"storyteller" poems
*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.*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
Procrastination?
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.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.
are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?
the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller
and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones
and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.
the sky weeps white.
but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.
...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC
Where the grapes you eat are red and green
But the ones you draw are purple
Where you love your parents with all of your heart
But pretend you’re an orphan when you play with friends
Where the monsters that lurk in closets and under beds
Can be destroyed by the light of day
Where a stinging, aching cut or bruise
Can be healed by a kiss
Where a girl can transform into a fairy princess
By slipping on a voluminous pink tutu
Where a boy becomes a conquering hero
By arming himself with an intimidating roll of wrapping paper
Where a slightly unkempt yard
Becomes a jungle full of tigers and serpents
Where an in ground pool
Becomes an ocean whose depths must be explored
Where winter
Is a season for snowmen and presents
Where summer
Is a season for ice cream and beaches
Where Mommy
Is the best chef, nurse, and storyteller
Where Daddy
Is the great protector, hug giver, and handyman
Where science has no bearing
Because rainbows and lightning come from magic
Where logic doesn’t make sense
Because the powers of love and fantasy are illogical
And there is no place for suffering
Because pain is overshadowed by innocence
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
My cousin told me that I am a good storyteller, but I should write something about me, about real people and a time that I was scared "shitless". Well, I can only think of one time of a real life shocker that shook up my young world. It's nothing suspenseful. It probably wouldn't win any contests, but it isn't contrived. It's a snippet of the first time that I encountered the raw reality of death.
What did I know about death at eight years old? Our parakeet, Perky, died. My grandparents dog, Bruno, had to be put to sleep. As a girl, I vaguely recall seeing a dead man in a coffin, and that was at the funeral of my mom's aunt's husband. This was only an introduction of the temporary world we live in.
Well, then there was an older couple two doors down from us. They had two grandchildren that used to come and visit them, a sister and brother. When in the neighborhood, they would play with my older brothers. I cannot even recall their names. I cannot remember what they looked like or what they said.
What I do remember is the news being on in the living room, and I was eating dinner in the kitchen with my mom and brothers. Suddenly, the faces of that brother and sister were on TV. It was reported that their mentally troubled mother had killed them. I think it was because she was denied custody of them in an ugly divorce. Doing a little bit of digging in the Michigan death index online, I rediscovered who they were. They were Susan and Richard. They were ten and nine-years-old at the time.
I surely don't remember plenty of details, as this was in June of 1973. Over forty years ago, it's a much faded memory now. I only know I did not go to the funeral home. If I did, I am sure I'd be horrified to look upon those children who were robbed of their lives. Death was no longer just for pets or old people. It wasn't fair and it didn't discriminate in age. And if it could happen to someone as young as them, it could come knocking on my door.
Perhaps, that was the beginning of my fear of death.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Hushed, like a morning before sunrise,
grace floods in without threat.
A sudden flutter of piano keys cues
a story to unravel onto something
so much more interesting
than pages of paper.
To eerie tunes and haunting hums,
she brushes, feather-like, across my eyes—
a pinnacle of innocence
that humbles me to the warmest tears.
She does not speak but tells me everything.
So beautifully, with pointed toes
and arms as weightless as summer clouds,
my imagination falls to her tiny mercy.
The little girl in the light blue dress,
who became
my favorite storyteller.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had,
My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad,
The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums,
The resident photographer of my birthday albums.
The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries,
A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies,
My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best,
The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest.
The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals,
Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills,
The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient,
Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment.
The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease,
Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please,
The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her,
The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere.
The most efficient multitasker I've ever known,
My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones,
A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle,
My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown
An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door
A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ―
A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―
just read: Lydia ... ♡
... followed by a scribbled empty heart
The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin
The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web
An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in
The final unread words silently said:
*"We lost our way,
it all went wrong,
it all turned bad"
..."This is the outcome when someone you love
up and throws you away"
...“I’ll reach out from the inside
I’ll rise up again and do without”
..."You went out into the world
with an untamed hankerin’ ―
like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
and come back worlds apart"*
The Unsent Letter,
just whispered words to the dust in the wind
in quivering ink:
...*"how can I ever unremember you...?
a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*
just signed: ... ❤ August
January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
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
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
Walking among
The mighty forest trees
I feel something calling out to me
As I draw closer I see a man
Dressed in traditional buckskin
As I watch him
He moves his hand
As if wanting me to join him
Beside the fire.
I walk forward slowly
As if in awe of this man
As he speaks
I watch the flames dance
To his words
He spoke of a time
Where buffalo ran free
Across the plains
Peaceful plains
That rolled in the winds.
He spoke of a man
Who had a warrior spirit
He was the son of a mighty chief
He was devoted to his tribe
He sacrificed himself to protect them
I saw images of this warrior
In my mind as the flames
Entranced me with its
Hypnotic dance
This man in the flames
Did not look like the man
Who was speaking
It was as if this image
Was nestled in my heart
For there he stood
A man proud
And tall
With the spirit of a warrior
When the story was told
The storyteller smiled
"You have found your Spirit Warrior...."
He turned
And walking away
He disappeared
What was he
A ghost?
A spirit guide?
But I did
Find him
My Spirit Warrior.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
You say I can't be trusted.
Pointing fingers hammer firmly the hurt into place.
I watch the tears puddle and collect as you
choke out the tale of the green-eyed storyteller
who painted your world with words of
"I will
I won't
I love
I don't..."
and that she said them until they consumed you.
And I couldn't argue.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
so much depends
upon a green pencil
fitted snugly between
the blue and the yellow
upon a line drawn
across a page
where the sky
and sunburst clay meet
— as neighbours
who smile and wave
without names
or words exchanged —
upon a silence punctuated
by shafts of pine
shaved close by winding
laneways into storyteller points
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 3:37 AM UTC
In my "Thought for the Day XLIII" (43), I spoke of poets that have been with me, and supported me for quite some time. Sally and Pradip have been with me since my first posting, "1894", nearly two years ago, and I have "adopted" Vicki, Catherine, Ryn, Deborah, Pamela Rae,and others along the way. There is Quinn, Phil, Pradip, Francie, Frankie J, Mike, John, Nat, SE Reimer, Sverre, "The 'Ole Storyteller!" and,"Larry, Moe, and Curly Joe!"
Unfortunately, I cannot list everyone, in fear of overlooking writers who, collectively, mean so much to me. Please forgive me for that.
I will continue to "do my best" for all of the poets/writers/contributors to the HP site. I do not write for monetary remuneration, but for relaxation and recreation, with the end result, hopefully, bringing a smile to my peers. I thank all of you for allowing me to attempt, and occasionally, reach that goal.
Sincerely
Richard Riddle- June 03, 2015
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
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 ....as 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 it.....you can give it to another.....if you chose. Although....it 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 choices.....you 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...........
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
There are so many roads you can take
To reach your destination in life
The busy road, the lonely road and broken road
You step on so many footsteps
Wondering, whether they will lead you there
So many roads, all seems to be leading somewhere
Which one do you choose?
Or you take the road everyone takes, without thinking
No matter where you are
And you want to reach there, maybe alone
You are there carving a new road for yourself
Being on the road, the lonely traveler
With many experiences to gather
You can be the best storyteller, when you are there
After a long and arduous journey
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
If you believe in the spiritual power of story-telling, then what more the power of the Gospel? - XL
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
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
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
Today I bought a square plate
it's not for me, but for an enemy
that I could do worse things to, if I was a less noble person
as the things they've done I will not speak.
The plate is porcelain and quite finely made
elegant and excellently finished for how not so pricey it was
hints of history seems to hide in it's shell--
as seams are weaved into
what has probably lived a long and unused existence
this handcrafted masterpiece.
Separately painted by some fancy artist
to whom I do not recognize the name of,
although it is said he may have done something wrought with his ear
or did this man's uncle make this plate, oh well, I am unsure.
It is these very details to why,
I am now in possession of this piece of the past
that will be priceless to those who know more craftsmanship,
at least more knowledgeable than the man who sold it to me.
From the gleaming in your eyes
I can tell this plate may even mean a great deal to you
is this true my good friend?
oh well, I guess I can give the plate to you
instead of the devil I spoke of before.
*As I handed my prize to them
it began to feel heavier than any ordinary plate should,
gravity granted the greatest reprise I've ever sought
as the demon's face whelmed with depression
and mine satisfaction--
for being such a convincing storyteller.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
It cannot put pen to paper
But all a flower has to do
Is open up its delicate petals
Unfolding like a noble lady's fan
Broadening to blossom into a lovely jewel
Poetry without any word
A spider weaves its web
Like an author spins tales
It's intentions upon its survival, but
Its intricate home of threads and strings
Like a gossamer harp
Is enchanting to perceive
A make and design of fragile strength
The oceans and seas
Mighty and commanding
They roar and display their majesty
With crashing waves and splashy bravado
They spare few prisoners
And graveyards of sunken ships
Whisper of stories untold
Birds chirp and warble
With songs that humans long to know
For they travel through the air
In simplistic freedom
Their chorus of communication
Is a poetic symphony just as entertaining
As any band of musicians or artists
The winds blow and whistle
Though they have no mouths
If you listen close enough
You can hear their secrets
Their breath of life in the
Ever flowing
Breezes that enfold us
You'd swear the mountains
Were painted that way
Brawny and broad, peaked high above
Against the grand canvas we call the sky
Yes, paintings are poems, too
For a picture speaks a thousand words
But no mere man can make a mountain
You see
We are merely students
Taught by God's natural, creative genius
We are merely imitators
Of what nature displays
We are not originals
For we are not the first poets
Nor the first storytellers
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
My life is a paradoxical monstrosity
A contradiction in itself
Where to start?
Anywhere, everywhere, nowhere perhaps
Occupation,
I play with words.
How naughty does that sound?
Really, I'm in a complicated relationship with words, terms, definitions, metaphors
Writer by day, storyteller by night
And of course I love what I do
And I hate what I do
How very poetic of you!
Why thank you!
Sorry, the inner child speaks.
Back to writing,
And the moments of fantastic ecstasy
Where this jumble of verbs and nouns and adjectives you're trying to assemble
Clicks.
The bigger picture develops with crystal clear clarity
No fastidious statements
Or meaningless passages.
Just words, feelings, meanings
Soul.
That doesn't sound so bad you say
IT HAPPENS ONCE EVERY MILLENIA!
For the most I am frustrated.
Stumped to the point where rage overcomes and the only cathartic release is to sleep.
When I do manage to squeeze something out of the depths of my mind, it appears substandard, to say the least.
Zadie told me to get used to non-satisfaction
So I am satisfied with never been satisfied; does this make me satisfied?
Ow.
Please, I need an answer
I've been looking for answers for nineteen years,
But have I been asking the right questions?
Are there any answers?
Another question
No, that was the question
Confusion and befuddlment ravaging through your mind?
I recently realised there are no facts
Only really good suggestions by excessively knowledgeable and esteemed
I quite fancy being one of those guys
A visionary complete with the stereotypical glasses and overgrown beard
And I'd declare that being yourself is the first step to finding your purpose
Fact.
But what if finding your purpose is your purpose?
I'll leave you with that.
This is my life.
Complaining would be ungrateful of me; it's a good one really.
I can walk and run and play basketball and see my friends where we laugh endlessly.
Oh and Saturday morning cartoons.
I have problems, enormous world ending problems
But it's all relative.
Some think I'm strange, I prefer quirky.
I wonder how life would be if I'd chose the 'normal' option
Most likely, frightfully boring
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
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
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Too much alone
Too much afraid
Too much unknown
Too much paid
To let us go
By the way
For no show
So they say
Could I tell you a story
Ole storyteller
Like bees buzzing flowers
With some honey on hive's mind
It's a modern tale
That has sat sail
All sewn up
At a rate of knots
That black book
Bought with blood money
Dares to say it holds a name
Spar - with these throat barnacles
(Alternately feeding and fighting With their feet)
bowsprit [bee block]
know your ropes, carried away deep six
It's a thieves cat o nine tales
Captain of chewing the fat
Or combing the cat
I've never seen (one) better
Dunnage topping a tonnage
From that trusty barrage
I'm everything on top and nothing handy
An eye splice on a short rope
Given and giving leeway
Haven't got a clew for true whence such hails from
...
So... She measures faces with her heart and hands
And a camera lens for a few
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
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.
©️IB-Poetry
2/27/2018
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:20 AM UTC
In beauty there is myth
I am the brave hero
In Love there is legend
I am the blind storyteller
In truth there is fiction
I am the vagabond poet
In honour there is glory
I am the hopeless romantic
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
the problem with us is that I have always loved you like you were leaving,
always left the door unlocked, like you might stagger into bed drunk with a few
different names on your tongue
in the spaces between breath, I love you, I love you
in the out breaths, I love you, I love you
in the inhales, I love you, I love you
maybe someday, I say when you're not looking
when you're not looking I think about how we have never looked out the same window twice
how it keeps me awake, that you and I will never be more than a story told to children
about the dangers of loving without breathing and breathing without sleeping,
I'm not sorry I lose sleep over you
the only thing apologetic about me is my mouth
and also my hands
and also my heart.
the problem with us is that you never believe me when I say that you deserve so much more
than lately
I'll go to my grave thinking you deserve firework eyes over dinner tables and hands
that hold more than they shake
you deserve a girl who is not more hero than honest
you deserve more than a good storyteller
the problem with us is that we settle for half way, never look both ways before crossing the street,
never care enough to anticipate a red light
you don't know the color of my eyes
some days I'm convinced the light's gone from them,
some days I'm convinced it's in your hands.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC