lost” homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. (“Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too!”) Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as “small tales,” little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend much of their free time drinking and puking! Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, boy, boyhood, *****, drinking, beer, ale, tall tales, Wales
nora Feb 2020
b&w
fairy tales
are told
in black and
white.

life
is
grey.
Ken Mears Nov 2019
Legends tell of an ancient beast

Said to stalk the night

It flew from the east

Its howel fills the soul with fright


They called it the Rickle-Rackle

After the sound it makes

Its bones do crackle

As it quavers and shakes


Rickle-Rackle is all you hear

Before your time is done

Rickle-Rackle strikes up fear

Just as you are overrun


Few have ever seen the creature

And lived to tell the tale

Or can describe a single feature

Of this unholy grail


They say its teeth are sharp

And glint in the light of the moon

Its taller than any scarp

More powerful than any dragoon


Faster than any man

Stronger than one too

You are a deadman

If you come in his view


The Rickle-Rackle drags his tail

Cutting down forest trees

His breath is like a gale

And will bring you to your knees


Its eyes pierce to your soul

Down to your very heart

Which becomes an empty hole

Thanks to its dark art


So heed my warning

Brave adventurer

Wait until the morning

He can't be worth any venture


Pray you ne're encounter

The fearsome Rickle-Rackle

You are no beast hunter

Fear its evil cackle


Fear the Rickle-Rackle

Hear its sound and flee

Should you hear it's crackle

Its mouth will be the last you see
Jonathan Moya Oct 2019
Maleficent: Mistress of Evil (A Movie Poem)

The absence of love
makes one a villain
in other’s hearts.

In the proposal
the weeping willow
sheds its leaves
to the sky,

while in the bowels below
the servants of the earth
forge war,

pull iron from earth
as it screams
to be reclaimed.

Above, silk napkins
unfold into laps
with a curt snap of wrists.

Into the depths
the princess falls,
into the opposite of heaven.

She opens her eyes
to the evil above her, around her,
near her, pouring out
like bearings onto sheets of gold.

“Maybe,” she thinks,
“we can exist
without fear of war?
Find a way together?”

This is no fairy tale,
but yet this
is precisely a fairy tale.

She dreams of her wedding
where all are invited
and all are expected.

She can see butterflies
swirl around her wedding gown,
her face reflected in a golden bowl,
the bloom of thousands
of attending fairies.

But yet, she is still falling,
full with the wisdom
that the spindle
curses everything it touches

and that her subjects are locusts
fated to swarm the earth
a thousand years
enduring the evil promised them,

until she burns herself out,
the last blood of the Phoenix,
destined from ashes to be transformed.
LC Sep 2019
her hands lost their balance.
an unnoticeable tremor
pumped through her fingers.
as she waited for him to arrive,
she wondered if the time apart
made him a foreign place.

when he finally arrived,
and important tales were shared,
and his smile lit up her heart,
her hands found their balance.
he felt like a home again,
even after all these years.
Susan Nishimoto Sep 2019
Fairy tales are lies, lies
What happened to my prince?

He's imaginary
'Cause it's a fantasy

Where are you now my prince?
I believed you would come

Take me to your castle
So we can run away

I want to be with you
Don't leave me here my dear

The ending is near, near
Why did you deceive me?
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