Best Storyteller Poems
When I’m craving a well-plotted story
with a strong theme and creative rhymes,
I can say I have found masterpieces
here on Poetry Soup many times.
Give me characters, real or imagined,
that will speak to me right from the page
in a story that holds my attention
and would be great performed on a stage.
Fans have long deemed this poet a master;
yet, he’s modest. When he writes reviews,
he encourages others with praises.
I say hats off to Tom* and his muse.
*Cunningham
I entered the backyard through the trees,
Throwing myself down into the white snow;
I rolled until I was totally covered- even hair,
And for extra effect I threw snow in my face.
But I did not know Grandma was watching me,
I opened the kitchen door crying for my Mommy;
She came running saying, oh dear what happened,
Some big boys pushed me in the snow even my face.
Then I noticed Grandma at the kitchen table smiling,
She winked at me . . she was quite the storyteller, too.
______________________________
May 5, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/The Storyteller
Copyright Protected, ID 16-786-855-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
I am a story teller born from the central parts of Zebediela district
In Limpopo province.
From Matome mountains inspiration boil from within my soul
While the sounds of cows and goats in Makweng Village
Continues to remind me about the beauty of story telling
Missing those days when my grandmother used to tell the tales of Africa.
From morning to evening
Stories continues to flow from the rivers of my brain
Voices I hear telling me the tales that my pen must keep on inking to narrate
Because a storyteller I am and a storyteller i was born to be
My voice rise to express the expressions of my life
Giving birth to a new world built from the foundations of my imagination.
The beauty of sunset in Ga rakgoatha village
Makes my thoughts to continuously bleed
With stories hidden deeper in the creative caves of my mind
I am an African prince blessed with the magnificent gift of storytelling
My voice roars to narrate the imaginary world that lives in the chambers of my imagination
I am the son of the African soil blessed with the art originating
From a generation that used to sit around the fire in a small hut to tell tales of Africa
Storyteller I am, storyteller I will forever be
Until my mouth emits voice no more
For I will be resting in the African soil
Where my forefathers are resting.
Legends of the grove,
Retold by the howling winds:
Harsh Winter stories.
Having an obvious proclivity for story-telling,
the old man leaned forward in his chair,
eager to impress the grey-haired men gathered around him
while he continued with the saga of his most peculiar life.
With each slight nuance of his speech
and with every twist in the plot of his tale,
he was able to hold them all spell-bound!
I can attest to this, for I watched him
as he cleverly mesmerized the group of men
for a little over an hour!
There seemed to be no aperature through which
any one man could slip into inattentiveness,
for that old storyteller would gesture wildly in one moment
and then – in the next- - he would pause for dramatic effect,
and then he was immediately back to his fascinating narration.
I wondered as I listened to him -
how did this wizened centenarian
still show the marrow to continue at such a pace?
At last, I could tell that he was winding down.
His nursing home peers, hanging onto his every word,
leaned forward in their seats
as he, at the same time, leaned into them – his adoring audience -
and delivered the climax!
I myself was inwardly chuckling, knowing
that the story he told was not his own!
He had ripped off the plot of the most engaging movie
which I had seen recently at a local theater.
But how were the other old men to know that?
In this barren place, they never got out to see movies.
The storyteller was the new kid on the block!
I marveled to think this man now 100 years old
had recently seen a contemporary movie still in the theaters!
For sure, nobody else in that group had seen movies
inside an actual movie house for at least the past decade!
I had to hand it to the guy; his temerity was epic.
He was -after all -
one to tell stories!
Nov. 16, 2018 for John Hamilton's 'Eight word challenge-9' Poetry Contest
The Storyteller
he is always there, in those glamoured
dream soaked holy days,
etched keenly into the memory
a fixture of the summers
that flowed then melted into one another
to eddy around the stone bench
at noon, in the park of Ave Lyon.
faithfully he appeared
on the clocks twelfth stroke
elegant fingers pulled humbugs
from intriguing paper packets
white hair tamed beneath a silken cap
soft snowy beard drifted across his chest
eyes a sharp twinkling blue, saw all.
long drowsy afternoons we sat,
shaded beneath an ancient oak,
slipped through the cracks of time
caught within the silver words
of that timeless apothecary of dreams.
our willing guide, to worlds unknown,
could captivate our school freed minds
with chance for magic carpet rides
quest for golden sheep skin prize
knight’s and fiery dragon’s lives
my eyes would see him still
should I chance to pass that green oasis
in summers never, never land.
Boys and girls, listen well,
For I have a tale to tell.
Wait, why are you leaving?
I promise you this won't be boring!
It's about unicorns and dragons fighting!
Oh good, I finally got your attention,
Come, sit down and listen.
Come on, I'm starting the story,
If you miss it you're gonna be sorry.
The title of my tale's 'The man in the pond',
Wait, don't go just yet, I promise there'll be unicorns.
Once upon a time there was a traveller,
Everybody calls him Sam the Adventurer.
Once, when Sam was adventuring on a bright morn,
He tripped and fell into a pond.
The pond was not very steep,
But Sam was scared, as he was hydrophobic,
He started to scream and shout,
But nobody was about.
Just when he's about to die,
Suddenly appeared a random guy.
Sam shouted, 'Help me, please! I don't want to die!'
The guy protested, 'But I'm just a random guy passing by!'
With that, and a 'Good bye',
The guy left, leaving Sam to die.
Sam thought for sure he's dead,
When out of nowhere appeared a maid.
Sam shouted to her, 'Please save my life!'
The maid replied, 'Sorry! I need to buy some cake for my master's wife!
And then she hurried away,
Leaving Sam in the pond to stay.
For the third time Sam said his prayers,
When suddenly walked by the mayor.
The mayor saw Sam in the pond,
But before Sam could utter a word he was gone.
And then Sam lost faith in humanity,
He started crying bitterly.
For the first time he realized that the water isn't deep,
In fact, it's not even steep.
So he stood up and got out of the water,
And he had hydrophobia no longer.
From then on Sam's been a hermit,
Visits from no one did he permit.
He had learn his lesson through his adventure,
That man has a very selfish nature.
Well, my dear friends,
My tale's about to end.
What are you saying, unicorns?
Nonsense! Why are you looking so forlorn?
That was a great tale, was it not?
And from that day on,
The storyteller begin to sell corn.
He no longer tell stories, as no one will listen,
They claimed he lied, about the dragons.
So here's the pitiful tale of a once renown storyteller,
Who's now nothing but a sad corn seller.
Rustling epic tales,
Aged limbs whisper to the grains:
Myths of olden days.
I can not trust myself anymore
Ever since you left, walked out the door
It's like I'm stuck, suspended in air
Numb from the pain, fighting back the fear
Every breath I take is agony
Without you it's so hard to be
I'm so lost, don't know what path to take
I must break free, for my soul's sake
My life has become one big mess
The choices are hard, I always second guess
I am a storyteller, a weaver of words
But why is it so hard to make my life work?
My story is sad, its a tragedy
Why can't my ending be happy?
Stuck in a cycle, a vicious loop
This is as low as I will stoop
I am strong and I am incredible
If you never saw than you are a fool
I am worthy of being loved too
I guess my love was just too big for you
Unconditional and loyal to a fault
As hot and fierce as a lightening bolt
I am still a storyteller, so I will weave my words
And from now on my story shall be worth all my work
Written on the 20th of October 2010 whilst suffering from a broken heart
ONCE UPON a RUBY
Ruby was our storyteller,
she could spin an A-1 seller.
Tell us bout a buck or doe,
escaping lions or wild-boar foe.
She could give a giant rock,
spirit and life, and make it talk.
If something got in her way,
she’d tell us how she made it pay.
She’d tell what cousin Emerald’s done,
bout Auntie’s cows when she lost one.
She’d know a trickster loose in town,
and on our lake, who just might drown.
There were times in summer storms,
when dusk was filled with rice fly swarms,
and Saturday races were loud in sound,
that Ruby, we knew, would come around.
She’d come for tea and rhubarb pie,
and told us how her well went dry.
But that’s not all she came to say,
we learned her car had run away.
The beastly car that she adored,
had left her on its own accord.
It ran over her, and both her legs,
and left her like two broken eggs.
She crawled up hill, in volcanic dust,
on belly, then knees, because she must!
To reach a phone for nine, one, one,
to say the beastly car had won!
The E R fixed her with a cane
but, truly she was not the same.
Her get-up-and-go, just got up and went,
that metal beast was now for rent.
And that’s our Ruby, that’s our gem,
from her journeys, these stories stem.
Many faceted yarns she spun,
and wove country tales of caution and fun.
-Edlynn Nau
©February 7, 2019
(A tribute to our cousin: Ruby Davis Glebe, in celebration of 104 years of THE MOST splendid stories told to our family)
July 23, 2014 ~ February 03, 2019
Storytelling
What is a Storyteller
If nothing more than a Lady or a Fella
With a overzealous mind
And an overview of time and the whiles of folk
That have spoke
To a place
Where the engines awake
And fire and stoke an Earthquake
ODE TO A STORYTELLER
A wise fool once confessed in candour naïve
When asked the question “what are you doing there?”
With insight deep the reply brooked no disbelief.
His words: “Everyone’s got to be somewhere”
Though we seem to exist in one universal space
A cosmic frame of laws inviolate, natural
There are yet other worlds that we embrace
In spirit, live in habitats no less actual
Each treading our own stage with synergic cast
Playing one or many parts in a day or life
Curiosity a hunger for the story - our repast
Unwilling to abstain despite risk and strife
But this is not the sole domain we enter
There are those that we perceive by invitation
Tales told by great magicians, world inventors
Entice us to their bewitching innovations
These the authors, storytellers extraordinaire
Enrich our lives taking us to places new
With yarn spun of the exotic and the rare
Or known scenes woven in a different hue
For a time we may transcend our normal bounds
Immersed in foreign fields, unknown panorama
We’re given transforming experience profound
Beyond the concerns and trials of daily drama
Dear Kristen the grace of your creative conception
Has shown me a sphere of which my knowledge was slight
Exciting with your imagery, sharp wit and perception
In another world, gave me sojourn, fascination, delight
In-between the babel of a troubled soul
In abeyance, the thought of neglection arose
The blood boiled, the body cooked
The figure fell in flat command
The jurist justified themselves unjust
multitude babbled, the wise bundled
Oko-Oloko dun Pokete
Prita Iyalaaje, Aloo apaamo
The world, the storyteller
No baccalaureate for success
Potentials would have been seen
We fear no test or challenges
Drive not us like cabby
We own our world, we rule our world
in pain of the real, you laugh
Children will clap it in moonlight story
Our mouth will be open in laughter in your tears
The world will read the reality
Painting life like it has no remaining
Hope traded for bread, hunger present
Faith traded for cloth, nakedness covered
Sleeping-waking, friction projected
They laughed our wacky life.
I was mesmerized by the tales he told
of foreign lands and shores.
Tales of bravery and men so bold
going off to fight their wars.
Of foreign lands and shores,
his stories hold rapt attention.
Going off to fight their wars
immersed in intrigue and tension.
His stories hold rapt attention
to all who gather to hear.
Immersed in intrigue and tension,
stories of bravery and fear.
To all who gather to hear
from this storyteller so great,
stories of bravery and fear,
stories of love and hate.
From this storyteller so great,
tales of bravery and men so bold.
Stories of love and hate.
I was mesmerized by the tales he told.
Greetings from the RedKnuckle Storyteller,you may find he;s ann odd kind of feller.
Though he'll do his best to write from the heart,and what you don't like you may always tear
apart.You see,this storyteller has lived an awful life.A life without family,children,a beautiful
wife.Now some may say my poetry expresses my pain,others say it's a release in anger I
gain.Personally I write about a society in grief,so many hurting with no sign of relief.I am so
proud of every man,woman,child from these hoods,for when it comes to unity and strive they
truly deliver the goods.With the streets getting younger every day,what's a careing man do
but kneel down and pray.These are our children out there,so who's in charge to step up and
care..It pains me, that i'm but a single voice heard.who's only given inspiration is sometimes
a single word.Now go find a drink and a comfortable chair.For we are about to embark on a
poetry journey where others would'nt dare.
Dedicated to all the missing Women in Vancouvers lower East end.
(MAY THEY NOT BE FORGOTTEN!) PEACE AND LOVE... T.R.K S