Poems Envisioning Fantasy and Fairytales
This section is for poetry that falls in the realm of fantasy. The genre of fantasy is an opportunity to dream of reality as we might like it to be. It may leave the reader wondering if this fantasy is possible or whether it bears any resemblance to the real world. However, there are no limits to the possibilities that our imaginations can conjure. Each of these thoughts that are put on paper, although lacking an objective truth, tell us a truth about the human condition.
13 Poems about Love, Fairies, Dragons and Monsters
1. Paul Bunyan
He rode through the woods on a big blue ox,
He had fists as hard as choppin' blocks,
Five hundred pounds and nine feet tall...that's Paul.
Talk about workin', when he swung his axe
You could hear it ring for a mile and a half.
Then he'd yell "Timber!" and down she'd fall...for Paul.
Talk about drinkin', that man's so mean
That he'd never drink nothin' but kerosene,
And a five-gallon can is a little bit small...for Paul.
Talk about tough, well he once had a fight
With a thunderstorm on a cold dark night.
I ain't sayin' who won,
But it don't storm at all...round here...thanks to Paul.
He was ninety years old when he said with a sigh,
"I think I'm gonna lay right down and die
'Cause sunshine and sorrow, I've seen it all...says Paul.
He says, "There ain't no man alive can kill me,
Ain't no woman 'round can thrill me,
And I think heaven just mught be a ball"...says Paul.
So he died...and we cried.
It took eighteen men just to bust the ground,
It took twenty-four more just to lower him down.
And we covered him up and we figured that was all...for Paul.
But late one night the trees started shakin',
The dogs started howlin' and the earth started quakin',
And out of the ground with a "Hi, y'all"...comes Paul!
He shook the dirt from off his clothes,
He scratched his butt and wiped his nose.
"Y'know, bein' dead wasn't no fun at all"...says Paul.
He says, "Up in heaven they got harps on their knees,
They got clouds and wings but they got no trees.
I don't think that's much of a heaven at all"...says Paul.
So he jumps on his ox with a fare-thee-well,
He says, "I'll find out if there's trees in hell."
And he rode away, and that was all...we ever seen...of Paul.
But the next time you hear a "Timber!" yell
That sounds like it's comin' from the pits of hell,
Then a weird and devilish ghostly wail
Like somebody's choppin' on the devil's tail,
Then a shout, a call, a crash, a fall--
That ain't no mortal man at all...that's Paul!Latest Shared Story
This poem is easily identifiable as a classic, and it contains facts and emotions we all share throughout life at some time or other. Great reading and a great share. Well worth real...
2. DreamsThe Power Of Sleep And Dreams
We slip beneath the pillow's spell
And drift from heaven and into hell
To lose control of conscious mind
The secrets of our soul to find.
A timeless journey fills our being.
The blind man now becomes all-seeing.
The lonely now becomes the lover.
The childless wife a loving mother.
Reflection of our dormant fears
Once woken may reduce to tears.
With sleep the master free to prey
On untold thought which nightly stray.
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: "Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,
As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard."
"My lad," said Troll, "this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone."
Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!"
"For a couple o' pins," says Troll, and grins,
"I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.*
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now."
*[as read by Tolkien on the tape:]
Thee'll be a nice change from thine nuncle.
I'm tired of gnawing old bones and skins;
Thee'll be a nice change from thine nuncle."
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from it's owner.
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!Latest Shared Story
This poem reminds me of times reading this with my dad. Thank you for publishing this poem!
A Child Yearns To See A Fairy
Do you know where fairies live?
To see just one, I'd gladly give
The moon and stars and galaxies
That sail above the summer breeze.
Kindly sir, pray do tell,
Do you know where fairies dwell?
Little friend, you look too far.
Can't you see they're where you are?
Tending flowers like busy bees,
Standing smaller than your knees?
You must see them just like I
When you bid your doubts goodbye.
Gentle sir, when I was small,
I climbed above your garden wall;
And there to my surprise and joy,
Stood a little winged boy.
He winked at me and flew away
Into the myth of yesterday.
But you were just a child then
Before you ripened into ten;
And as you grew up, you were taught
What is real and what is not.
But trust your heart; you can unlearn.
Believe in fairies and they'll return!Latest Shared Story
I have been offline due to friends visiting and would have replied sooner, but your words of encouragement, including visualizing a book, made my day--thank you so much! I have read all of...
The enormous red and black beauty of the sky,
Always been free to fly.
But since all the little creatures-
With their bows and arrows-
Inhabited the lands,
Freedom is no longer grace.
In disbelief that I am the only one of my kind,
Always hiding behind the great green vines,
Trying to pretend everything is fine.
A lonely mystical creature,
A pure, fierce beauty of the empty blue sky.
All alone in a big black hole of despair,
Weeping over the devastation.
The once beautiful, once peaceful land,
Is now an unsafe land of ruins.
Flying with nothing but peace in my mind,
Over the misty mountains,
And the colourful fields full of flowers.
Hearing the screams of the little creatures.
Then, suddenly a sharp silver arrow through the head,
Dropping involuntarily to the ground,
Like an unwanted piece of meat,
Not being able to fend off all the beating and bashing.
My soul starts slowly drifting to a more peaceful place,
Where my mystical family gracefully fly free,
A place with limitless strawberries and daisies.
Listening to the, now faint, malicious laughter of those cruel little creatures,
A painful, yet calming breeze blows over my lifeless body.
Finally free to fly in the wondrous, crystal blue sky.
Now I'm not the lonely red and black creature of the empty sky.
Latest Shared Story
This poem really touched my heart. We are so cruel to animals. We kill them for our selfish gains and we killed so many that some are extinct and soon some will be like a rhino. Can't we show...
I asked him where he was going,
And he said that he didn't know.
Then I asked him where he came from,
And he said, "Who wants to know?"
And I wondered a lot about him
As he turned and shuffled away.
And he walked with a stoop and a stagger,
And his hair was long and gray.
And I watched him fade in the distance
Till I turned at last to go.
And I knew not what his name was,
And I guessed that I'd never know.
Till the moon came over the mountain,
And the stars came out to play,
And I saw through the haze of moonlight
This figure all bent and gray.
And he came and he stood beside me.
For a moment I felt his breath.
And he spoke in a muted whisper,
And he said that his name was death.
And he said that he came from nowhere,
That he had no place to go.
Not that it really mattered.
Just thought he'd let me know.
I believe in magic.
I believe in stories,
In strange beauty and wonder,
In dreams and glories.
I believe in magic.
I believe in tales,
In Alice, and a white rabbit,
In a land that ever never fails.
I believe in magic.
I believe in Pan,
In Tinker Bell and lost boys
To fly me off to Neverland.
I really, really do,
But the thing with magic,
Some endings are tragic,
And I ended up with you.
The castle is a place where poets dwell,
Where each can cast their wondrous spell.
From the turrets high to the dungeons deep
From each portcullis to the central keep.
Its powerful walls keep foes at bay.
They keep us safe from day to day.
The knights are brave and fight with zeal.
In armored suits and swords of steel...
The poets live as all men should.
Side by side in brotherhood.
The magic of rhyme is all they seek
From modern tongue to ancient Greek.
The castle echoes with the sound of joy,
And haunting words from man and boy.
The maidens fair who live within
Pen words of love and carnal sin.
For each one here there is a place
To release the soul from its inner space.
With words of mirth and sorrow both.
And witches spells of evil oath.
The castle grows from day to day
And people come from far away.
But once inside these walls of grey,
They know that they are here to stay.
Their words are all that leave this place,
Their souls the castle shall embrace.
So in our quest for perfect poem
We call this place our sonnet's home.Latest Shared Story
I enjoyed this poem. It had rhyme and reason. I thought it a bit scary by the end. Keep up the good work Mike!
9. GracePoem About A Mermaid
I walked to the beach,
To collect some shells.
I stood on the pier,
And listened to the sounds.
There was a glitter in the distance,
Like silver and gold.
It shined out of the water,
Never growing old.
When I got off the pier,
And onto the beach,
That silver and gold shimmer
Was in my reach.
I ran into the water,
Forgetting my clothes.
Feeling the water and sand,
Between my toes.
Just as I was there,
Going to grab hold,
The shimmer stopped,
Now growing old.
A head popped up,
From under the water.
She smiled at me,
Then came a burst of laughter.
She dived into the water,
Her tail shining bright.
Leaving a splash,
I followed after the light.
She held my hand,
As we swam deeper.
I realized I could breathe
The salty water.
Over the sand
And coral and rocks.
The mermaid's hair was shining,
With beautiful locks.
We were swimming up now,
Into the sky,
Up onto the sand,
Where we said goodbye.
She said, "I am Grace,
I'll see you again."
"Goodbye," I called,
And she was gone with a flick of a fin.
In my little airplane
flying way up high,
zooming through the lands of clouds
so white and grand and high,
I fly the cloudy canyons,
swoop and climb each fluffy peak,
as the angels gild with lightning
the misty mysteries I seek,
but best of all, the deep blue caves,
the greatest thrill they give,
gliding, turning, deep inside,
for here -- the dragons live,
and when I come back down to earth,
I never say a thing
They'd be so vexed and jealous
'cause I've heard the dragons sing.
The Dark Scary Home
It sat alone.
What happened there is still today unknown.
It is a very mysterious place,
And inside you can tell it has a ton of space,
But at the same time it is bare to the bone.
At night the house seems to be alive,
Lights flicker on and off.
I am often tempted to go to the house,
To just take a look and see what it is really about,
But fear takes over me.
I drive past the house almost every day.
The house seems to be a bit brighter
On this warm summer day in May.
It plays with your mind.
To me I say, it is one of a kind.
Beside the house sits a tree.
It never grows leaves,
Not in the winter, spring, summer or fall.
It just sits there, never getting small or ever growing tall,
How could this be?
Rumors are constantly being made,
And each day the house just begins to fade.
What happened inside that house?
I really don't know.
I guess it will always be a mystery.
Once upon the ocean blue
came a story just for you
'bout the bloody buccaneers
who sailed the Main in yesteryears.
There was peg-leg Cap'n Flatt,
swashed his buckle -- tipped his hat,
hair and beard were all in curls.
He was loved by all the girls.
Then we have dear Bos'n Brown,
known as "Killer" in the town.
Brown was bald and small and lean,
and he was known for being mean.
The Cap'n's crew was boisterous,
"A pirate's life is fine with us!"
They took to fighting happily,
pillaging upon the sea.
"Yo ho, ho and a bloody sword,
we're going to steal the good King's horde.
We'll sack his crews -- sink his ships,
and drink his wine with salty lips!"
You should have heard the stories told,
chasing -- fighting -- chests of gold,
feats of boldness on the sea
where men are mighty -- men are free!
All of London town was cheering
at each tale that they were hearing,
in every pub -- the welcome mat
was always out for Cap'n Flatt.
Sailing day was quite a fete,
dancing -- parties -- in the street,
sails billowed -- out to sea
with Jolly Roger flying free.
And in the town, they breathed a sigh,
they knew they'd see him by-and-by
with tales of daring and new tunes
and piles and piles of gold doubloons.
So Cap'n Flatt put out to sea
to seek his fabled destiny,
a story lived -- as we shall see
in a way -- quite differently.
Then for months and weeks and days
they plied the tossing ocean ways,
"Red sky night -- sailor's light,
red sky morning -- sailor's warning!"
On a bright and lovely day
they dropped anchor in a bay
where lay a town much loved by men,
where all the sailors came to play.
Ships from England -- ships from France,
all King's sailors came to dance,
to lose their gold at games of cards
and pay to hear the songs of bards.
Brothels owned by Bos'n Brown
did brisk business in this town,
and Cap'n Flatt's own gambling clubs
raked in the gold -- as did his pubs.
You've heard of Blackbeard, so I'm told,
this is where he got his gold,
and Cap'n Hook, all the while,
played his dancing crocodile,
prancing in a pinafore
with gold in piles upon the floor.
Up above the town did fly
the Jolly Roger -- there -- on high,
to bring the sailors -- grand marquee
proclaiming "Here is pleasure's spree!"
Weeks and weeks -- transporting gold,
Cap'n Flatt filled up his hold
'til his ship was laden down
and set to sail for London town.
Going back -- they made up stories,
fabricated pirate glories,
songs to thrill both me and you
and not a word of them was true.
Spare me all those dirty looks,
just toss away your hist'ry books,
for every tale of bloody glory:
just a made-up "pirate" story.
But -- if you're good -- someday I'll tell
location where this island dwells,
still run by kin of Flatt and Brown,
a "genuine ole pirate town."Latest Shared Story
GREAT POEM!! Loved the rhyme, the cadence, and the fun of it all. Wonderful storytelling.
13. Daisy MooreHer Eyes Were Bright Green
She had beautiful blond hair; her eyes were bright green.
She looked like she was the sun and she causing life to grow.
Her skin shined like she was life itself.
Her lips were scarlet even without make-up on.
The triumph in her spirit would make any boy enchanted.
Her breath even perfumed the air.
Her smooth legs were crossed as she stared at the lake.
The water glistened and had a breeze that day.
And there I was in my torn up jeans.
I had a small t-shirt and could not afford shoes.
But I had to meet her; maybe if I talked to her things could change.
I walked forward but then stepped back.
After all, she was beautiful and I was just a poor farm boy.
She had smooth hands but mine were hard from working.
Her hair was long, rich and curly but mine was short and dirty.
How could we ever be?
But this was my only chance so I stepped forward.
In a croaky voice I said, "Hi."
She turned her head and looked in my eyes.
I was so terrified but I looked in hers.
She said in a very smooth and dreamy voice, "The Lake is so pretty this time of year."
And she told me her name was Daisy Moore.
Soon the minute turned to an hour.
We talked about family and we talked about fishing.
She told me stories about laughter and crying.
But soon she had to go.
"Nice to meet you," Daisy said.
And then she turned her head away and went home.
And then I said to myself, "Nice to meet you too, Daisy Moore,"
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