"rumplestiltskin" poems
Please explain inflation
Why do prices rise
For when I go out shopping
They change before my eyes
I just don't seem to get it
why some go up and down
Why a red car's more expensive
Than a new car that is brown
I tried to do some simple math
I went back to the books
Now I think that all economists
Are just white collar crooks
Follow me on this one, now..
A buck in 1970 is now worth near five fifty
I don't know how they did it
But I think it's kind of shifty
A funeral costs much more today
But this one is a pickle
For in western movies I have seen
My life's worth a plugged nickel
That hasn't changed in many years
So, I made a decision
It has to do with the new math
And that ****** new long division
Wheat is up, and so is beer
And theres one that I resent
To put my worth in when it's asked
It's still just two **** cents
A house...well, that's a nightmare
Some cost more than you will earn
You'll be owing for a lifetime
Your mortgage you won't burn
Water, there's another thing
It's now worth more than gas
But now, our nice tap water
It's quality won't pass
Six cents would get you postage
To send a letter, that's not bad
Today..it's almost ten times that
And that is really sad
But here's one that's confusing
Of all the things you've bought
This one's never varied
It's still a penny for your thoughts
two bits could get a haircut
And it would also get a shave
But now to get this combo
It takes two weeks to save
Hockey cards they cost a dime
And baseball cards did too
But, now they're an investment
And a dime won't buy you two.
Please think on this real hard now
It's a tale that's really old
Let's find how Rumplestiltskin
Could spin straw into gold
Inflation is a ******
It's all over the earth
I say smile, and then bend over
And that's my two cents worth!
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
We're not all the stuff of legends and fairy tales. We do try sometimes but we more often then not are doomed to fail, because being held to a standard that you're better than human is a hard burden to bear.
We don't all have the natural dramatic flair that makes us fare just that much better on the stage - But whether or not we will ever be like Aladdin, we rub every lamp just in case.
In the face of overwhelming improbality, we still find a way to get ourselves to say 'Maybe this time, it'll be different. Maybe the innocent will not suffer and maybe this time they'll catch the bad guy'.
Who am I to dream? Who am I to make more out of something than what would first seem? Every one of these stitches and seams that run across our bodies like patchwork, every scar from every time we've gone to far or raised the bar, they are ours to wear with pride.
Just because something has been denied to you is no reason not to seek it again, but this twicefold. I may not be Rumplestiltskin but I'm going to keep trying to turn this straw to gold - because the dreams that come to us are ours to hold. Ours to clutch to our chest lest they grow cold.
It is because of these mistakes that we are where we are. When you fail, if you can re-trail what you did wrong all the way back to core of the problem, then you've got experience to store away until next time. I only learned to rhyme like I do through the impromptu misteps that we are all going to go through. And you will learn to be better.
Every, single, letter that goes into writing one of these little soliloquies has to come out like a summer breeze or they should not be put down. You can't squeeze your brain like a grape hoping that pure wine is going to come out. Inspiration comes from the funniest places and I guess you could say that you've been inspirin' me but there is still fire in me to temper the metal.
And I know I'm not going to get a medal for this, otherwise I'd probably do it more often. But each and every one of you needs to know that it is only through challenge and adversity that we grow into these monoliths we hope we one day become. If you can manage to stay strong, live long and keep is simple your whole life through... who knows? - Maybe they'll write the next fairy tales about you.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
A quiet kid,
lonely in the rain,
fingers the nickels and pennies
in his pockets, waiting for the bus
to splash around the corner,
so he can get to work.
He lives with a demon of a roommate,
and shares snores with the roaches,
Bathing in the shower of their incontinence.
After college, he lost it and wrecked his mind
in a haze of liquor so foggy it
swallowed the moon for awhile.
He stumbles through pitch black nights
with an ugly soul and redemption on his mind;
The worst kind of late night wanderer.
Coffee and sugar keep him alive--
just like war and famine are the black angel's wives--
bringing him back into this liquid reality.
In the mornings he breathes in this world,
totally sober.
It tastes like sourness
and the milk of ***** entrapped in blue jeans
in 100 degree weather
all day.
It was the worst kind of sobriety.
All the horrors of birth.
He lives many lives:
One for his mother,
where he plants fruitless kisses
on her cheeks.
Little wreaths of future disappointment.
She hugs him so warmly.
It makes him want to suckle his .45.
One for work,
all smiles
and plumb submission.
9-5.
5-2.
12-9.
6-3.
4-12.
And if he's lucky
12-4 on saturdays.
All this in 5 dollar clothes
and a rumplestiltskin attitude;
trying to weave his own ugliness
into truth.
One for his girl,
the one who'd hurl her tongue at Appollo,
puke up her month's sugar intake,
and curl her fingers so tight that she cut the cappillaries,
making a red and white fist like a christmas cinnabon:
If he ever told her who he really was.
His love for her is secret.
One life for himself,
to keep the mirror happy.
This kid.
He's all or nothing.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
So I'll make my 1st guess, my 2nd and my 3rd
And they'll all be wrong or right
But this isn't Rumplestiltskin
Just grim
No fairies or happy endings,
Just tales.
So I'll make my 4th guess, my 5th and my 6th
And they'll all be wrong or right.
But there's no clarity to be had in being cowardly
Just underserved charity
And that case just doesn't suit me.
So I'll make my 7th guess, my 8th and my 9th,
And I might just have had enough to make the call.
So send me down the direct line
The blunt knife may cut deep
But at least it won't chip away at me endlessly like the nth degree, the not knowing...
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Once upon a time
there was a poor man
and he has a beautiful daughter.
The king saw the beauty
and brought them to his court
and commanded the girl to spin gold.
She did not know how
so she started to cry
until a small man came to help.
"I will spin this hay
into strands of pure gold
but you must give me a gift."
The young girl agreed
and gave him a necklace
then, soon, the room was full.
The very next day
her room was much bigger
and, again, she was told spin gold.
Alone in the room
the small man returned
and again requested a gift.
She gave him her ring
and the small man did spin
until all the hay was gold.
The greedy old king
wanted more gold
and the third room was much larger.
Again the man came,
still wanting gifts,
but the girl had nothing left.
The small man thought
and had an idea --
he wanted her first born child.
She sadly accepted
and the room filled with gold.
Then the daughter married the king.
The new queen had a daughter
and, just as he said,
the man came to take her away.
She wanted to keep her
so he gave her three days
to find his hidden name.
On the very last day
a knight saw a man
who had a peculiar name :
Rumplestiltskin
The queen dared to say,
"Could your name maybe be ...
Rumplestiltskin?"
He lashed out in anger
and tore himself in two
and never again was he seen.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
I wrote a poem long ago
As an assignment for class
It was the first I was proud of
That feeling didn't last
It captured something
That rarely I'd place
An ever-present
Mask on my face
It was written there
Now lost forever
A truth I knew
Would bring me no pleasure
Titled "Masquerade"
I thought that was clever
Even used three words
To put rhyme to those letters
It was whole and it was tragic
Though I wrote it stone-faced
Turned it in, to the teacher
With no smile or grace
That page was Rumplestiltskin
Its lines gave form
To thoughts never shared
Within my brain's storm
The poem was an answer
From the hand that wrote it
To a baffled 12-year-old
Who couldn't control it
She gave it back to me
Along with an A
That I stuffed in my pack
And lost the same day
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 9:15 AM UTC
You hexed me into a trance,
filling every available crevice
in my body
of what I thought was
ambrosia
I managed to swallow the silk from
your white lies
How dangerously sweet they were
You plucked each thread which
held my songbird heart together,
playing me twice for a fool (shame on me)
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
No one may contest that a contract existed
Between my client and the respondent;
This much is beyond debate,
Nor did the plaintiff in any way compel
This miller’s-daughter-cum-queen in any manner,
Unless one contends that providing a vehicle
To obtain all that she had ever desired
Somehow equates to coercion.
As to my learned colleague’s claim
That the imposition of so-called usurious terms by my client
Serves to render the agreement null and void,
May I remind you that at no point in this affair
Did the respondent decline to accept the quid pro quo;
Indeed, she happily re-negotiated the terms of the very pact
She now seeks to vacate!
Ah, opposing counsel claims, *my client fulfilled the agreement
In accordance with the law*.
I must say, rather sadly,
I find my distinguished friend’s definition of fulfillment
Very odd, indeed, as if the employment of industrial espionage,
Illegal trespass, surveillance methods of dubious legitimacy
(All of which were undertaken
To surreptitiously provide his client with such information
To exercise the out-clause of the agreement)
Is something the court should embrace
As a matter of statute or accepted practice.
Again, members of the jury, I know where your sympathies lie.
All along , opposing counsel has implied
We should celebrate his client’s pluckiness,
Her cunning and initiative,
Her stunning journey from rages to riches.
My friends, I would argue this;
There is, indeed, a moral to every story,
Are our obligations and promises, at the end of the day,
No more than the interview portion of some beauty pageant,
Where long blonde hair and a winning smile
Serve as just cause to blithely disregard those oaths?
Are the most sacred of vows
Less binding upon those whom Nature and the mirror
Have favored more so than those among us
Who are among the unattractive and underloved?
Ladies and gentlemen, it is up to you
To write the final chapter of our fable.
I thank you for your service.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Captain Hook: Lets just say.. We burried the hachet
Rumplestiltskin: Yes... but why not in your SKULL?
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
A bowstring stretched, in claret dipped,
Bestowing smile upon а white day,
That's when my heart was slightly chipped
And winter got away
A dark dress wraps around my body
I thumb through periwinkle leaves
The words wore nothing gaudy
But for a trace, that sunshine gives
The iris greenery of my eyes
Is praying to the queen, who stars chalk
In pupils the kingly light abides
Until the rays replace a warning moonbroch
And with this granted magic for a night
That's piercing a human vision
Like ruby roses pierce the soil under the might
Of а happening high above celestial collision
I'll plant to blossom Milky Ways
And let the stained glas branch out to startle
Most souls grow dim in a dairy haze
Kaleidoscope like yours ****** with a sparkle
A hand on marble fences,
Embracing all my senses
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Mary had a little lamb
it was a Caesarean delivery,
its conception was even stranger
in a barn under stars up against a manger.
On pudding lane with a pocket full of Posies
little Jack Horner
was last seen on a corner,
he slipped into whispers
and pulled out a plum,
Rumplestiltskin did cartwheels
as he strangled Tom Thumb.
Little Red Riding
when lulled by the wolf
lowered her hood and twinkled her eye,
her ginger bread biscuit crumbled to dust
and all the Kings men could ne’er reason why.
So fairy tale this and fairy tale that
trick all the rabbits you pull from your hat
for all of the things that remain unexplained
make up a story
and give it a name.
https://wolfgarwords.com/about/
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 3:42 AM UTC
Images and
Icons,
get your Nikes on
we're going for a run.
something Icarus or precarious
about squinting at the Sun,
shades required.
He's still there at
Trafalgar Square,
pound coins in his hat
and
pigeon **** in his hair,
not,
going anywhere
so
why should I care?
Some try to tell me,
I don't see what I see,
I see
only what I want to see,
that doesn't sound like me.
Imagine taking a brass rubbing
of grass growing,
on your marks, get set,
better yet
get going.
Five points for a line
ten for two that rhyme,
Teddy says,
goodnight to you,
goodnight to Rumplestiltskin
goodnight, old woman in the shoe,
goodnight to everyone he knows or knew,
goodnight and god bless
the nursery crew.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 3:38 PM UTC
Gathered up the sticks and stones,
metalic chains that tied down bones.
twist gibberish from mithered mind,
poisonous scolpamine that makes it bind.
throw in angst, grief ,abuse and pain,
the manic , depressed clown, sudden sane,
projections coloured, in black and blue,
silvered mirror, which reflects you too,
tapping feet, to tell his story,
vibrating, whirring, hate and gory,
tangled hair, in love and war,
left the house, she went too far,
Eve's cursed with all honest, gentle, meek,
an act of love, was taught to seek,
not in public, lies, their great shame,
it's ***** ops, they got it covered,
none Independent to Post,
All is hidden in the Sun,
With ***** Mirror,
one cannot find
junk Mail sings to tapped Telegragh.
none Express the Times,
News reels out fear, in pantomimes,
bowed to the fiddle player,
President, Minister, Senator , Mayor,
dressed in copper, gold, inked paper, bit coins,
buried in weighted tonnes, aground,
strawman arguments, plentiful found,
mutter mumbo jumbo,
about survival of fittest,
serfs was born, to be that hitlist,
elequent etonians, buzzing fabian tales,
once bolting cheetahs, now, well fattened snails,
More occult jibes, from outer polished cups,
with poisoned inner, She passes up,
If sinning became winning,
patient, with time locked down, spinning,
weaving multicoloured threads,
of too man-y voices in her head.
Found alchemical gold in solitary cell,
Thanks to the Fathers Heavenly spell,
unravelled her story, from sickness to well.
Omnipresent, all round, all high,
nothing hidden from his all seeing eye.
Good things come, for those who wait,
lockdown will serve the meek and kind,
the architects soon stricken blind,
believe their own lies,
think their bots are real,
love is truth, for those who feel.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 12:50 AM UTC
tantrum
trump
rumplestiltskin
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC