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

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...........

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

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

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?

First I would like to thank everyone for being here today to pay his or her respects to my grandfather Robert Sohm. He would be pleased to see so many of his friends and family here today. Whether you knew him as a husband, father, grandfather, or friend, you probably had the same level of appreciation for him that I did.I would sincerely like to thank all of you on behalf of our family.  While we know that Grandpa is deeply deserving of the love you’ve shown, the outpouring of support we’ve received in recent months, weeks, and days has been truly overwhelming

He  lived a full life and had four amazing children and Seven grandchildren one being myself

His wife Pat is a great women. My Grandpa and Grandma were the ideal team.  I’ve often thought of them as the original power couple.  They were inseparable, and took care of each other for 50 years.
She is a huge part of our family and I hope she knows that we will always be here for her. Sometimes I’d wonder how either of them would ever manage should one go before the other, but over the past few days I’ve come to realize and appreciate that many of you will help take care of my Grandma through the tough times to come.  I know she is in good hands.
I know I'm not alone when I say we are always here for you and we love you
and respect you so much. If you ever need anything please do not forget that.

My Grandpa might not be a super hero, but he's my hero.
He's a soldier who had to conquer many battles in his life.
He's a fighter and someone who loved with all of his heart.
He's the "claw", and a best bud
Someone who may not function like everybody else but is able to bluntly tell it like it is and go the extra long mile to get stuff done one handedly
I wanted him to be the one who walked me down the aisle on my big day.
God has made other arrangements for him.
It's hard loosing someone who's your fatherly figure,

He was a caring person but he knew how to stand up for what he believed in and I think everyone here has a good memory of grandpa that they could share. I think we have all had a piece of us taken away but we can rest easy knowing he is in a much better place. My grandpa was a great man. When I think about him the words that come to mind are: my best bud , the claw, caring, humorous,  storyteller, and family man. These are just a few words that come to mind, but it is impossible to summarize how great a person he was in words.

He was a shoulder to lean on, a friend to rely on, and a rock for our whole family. I think about family values and how they aren’t the most important thing to people anymore. My family has always been close and always stuck together. My grandpa's pride and joy was his family.

My earliest memories of time spent with my grandfather are living at and visiting his house when me and my sister were kids. We would hide in the back room and wait for him then sneak out when we thought the coast was clear and he would come chase us pretending to be the claw.

He might have been stern with us, but Grandpa loved us kids. Family brought joy to his life — and he brought joy to us, in his own, sometimes grumpy, way.

We say that he has gone to a better place — but Grandpa will never truly be gone. He is always with each of us who loved him. It is not for us to think of him as if he was lost from our lives, but rather that we continue forth with him as our companion, celebrating and honoring his life. So I’ll think of him with every class that I take because I knew how much he wanted to see me graduate. Remember how he use to always say how someone wasn't so bright, always making sure I have a jacket when it's cold  yet be the one outside on the deck tanning when it's hot and him betting for football games. I'll always remember how much he loved going to Vegas and seeing his favorite saxophone player Carl. I will Be comforted in the memory of his smile… He’ll be in the small things and the quiet moments, forever by my side. I will miss my Grandpa, and will always be grateful for the time and warm memories I have of him.


We little knew that day,
God was going to call your name.
In life we loved you dearly,
In death, we do the same.

It broke our hearts to lose you.
You did not go alone.
For part of us went with you,
The day God called you home.

You left us beautiful memories,
Your love is still our guide.
And although we cannot see you,
You are always at our side.

Our family chain is broken,
And nothing seems the same,
But as God calls us one by one,
The chain will link again.

Where you were once my sunshine you are now my stars

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

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.
Free.

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.

I’m a storyteller at heart

but you made me this way

whispered tales of adventures

told before I drifted away



I remember the feeling

but never the story

why, why can’t I remember



All you’ve left me with is a longing

to connect the dots

so whispered tales I continue to tell

until maybe one day I can get it right



And the words and feelings

can finally be joined as one

and I won’t feel as empty

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

He sits down near the roaring fire
Wild shadows dance across his face,
A dark room scented with burning briar
Pairs with storytelling like a warm embrace.

Glancing around at those who have gathered
To hear him weave stories with his silver tongue,
Shining eyes meet his gaze and you can bet no chatter
Will be heard amongst them ’til the tale is done.

With a twinkle in his eye he begins to narrate
The saddest story that has ever been told,
The tale of a maiden with such a cruel fate
That would make the hottest tea within earshot, cold.

It’s a story of love and abandonment, of malice and spite,
A comedy and a drama that’ll make you laugh and cry.
A tale of joy and  loss, of hatred and fright
And a heartache so strong. Everything goes awry!

The audience chuckles and the audience wails,
His words build them up and his words tear them down.
He holds them entranced, as though under a veil,
Like a skilled hypnotist, keeps them spellbound.

A narrative so sublime the very moon strains to hear
And stars fall to their knees, weeping silver tears
As they listen to the tragic beauty of his rhymes
Softly ringing in the breeze before dissolving in a dark, velvet sky.

Concluding the tale, he gets up to retire
Leaving them incredulous, sitting by the fire.
Their astounded expressions make the storyteller laugh,
There’s truly no doubt he’s **** good at his craft!

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

a dark room in the cellar
he laughed like a good old storyteller;
vengeance is what he needs
throwing away all his good deeds

Gather round
Perk up your ears
And I will tell you a story
I will kidnap your soul
Enslave your senses
My voice shall keep you rooted to your seat
And yet take you far away
To the highest tower of the darkest castle
Five stars right of neverland
Where dragons wait in golden caves
And knights with magic swords come to slay them

Gather round, gather round and hear the tale
Let my voice fill the sails
Of the ship that sets sail
For fantasia, far fantasia
Where prismacolor skies hang
Above the island hideaways of pirates
And the air will fill your lungs with fire
Fly away with me on the leather wings of a mighty wyvern
To the halls of Morpheus
Where dreams to shift and change and form
Where light and air and all things do bow to the king of stories

Come with me on a journey beyond the veil of time
To the place where they catch stars in silvery nets
And keep them in little jars to light the way
Gather round every one, as we begin our journey with a single step
A step called
Once upon a  time…

Beneath hovering dust and unfinished structures,
stood a three-legged stool,
the refuge of an 8-year-old,
who holds a worn pencil,
and a torn notebook,
like sacred books of yore.

His hands move, but mind faster,
and with his wandering heart, wanders mine too,
to a decade back,
when I stood outside the same room,
the wall of which I'd been leaning against.

My study, which holds worlds,
camouflaged as books,
finished, unfinished,
and the ones that left me broken,
pulls me in, despite,
but at its doorstep, I must keep caution,
I must not enter again,
for in times of calling,
a promise had been made.

So as it goes,
I have kept my word,
but seems they have failed,
tip-toeing in my dreams,
queried and complained,
why did I leave, just like that?
one fine morning, and an abandoned hat?

And I wonder, do they not know?
That lay beside them,
a tiny little shelf too?
Next to myriad universes, waiting for my universe too?

The shelf stays still, like an empty lifeless canvas,
just as it was in the rains of '04,
just as it was in the winters of '05.

And yet all this while,
the one promise I have kept,
the promise is of betrayal,
that I will delude,
and be disloyal.

I shift with discomfort,
and so does my sight,
the storyteller's out there,
his world alike.

I once wondered what drove
A man to pick up a brush
And apply water colors to
A white piece of paper.
This was before I wise;
I owned only my arrogance,
For all the facts in my head
Were first discovered elsewhere.

"Paint is wet, it will destroy
The flimsy paper," I thought.
The paper endured.

I went through my limited
Bits of logic before I resorted
To a sensory argument.
"It doesn't sound like writing."

Oh, how I loved the scratch
Of a pencil against a fresh sheet.
It exhilarated my senses like
Few other things could.

"Furthermore, what good does
Art do? The painter makes
Something and it goes to a
Museum for people to look at.
How can that possibly better
Any part of the world?"

An older artist listened to my
Ramblings with more patience
Than I would credit the human race.

He smiled knowingly, and said to me,
"I have never seen the point of
Writers. They merely shut themselves
Away from everyone else and put
Their opinions on a piece of paper.
How can they possibly benefit the
World? What can they do?"

As my anger rose from deep in
My throat, the artist merely said
To me, "Have you never realized
That art and words are both important?
That one is never better than the other?
Here, I have a challenge for you:
Try to paint. Paint, and then tell me
That art is useless. In the meantime,
I will attempt to write and tell you the same."

So convinced that I was right, I agreed
Without a second thought. I never noticed
The knowing gleam in the old man's eye.

The next morning, I borrowed some paints
And a canvas, intent on proving my point.

Before the first stroke stained the page,
My hand still in motion, I became a believer.
In the heartbeat that it took for my muscles,
Nerves, and synapses to carry out my mind's
Order, I became
The artist,
The canvas,
The brush,
And the space between,
Charged with potential and kinetic energies.

I understood the point of art, to be the art
And to make the art. The painter and the artist.
The painter paints for others. The artist paints
For the outpouring of his soul.

I called the artist to tell him this, and
Found that he had been about to call me.
"I do understand," we said together.

He told me how he had realized the difference
Between writer and storyteller. The storyteller
Wrote for the audience, to entertain them with
A new fable. The writer wrote for both himself
And the story. He told me that he became both.

I relayed my own revelation. He didn't seem
Surprised, but, looking back, I should have
Known that had been his intention all along.

I don't think, however, he had expected to
Discover what drove me as well.
We both became wiser that day.

I still know that I am not wise. I probably
Never will be, but I have tasted the fruits
Of my arrogance, and almost lost a
Beautiful experience because of it.

Arrogance is now ashes in my mouth,
But I have decided to turn it into ink on a page.
Or, perhaps, water colors on canvas.
They are both forms of magic.

Your voice is telling me
a story.
Your eyes, another.
The blinding confusion,
it tells me that,
Perhaps it isn't a story
to be told,
But a chapter to be written.

I have a great story to tell

It all starts with a boy, young and bright
His family was poor, with three other mouths to feed
He never stopped dreaming, and writing, and reading
Until he found himself the words to plant a Dream Seed

Now what is a Dream Seed you ask?

It is conjured from our deepest desires
Our greatest thoughts, our greatest belief
But like a plant, a Dream Seed can wither
From our greatest pain, our greatest grief

Now back to the story

His Seed contained one single dream
To become famous and to be well known
He left that night, a burden to his parents
no more, with only himself roaming alone

He tested challenges of entertainment
Braved through insult and rejection
Why was he never good enough?
Why couldn’t he reach perfection?

A stormy night, he cried to the sky
The rapid winds and frosty rain answered his call
A lone figure brought him inside
And from there, his future was unfold

Read this passage, do it as dramatic as you can

“We never had to do this Emily, we never had to leave”
“I only wanted what I thought was right.”
“Don’t leave, you can’t leave me.”
“Don’t leave me here alone in the night.”

I applaud you, that was superb

He signed within the week and ventured to his dream
The seed blossoming in ways untold
Finally he was famous, finally he was well known
His signature was sliver, and his smile was of gold

Now read this script and get into character

“I am not a creature, I am a man!”
“Why should I take this child? I shall recant!”
“He isn’t mine, throw him in the street!”
“I…I…I-I can’t.”

That wasn’t the line, read the line again

He read it again and perfection was obtained.
But something lurked underneath his satisfied soul
He was changing, was transfiguring
But why? He had reached his goal

Just pretend, don’t worry about the part

He pretended and lied to his heart
It wasn’t just the worry, he was believing
That maybe, just maybe, he had lost
Something through his deceiving

Are you alright? Do you need some water?

He looked everywhere, he knew it was there
He smashed the jar where he kept his seed
He leaped for joy and opened the lid
And cried when he saw the weeds

What does that mean? What weeds?

His dream was now corrupted, his view no longer pure
Could he ever find who he was that day?
When he had one dream and one seed
Where his choice was black or white, not grey?

What happened?

He lived his life, weeping through his parts
Silently, he mourned for his soul
He was not the same, never plant more seeds
His heart too greedy with all the gold

Now I have told you a story, now I must rest
“Excuse me sir, a boy is requesting for you.”
Not now Ari, in the morning perhaps
**“But sir, the boy has to tell you something.”

Once upon a time. .....
In a galaxy far far far away. ........
I had this dream about. ........
In a Kingdom. .........
On a night like this one. .. .........
Years ago......
Last week. .......
Just past the first star.........
Through the rainbow. ..........
Down the street is where. ............
On the road between. .........
In that book............
There are so many beginnings
To the stories you tell
I have yet to hear
One that is true
But I'll listen anyway
Because they're entertaining
But not believable
I'll see you tomorrow
Storyteller

I wish,
I could be a storyteller.
Telling the untold story from the past and a dead soul.

She still had tears in her eyes
Her eldest son, Max, just passed
He had an overdose on July 5th
This woman held in real pain
I don't doubt her for a second
She is old, burnt, mad
Her madness is pure, pure madness
She tells me her stories
And I sit there, hungover
Looking into those tearey eyes
She elaborates her stories
Wou her motion as she sweeps
"He chased me yesterday!
It was real, I knew it
Even if it didn't happen, it was real
The man loves under the budge that
Connects one building to another
I think she said she might have scared him
Maybe he thought she was real too
"I ran into the street screaming!!"
I'm at the edge of my seat.
The police have her ****,
"Historical" she says, well of course
Wouldn't you be too if you got chased
The man under the bridge
The second floor custodian
I was all too real

Your world is like a fairytale
It's filled in with beauty
Agressive ones that blaming you
But you're still hold your duty

Your life is very heavy
You're victim all the ways
But when the act is over
You're losing all your grace

They tells you you're a lier
Or clap their hands in sence
But you are not a person
When fairytale is ends

I once knew a girl
who lived in fairytales
and who walked in dreams
always keeping her feet planted
firmly in the clouds
I once knew a girl
who understood how to hope
who could comprehend
that in every dream
there is reality, because realities
always begin with possibilities
which are nothing more
than delicately phrased aspirations
nothing but dreams.
I once knew a girl
who learned how to fall gracefully
in pink satin shoes and wrapped in humor
an impenetrable armor
an armor meant to hide the pain
and protect from cutting words
that slash like swords
and bite like monsters
and leave a soul broken and bruised.
Because she believed that the pen
was far mightier than the sword
but when the sword is what’s accepted
when it is what’s expected
the pen doesn't seem so strong after all
and doubt spreads like wildfire
consuming the mind, burning the soul.
However the heart is not so easily persuaded
and human determination
is almost always victorious
and it is the best of people
who are always hardest to destroy.
I once knew a girl
who walked in fairy tales
and lived in dreams
carrying a pen
and telling stories
so that she could be free

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

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.

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.