"folktale" poems
I am told,
You think I am too old,
I am more precious than gold.
If you listen to me,
I will take you to a wonderful world;
I'm supposed to be oral,
speaking
of
myths,
legends,
fantasy,
and the supernatural.
When you listen to me,
Then you'll know,
How I become young,
How I live so long.
I am who I am.
Everyone knows me
and
all
the children love me.
I am not a lie,
In me you can find the truth,
That roots
you
To
Your Past
and
To
The Orgin
Because,
It's me, the oxygen,
That
Cultures breath,
And
The nitrogen,
With which THEY fly
Deep
In a blue sea,
Like a White Dove,
Like a Magical Butterfly,
And
With which They dive
High
in a Blue Sky
Like an Incredible fish,
Like a Blue Whale,
in a Fairytale.
I have no specific author,
You can be my author.
I have no specific time,
For all times are mine.
I had lived in your Heart
An Art.
I had had only listeners
Until I was put in a Book.
I was Invisible,
But
Now you can see me if you look,
Or
GUESS what?
I am Unseen,
Though you think that's me on that screen.
That's not me,
For I have always been...
A Mystery,
That speaks
Of
Happiness
And
Misery,
Of
Kindness
And
Treachery,
Of
Poverty
And
Luxury,
Of
Honesty
And
Trickery,
Of
Freedom
And
Slavery,
So
please,
Hurry
And
Listen to me,
Before you go to any cinema or library.
For I am
The oldest Teacher
And
The honest Preacher.
I think you know me well now,
So ask Grandma how?
When you wish to MEET me.
I can be for you a guide
And take you to another side,
I can make your world wide.
If you follow me, Child!
I can take you to the Woods,
I can take you to the wild.
In which
Animals
Talk
And
Trees
Walk.
And
In which
A Witch
Has
Hooves ,
And
An Ant
Wears
Gloves,
And
In Which
A Wolf
Sings,
And
A Horse
Has
Wings,
And
In Which
A kingdom,
And
Many other Bewitching Gems
Of
Wisdom.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Lucid, abusive
Tongue in cheek divine
Stupid, elusive
Lost soul of mine
A snap of orchestral fingers to summon the suave illustrator
Mohawk punks and minions to smash the limp masturbator
Loveless, acquiesce
Arpeggio flutter ripples
Convalesce, Fancy dress
******* with perky *******
One or two drinks, make it three then five
Keeping the blood warm and love alive
Visceral, peripheral
Dark raven hair
Liberal, scriptural
I couldn’t even care.
I adored her all, her everything, her gleaming demeanor
The subtle wink of her eyes, the glow; even greener
Exotica, ex machina
Street amazon of desert glass sand
No drama, rural karma
Flesh sweating like the heat of Sudan
Dead singers like Cole and Morrison sing of paper moons and Crystal Ships
The mixed CD segues to U2, Pulp, and then a full disk of The Flaming Lips.
"Nightingale", minor scale
The saxophonist played under the street lamp outside
Folktale female
“Another drink?” she abides, two glasses and wine supplied
On her balcony we watched and listened, to the call of urban passion
The wordless music we adored, a testament to our mutual attraction.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
I am told,
You think I am too old,
I am more precious than gold.
If you listen to me,
I will take you to a wonderful world;
I'm supposed to be oral,
speaking
of
myths,
legends,
fantasy,
and the supernatural.
When you listen to me,
Then you'll know,
How I become young,
How I live so long.
I am who I am.
Everyone knows me
and
all
the children love me.
I am not a lie,
In me you can find the truth,
That roots
you
To
Your Past
and
To
The Orgin
Because,
It's me, the oxygen,
That
Cultures breath,
And
The nitrogen,
With which THEY fly
Deep
In a blue sea,
Like a White Dove,
Like a Magical Butterfly,
And
With which They dive
High
in a Blue Sky
Like an Incredible fish,
Like a Blue Whale,
in a Fairytale.
I have no specific author,
You can be my author.
I have no specific time,
For all times are mine.
I had lived in your Heart
An Art.
I had had only listeners
Until I was put in a Book.
I was Invisible,
But
Now you can see me if you look,
Or
GUESS what?
I am Unseen,
Though you think that's me on that screen.
That's not me,
For I have always been...
A Mystery,
That speaks
Of
Happiness
And
Misery,
Of
Kindness
And
Treachery,
Of
Poverty
And
Luxury,
Of
Honesty
And
Trickery,
Of
Freedom
And
Slavery,
So
please,
Hurry
And
Listen to me,
Before you go to any cinema or library.
For I am
The oldest Teacher
And
The honest Preacher.
I think you know me well now,
So ask Grandma how?
When you wish to MEET me.
I can be for you a guide
And take you to another side,
I can make your world wide.
If you follow me, Child!
I can take you to the Woods,
I can take you to the wild.
In which
Animals
Talk
And
Trees
Walk.
And
In which
A Witch
Has
Hooves ,
And
An Ant
Wears
Gloves,
And
In Which
A Wolf
Sings,
And
A Horse
Has
Wings,
And
In Which
A kingdom,
And
Many other Bewitching Gems
Of
Wisdom.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
I wrote titles on strips of paper,
Books that I planned on reading,
On my shelf that contained one empty shelve,
I rolled them into *****
And threw them into the cup,
Shaking up the titles,
I get a Mo Yan.
Then I get a Charles Dickens,
The paper ***** get reshuffled again.
I pick again, it’s Mo Yan.
The third time, it’s Mo Yan
READ ME, HE YELLS.
His short stories were read,
a few months ago.
Chinese folktale like stories,
With satire of Modern China.
But none of his novels,
were touched.
In one of them,
The bookmark stops at 300.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
What creates a God?
Moments of Desperation
Or a nice folktale
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
After a great while the paper elephants march
In their sparse herd they lumber along
One by one, their thick legs slam into the earth
Like pennies on a timpani
Leaving slight imprints in the dust
No one is quite sure where they come from
All we know is they just are there
Some raise their children before witnessing the elephants
A lucky few will even see them a second time at the end of their lives
It is not uncommon for generations to pass without the paper elephants
Sometime the periods between their journeys are so long the elephants are dissolved into folktale
The paper elephants are bestowed an almost supernatural quality
The stories are birthed in secrecy between the lights of candles
In the ears of the men in the corner
From the hushed lips whispered in acquiescence.
Every story is different
Every story has the same ending
Every story has the same moral
You do not touch the paper elephants
Perhaps the stories have some truth
If anyone knows the validity they have been dead for quite some time
No matter, man’s superstitious nature will see to the protection of the elephants
The paper elephants are called “paper elephants” because it describes them quite nicely
From a distance they look just like normal elephants
Lumbering over from side to side
But their skin is like paper
Their essence is like paper
They travel together
Even the old and young
When it rains the young hide under the larger elephants
Lest they get wet and melt into the earth
It is not uncommon to find the soaked remains of an elder elephant
Crumpled by a sad consequence
It always serves as a reminder
The old exist to protect the young
Most likely the elephants can be found roaming through our graveyards
Here their pace noticeably slows down
Often enough, they can be found sitting next to a tombstone
Resting their trunks over the epitaphs
Strange things happen when the elephants are in the graveyards
Sometimes laughter can be heard
Sometimes sobbing
As the elephants rest the blue mist rises from the graves
The blue is the most reassuring shade
The misty fog rises and fills the entire yard
Until it is absorbed by the paper elephants
With a long sigh the elephants continue their journey
After many such stops
The elephants arrive at the tree
Gnarled and ancient, it welcomes the elephants with silence
As it has for years and years past
It is here the elephants have yearned to arrive
Under the knobs and strikes of its branches
They bend the knee
The young watch to learn
The adults look up to the sky
And release all that they carry
The hopes, dream, and memories of those long gone
Ascend to the heavens
The paper elephants collapse exhausted but content
And look upon their children one last time
They weep before leaving this world
Not for their children’s sorrow
But because there are no paper elephants to carry them to the next world
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Farce!
False!
Fantasy maybe. Even still,
It’s far from fact.
Fiction!
I've seen more accurate depictions
Of Love
In abstract pictures.
At least it’s fierce colors
Show so form of passion
Fashion!
Artistic? It can be
But this is trendy
It'll fade as a
Fad!
True art is timeless
Truth? It can be
But this is candy
Not fruit
This is pop
Not soul
Technically it’s music
Because of it’s movement
But this needed no muse
Only tech
No chords
Piano or vocal
Only vocoder!
Inhumane, alien maybe.
But even the Vulcan
Shows some form of fire
Folktale!
Fog!
The misleading smoke
Shows no water
In the vicinity
Only industry
The only esteem
In this engine
Is steam
Gas.
The closest thing
To nothing
Fodder!
Deflowered. Devoured
By self-expression
Selfish innovators imitating life
Forgetting to live it.
****
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Ian Garrick, he sailed the Seven Seas
or Captain Redbeard, as he's known to you and me
He loved riches, as well as flesh and wine
But death and destruction are what filled most of his time
Captain Redbeard, despised and feared
Ian Garrick, he died at sea
The Crimson Captain, he came to be
The Dread Phantom Pirate King
Without Mercy
The King’s Commander, the mightiest to sail
Remembered just by title in his enemy's folktale
Died in battle, attacked to no avail
But still saw the captain fall
Beyond the Pale
His eyes were gold as fire
Demise, his sole desire
His eyes were gold as fire
Demise, his soul desired
In nightmares, Ian Garrick lives
Captain Blood-N-Gore
The images his name still gives
of Horror, Hell and War
Are bound to silent darkness
In the Depths of Nevermore
Until a poor fool summons them
In suffering, Reborn
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
and suddenly we're gone.
the moments we shared turned distant memories,
the song we used to sing became a classical piece,
the butterflies forgot to give fluttery sensations anymore.
the path we used to take became an unfamiliar road.
the half of me no longer aches for you.
our love became a folktale that no one longer recall.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
Reading poems you've sent me before your untimely demise. I still don't think I've loved anyone else but you- always trying, just incapable. Do you remember when we were talking about having souls? You were so certain and I just wasn't sure- that's changed, you changed that.
I still recall how completely devastated I was when your parents sold your house right before you left for college. Like a scene from a ****** lifetime movie, you left with a kiss holding up a sign which simply said “I will come back for you.”Although, it’s not much, it’s something I’ve held onto as a security blanket-never once doubting that you wouldn’t. Today, it hit me that you really weren’t.
We’ve been planning our lives together before we could successfully tie our shoes. All we wanted was a house on the water with a garden and a tire swing—but really that wouldn’t have mattered as long as I was home with you. I never had the best childhood, some people have called it the worst, but since 1st grade you’ve gotten me through, saving me from one unfortunate circumstance after another—holding my hand when I was scared and wiping away tears when sorrow overtook my fragile little heart. You were my ultimate comfort, my only home. Today, at 9:53AM, it hit me that I was finally homeless.
Today it finally hit me, at work, where everyone could see, that you were truly gone. Tears stream down my face silently as I try to convince those around me that I just have really bad allergies—it’s not like they care anyway. I keep looking at my cell, hoping for a phone call or a text that just says you’re alright- but I know it will never come.
Once when I was small, my grandmother told me an Irish folktale about how people were created in pairs and separated at birth to search for their other half- you were that half.
Do you remember when we talked about having souls? I do and I believe it now. Mine resides six feet under the cold hard ground, right where it has always been—with you.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
3pm *****
a ballerina learning to slow-dance in jeans
is the stolid way you call me pretty
I've known better, never to settle
as I order another, please
I can forgive me
But we've just been kissing
& pity breeds missing you, weak
I'm never bored, never sorry
watch you pull me from the ground
much like those Macbeth witches
I could have guessed
you aren't around
but you talk like you're so sorry
only to wipe it off of your belt
Steel-toe folktale, go home
& tell it to somebody else
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
sometimes i feel as though we are the same person,
but you are the version that is more refined and more talented and more effortless
we do all the same things,
but you take the time to brew beauty
as i let emotion crash through delicate crystal i once tried to create
you are also darker; more solemn
you have long legs
a slender waist
milky skin
and deep brown eyes
that are serious
thoughtful
and earnest
I provide the imperfection,
the blind confidence
and the willingness
to make mistakes
i provide thick thighs
and a booming laugh
that makes it known we are not here to please
we are a literary device;
two parts of one character
that morphs into one
complex heroine by the end of the folktale
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
A folktale
There is a small country sharing part of its border
to a giant country, both have been friends for
over 300 years during world war two they came
helped the small country to get rid of the enemy.
Then propaganda articles appeared in many papers
how bad the government in the big country was,
(Let us make it easy the small country we can call
Norway and big the country Russia) the Norwegian
took no notice, they visited Russia often to buy
***** cigarettes and other items that are expensive
in their little country; and some travelled to Moskva
which has a rich cultural heritage.
Then the Americans/NATO held a proxy war and
the American soldiers and tanks got in the way
of tour buses, needless to say, the soldiers were
confused that the people from the tiny country
we’re not afraid of the big bear this because of the
US combatants were victims of lying propaganda.
Well, the military nonsense ended their proxy war
the Norwegian continued to travel to Russia to do
their shopping and as always they were welcomed
and no one mentioned the silly manoeuvres by
the misguided military personnel were playing in the snow.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 4:09 AM UTC
Gather round boys and girls it’s story-time and I have a tale to tell. Once upon a time there was a girl. This girl did not know love, she didn’t know how to smile, she thought of laughter as a folktale and pain a reality. This girl gave life to rain forest, her irises the clouds swollen with her untold sorrows.
One day the girl who knew nothing but sadness met a boy. This boy was wonderful. This boy was the icing on the disaster and trauma truffle cake, the cherry on the suffering and shame banana split. He was the sun shining above the eye of the hurricane. To put it simply he was magic.
He introduced her to living. Showed her what it was like to fly, what it was a was like to breath above water. Then he introduced her to his fist. No longer flying but floating, she went from the sea to space trading drowning for suffocation. He trapped her in his gravity and tricked her into thinking she was weightless. Told her she wasn’t worthless as long as she had him, that she was made to be nothing without him. This boy turned her into a fraction of herself, and he was the dominator. This boy turned her face from brown, to red, to blue, to black, to purple, her body a rainbow featuring the colors of his anger. She became the canvas to his finger painting. He the master and she the puppet. He always pulled her strings to hard no matter what she said.
The girl grew tired. She didn’t have a choice she told herself, because if she did why would she choose to be a shell of the woman she once was. Her heart retreated and her smile vacated and her peace of mind took a long walk off a short pier. He destroyed her will. destroyed her spirits, destroyed hope. ***** the rain forest, he caused her to turn deserts into oceans, drizzles into storms, New York is now Atlantis. There is no happy ending to this story boys and girls. She is still in his gravity. She still suffocates. He still pulls her strings, and her smile has not returned. And I’m starting to think it never will.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
don't talk,just listen
pick their story's glisten
grasp how not to fail
from their perishing folktale
pay heed to their lamentation
to put yourself on flawless direction
learn about hell and misery
as this is the map for victory
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 2:26 PM UTC
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me *****
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine)
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logi, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
Numb to the outlook that left me with distraught,
visualizing the world that is depicted by onslaught,
troubled and severely caught into the dangers,
one shall be freed and evict me of my innocence,
I make confessions of pure sentiments, as rebel as stone,
I know this road right here will mislead me home,
on a power walk to prevail, I tell this folktale to you,
a constant nuisance that will never undo,
as though the world has chosen his enemy,
I must abide by the same entities,
as he, the one whom interacts beastly,
the world in which the world foresees.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
City of flickering dust crusted lights
along homeless haven'd stained shaking sidewalks,
where lampposts tell twisted tall tales
seen in the reflections of shop window views
of the stalking capitalist machine.
Billboards bellowing lucid interpretations
smile over split milky-way highways
launching battery driven cars on candied clouds
nine miles high while dandruff snowflakes
fall from salon-styled stands of thin grey hair
onto executive shoulder-padded suits
into plastic snow globe promises of a white Christmas
for kids on the streets in Little Haiti
and Old North Sacremento.
Chinese manufactured diseased dreams
spreads through third-world African cities
malfunctioning tribe cultures into
building blocks for fly-by-night
phony hip hop street scene
high-tops of American wet dream
rip-off Beijing based monopolies.
Cutting out native tongues
and fitting botched back street
plastic surgery transplants of jail-yard gang slang
false identities of cultural misappropriation
and heritage suicide by displaced majorities
who hope for bread crumb paths home
along folktale story guiding epiphanies
of ghost kings of the past bellowing from the sky
"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE".
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 11:39 AM UTC