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Listen to me people
I'll take you on a journey
To places far away
Hold on tight and listen
From my mind
To yours today

Places of adventure
With people intertwined
With stories
And great places
That come from in my mind

some say  I am a prophet
I'm a storyteller too
Open up your mind to me
That's all you have to do
I will take you from the present
To the past and farther on
I am the storyteller
Close your eyes, and please hold on

Characters of fiction
Places that are real
Melt them both together
Tell me how you feel

Mixing words and music
In a portrait in your mind
Listen to the colours
As the words and music bind

some say I am a prophet
I'm a storyteller too
Open up your mind to me
That's all you have to do
I will take you from the present
To the past and farther on
I am the storyteller
Close your eyes, and please hold on

Dance to what you're hearing
Relax and float away
Listen to the story
Your're here, so now let's play

Combine the words and pictures
With the music and you'll see
The storyteller's story
And The Story Teller's me

some say  I am a prophet
I'm a storyteller too
Open up your mind to me
That's all you have to do
I will take you from the present
To the past and farther on
I am the storyteller
Close your eyes, and please hold on
Ivan Brooks Sr Feb 2018
A true storyteller
always finds a way.
Like an entertainer
who delivers every day.

A true storyteller
Thinks freshly
like a Baptist preacher
who yells loudly.

A true storyteller
can turn a bad day
and make it sweeter
via a script into a play.

He can present tragedy
as a comic.
And deliver comedy
and remain stoic.

A true storyteller
is meticulous
as a new car dealer
is loquacious.

A true storyteller
never cares about his glory
or one particular character.
only the success of his story.

A storyteller cares only about his story.
TheTeacher  Oct 2012
TheTeacher Oct 2012
Come on over and sit right down
The storyteller has come to town.

So many stories I have acquired and that's a fact....I keep them hidden in my knapsack in a book that's white and black.

This a story about you.......It was a day just like this .....a total stranger came to offer you A gift.

It was wrapped in the most beautiful paper one has ever seen.  The workmanship was awesome.....some would say prestine.

He leaned on his cane .....due to a bad leg.  He hurt it one night wrestling until the early morn......he also received a gift like a mother who cuddles her newborn.

So he leaned upon the cane and lit his corncob pipe ....and blew smoke in the air.  The extravagant gift was placed on the chair.

He said "This gift that is contained in this box is something that everyone wants." " You have have been chosen to receive this gift." "You don't have to take can give it to another.....if you chose. wouldn't be wise to make such a move."

The gift is still sitting in that chair......should I open it or leave it there?

A potential to change my life and end the strife I face on a daily basis.  This isn't a deserted scene where you will see a thirst quenching oasis.

My basis for this story is about have so many voices guiding your every thought......sometimes we chose wisely......and other times not so much.

These are the occasions when we lose touch or sight between right or wrong......the consequences for that wrong selection.......will have me singing a sad song.

If I chose wisely the day will be a lot easier to travel...not a perfect ride.....but I will arrive with all my bags in tow.

Chose wisely ........

So....he gathered his belongings and blew a smoke ring in the air.......and hobbled off into the distance.  He hummed a jovial tune and yelled back that he would return soon.

The Storyteller...........
Akhil Bhadwal Feb 2016
I know a great storyteller
Since when I was 7
He who once narrated stories with all the emotions and expressions
Has now left for the heavens

Tales of witty animals
And the animal kingdom itself
He cited various examples
But now he's no more himself

Every story was a kind of message
That the old man feed into two young children's mind
He will never be forgotten
The storyteller, who have now died
A tribute to my maternal grandfather who left this world on 25th Jan, 2016. R.I.P. Naanu.......

Rhyme scheme for the prose is a b c b.
He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.
I am not good at this. I just want to express my pure gratitude, appreciation and awe for you.

"I am no poet. Never thought of myself as one. Just a guy dabbling clumsily in words"
Yet even, everything you do amaze me.

Thank you all wonderful people on Hello Poetry. I just realized this moment that this poem was featured as Daily poem yesterday.  I have never imagined any of my work will be posted as daily. Thank you all for the hearts, re-post,share, comments and messages. You really made my heart and soul so happy. :)
And most of all, thanks to the man who inspire me to write this one. :)
Richard Riddle Jan 2015
You made a personal decision to leave HP, based on dissatisfaction with the abundance of certain language issues that have, in my opinion, saturated the site. I couldn't agree more with what you say, but is it enough to leave a site that has provided the majority with many enjoyable works.
I don't know just how old "The 'Ole Storyteller" is, it makes no difference. An enjoyable read is always an enjoyable read, and one that  is read multiple times. Writers like yourself are important to the site. They are the ones we respect, look up to, learn from. Your writes serve as an inspiration, not just to the newcomers trying to find their way, looking to create their own style, dabbling with many, but for all of us that want to do better, better than the last one, and the one before it, and so on.
Your writes, teach. What more can you ask. Yes, there will always be those that want to waller in misery, wanting everyone else to swim with them in their muck. Some feel it necessary to throw in a few four-letter words which add nothing, but succeed in ruining what could have been a very good write.
Come back "Ole Storyteller"! Show those that cause your discontent that you are above what seems to becoming the norm.
copyright: richard riddle January 14, 2015
Eileen Black Dec 2018
Storyteller’s Duty (Cinquain)

What is the value of silver and gold?
Is it enough to buy beauty?
What happens when beauty grows old?
Does her story remain untold?
Isn't telling the storyteller’s duty?
He sat in a small compartment by
The window, on a train,
The passengers huddled around him
Saying, ‘Tell that one again!’
He spoke in a low and measured voice
As they held their breath, to stare,
Watching his hands, as they described
Vague circles in the air.

There wasn’t a sound outside, except
The carriage, clickety-clack,
A sound that would tend to hypnotise
As the train sped down the track,
In every one of his listeners
Was a picture, in each mind,
That spoke to them of that better life
Which had been too hard to find.

And seagulls circled the skies above
As he primed their minds with ‘If…’
And led them all in a straggly line
To stand at the top of a cliff.
The sea was blue and the clouds were grey
And the rocks below sublime,
As they teetered there for a moment where
They stood, at the edge of time.

For then he’d show them a garden, with
The form of an only child,
Who seemed to be so familiar
That most of them there had smiled,
The scent of a pink wisteria
Had wafted the carriage air,
And then their tears rolled back the years
As they whispered, ‘I was there!’

He showed them a woman in mourning
With a cape, and a darkened veil,
Who knelt alone by a headstone,
Each listeners face was pale.
The bell of the church began to toll
As it sounded someone’s knell,
His face was the face of the gravedigger
As he held them in his spell.

The carriage was filled with waves of fear,
The carriage was filled with joy,
He’d tell of the death of a mountaineer,
Of a child with a much-loved toy,
Their tears they’d dry as the train came in
To the tale of a Scottish Kirk,
And one by one they would rise to leave
And head off the train, to work.

But the Storyteller would stay on board
And close the compartment door,
His restless hands were trembling still
As his eyes stared down at the floor.
The train heads into the future while
The past is deep in his well,
He sits and weeps in the corner for
The tales that he doesn’t tell.

David Lewis Paget
What is that I've never heard of such a thing.
But maybe because I'm to busy procrastinating to hear it,
I am mike,
I am not a poet, a leader, a storyteller, or an academic,
I am a dreamer, a gamer, a man of many things,
I would rather let life pass me by and sit in my game,
Than to deal with the drama of reality.
It is not that I don't like reality,
It is that reality is too busy,
With school and work
Facebook and friends
Learning and imagining
Are they even one in the same
I love my games because it allows my mind to run wild
From building empires in Minecraft to taming creatures in Pokemon
Games are a way I can re envision my world
They allow kids to show their creative side something education removed long ago.
So I stand before you asking,
What is procrastination,
I'd rather play my game and imagine.
My life seems to pass by but in my one life span I have lived dozens of others.
Above god, the storyteller.
Standing before a white sheet of paper,
on the edge of the creation
of characters and worlds.

He masters destinies and faiths,
reconfigure, deforms his own built up reality,
tells what to think and what to make,
even against his own will.

Escapes logic, escapes a singular mind,
fragmented into others' reason,
collecting pieces of shattered own psyche,
exposing best and worst versions of himself.

The storyteller now stands
incapable of creating
having exhausted his own experiences
and all of its variations.
Writing (living) to him is no longer worthy
for creations now rely on a vivid reality.

He sees himself on the margin of creation
living the absurd of a fast imagination
in a slow concrete world.

As he starts typing again
the images of his hands start to fade
****** up to his own imaginary world
losing his matter, contained only in his ideas
where wander is prompt, boundless and free.

He was found three days later,
missing breath and heartbeats.

— The End —