Long Storyteller Poems
Long Storyteller Poems. Below are the most popular long Storyteller by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Storyteller poems by poem length and keyword.
I alone stand vigil over the memories of my past;
I alone feel the weight of them,
feel what it is to be
the man that past has created.
I stand, alone, beneath the stars and the moon,
contemplating all, as I ever have done;
it is only now that I've accepted
that's who I am meant to be;
the writer, the poet –
I stand with the rest of the dreamers.
I sit, alone, among the instruments of music,
playing on and on throughout my life;
music flows into and through my soul,
and I am now and will always be,
the musician and the bard –
I sit with the rest of the drummers.
I travel, alone, with the remembrances of love,
searching always for that one true other;
it is only now that I've accepted that even
without one such, I can live;
the romantic, the sentimental –
I travel with the rest of the passionate.
I escape, alone, in the pages of a good story,
reading for ever and anon;
books speak to me, engage me,
entertain me, release me;
the storyteller and the listener –
I escape with the rest of the readers.
I will fight, never alone, next to my brothers
and sisters in arms;
it is with all of myself that I've accepted
my duty, and who I will always be;
the soldier, the guardian –
I will fight with the rest of the Marines.
I dance, run, walk, laugh, alone, in the rain,
let loose my being in the deluge;
the storm's fury and glory
somehow become my own;
the drenched, the soaked –
I do all of this with the rest of the rain lovers.
It is only now that I've accepted
that I have become
who I was meant to be;
who I want myself to be.
I alone know what it is to be
myself, Andrew James Sprouse,
scion of the sea and of the past,
of the word and the sword.
But I do not alone know what it is to feel alive;
to be exactly who you are,
who you're meant to be.
I do not alone know the truth of pain.
None of us stands truly and utterly alone.
Every single one of us walks, arm in arm,
with those who share your experiences,
your beliefs, your thoughts and your lives.
But you, alone, know what makes your heart free,
what makes your fire ignite and your essence true;
you alone know the visage and touch of your soul.
I do not search in the written pages of love, nor in the films dancing on screens,
not that I bear any hidden burden against the longing that illuminates souls,
even I, a traveler through the world's dreams, know that love is life's most beautiful gift.
But perhaps I was not meant to be the hero of my own story,
I see myself among those pages and images as a shadow without a song,
not as the lover full of desire, but as the one who stands silently on the edge,
watching and waiting, never stepping into the flowing story.
Every tale has someone like him, the one who smiles in secret,
who hides his sadness in corners where light doesn't reach,
who loves from afar, like a star watching over a sky of dreams,
and yet claps the loudest when love finds its way.
He is the one who watches his love slip into another's hands,
and whispers to himself, "This is how it was meant to be," like an echo of fate,
and in that moment, a story is born within him, a silent and unspoken one,
but one he carries always, like a talisman of his heart.
And so, he remains the storyteller of an unseen love, a spirit,
a traveler among the dreams of others, witness to love that blossoms,
with his heart like an open book, written with tears of stars,
remaining in the shadows, part of a story greater than himself.
This remorse is choking me to death,
taking away all the livable breath...
leaving guilt, anguish, and wrath:
am I another insane Macbeth?
If hours slowly pass making me restless,
and through rageful images
I despise when waking up with screams:
what's their symmetry to eternity?
Much worse are the innate dreams
never imagined having fragility!
There's a young storyteller with auburn curls
who comes from the medieval town of Arthun
narrating tragedies of inseparable lovers,
who died before their given time;
he sits on a bench of the small square
that depicts the sensuality of a nude siren
laying in the middle of a stone fountain
and spewing outflowing water, she entices sensuality!
I won't attempt to fling a silver dime
in its water showing an emotional valence,
but with prudence, I'll toss it gladly and gallantly!
Since I have no luck and an unpredictable future,
his tragedies seem sympathetic to an extent;
I won't be pierced by a blade to prove I'm faithful,
I won't lay in a tomb besides my adored lady...
the times of faithfulness have ceased to exist,
finding a true one among thousands of women who care
is such a rarety, they once were found in a monastery
and their desire was to be the bride of Christ,
and they always kept a holy image never being disgraceful!
If someone is being tormented by constant remorse
for a fault which wasn't his own attempt to contemplate revenge,
or the cruel intent of harming someone without a hint of knowledge,
then he should cleanse himself thoroughly of the false belief
and continue living without idiocy until he overcomes his grief,
not exiling himself on a deserted island and suffer the worse:
neither should I who has isolated himself and writes in pathetic rhyme
avoiding to compare himself to Othello who repented for his heinous crime!
Whom do I resemble most: Othello or Macbeth?
One had dark skin, the other had fair skin,
wasn't their vile character wrecked by sin?
They were murders stripped of moral and worth!
In your latter days you had a good life
You sat under the mahogany tree near your hut
Watching the village as they moved about with their duties.
At night you were a storyteller
Telling the people the stories of your youth
"My youth was a wonder", you always started with
And "That was life" you always ended with.
Your lips were always wet from the gin in your calabash
Your radio always played the songs of long ago
Then you suddenly passed away
In your last sleep your smiled for the last time
With two tears running down your cheek
We knew you were going to have a very good sleep
In your Father's arms
Rest well wonderer
For the village never forgets you.
‘ Mythology is not a lie, it is poetry, it is
metaphorical. It is the penultimate truth -
penultimate because the ultimate cannot
be put into words ‘.
Quote by Joseph Campbell.
……………..
There are no signposts here,
or a ray of light descending
from the heavens to mark this place
much less a fence to restrict
entry to a privileged few.
Just a small patch of grass,
a clump of eucalyptus trees
on slightly elevated ground,
a freshly painted bench seat
on which I can sit
to take in the view. The river
content within its wide banks,
the bay glistening under a bright
morning sun, seagulls on graceful
wings and way off in the distance,
anchored ships dozing
in a drowsy calm.
There are many such places
where you can stop for awhile
and with reverence, close your eyes
and sense the sacred beneath
your feet, feel its ancient breath
rise up out of its sleep and gently
brush your mind.
These are the well holes
of regions modernity has tried to claim,
clear of meaning and put under
the heel of commerce -
territories that were once occupied
by myth, creations fertile womb
out of which we were born
and came into being.
This place still murmurs
that past, the songs of making
still beckon the storyteller,
the artisan and the poet
to give it voice once again,
a home in the rooms
of our humble art
and speak its sacred name.
My little child was like a butterfly.
She was fond of butterflies as well.
This was why I called her: butterfly.
She ran to me commanding me to tell her stories.
I obeyed as she had been the apple of my eye.
‘Tell me stories’, this was how she commanded me once..
‘What?’
‘Tell me stories'.
I felt it was as though asking Bheeshma Pitamaha at his deathbed of nails to utter the 'Gita'!
He could. Could I?
Flesh mine was, of course, weak.
Spirit- Was mine strong?
I was drowning in cancer.
Well, I asked her then:
‘Stories on what?’
‘On butterflies.’
I was absolutely perplexed.
I thought then: was it, in actual fact, a coincidence?
Was it not my dream, once, to talk about butterflies?
'I should speak out', I thought.
I felt in the interiors of my heart that it was a call of the time, or, rather, a demand of the time.
Hence, I decided to put a temporary halt to my grand finale: Death.
Amidst unbearable pain, I did make words from my throat to hail.
To all those who were on the watch of my health, my words sounded as though the last song of a dying nightingale.
I started my story.
Indeed, I did not know then that it was she who was a better storyteller and poet, and philosopher than me.
‘Once upon a time, there was a butterfly…’'
Then I saw her 'flying after' a beautiful butterfly that rushed therein and dazzled away like a dazzling of lightning.
She came back after a while, panting, puffing.
She asked me, ‘what had happened to that butterfly?’
Might be due to the annoyance of her disrupting the very outset of my story, yet, of course, not out of malice or contempt, I told her abruptly, ’she's no more.’
She was shocked! Cheerless!
She seemed as though feeling absolutely sorry for the creature.
It was hence she exclaimed:
‘Butterflies have a comparatively shorter life span. Why don't you tell me stories of butterflies that have longer lives? Or, why don't you give longer life to butterflies in your stories, at least?’
I fell silent.
30 January 2023
My life began as one big blank canvas,
a sweet baby girl loved:
the second child for my parents,
yes, I had an older sister by one year;
Suzanne, already had signs of an adventurer,
while I just gurgled, smiled and made faces.
Babyhood is fleeting,
soon, I was a four year old and walking:
my personality was beginning to blossom,
quiet, shy, loving cats, the garden, and books,
my sister, had no time for all that;
we lost her on a snowy street,
her death left a black mark on the canvas of my life.
My grandma, Helena was our family storyteller,
looking at me she would say, she has an old soul:
grandma colored the canvas of my life with hues lovely,
opening my imagination and a writer was born;
I will never forget the words I spoke at her funeral.
When I write of nature the tone is green with wildflowers bright,
with strokes and swirls of birds soaring and water swirling:
when I write of winter, my very soul opens,
and in sad poems somber colors twirl and mingle;
and my paint drips blood red onto my canvas,
the love poems, I create are full of my love's aqua blue eyes.
I am a butterfly, I am a bird, I am a writer,
each day I add another color, another dimension;
to the canvas of my life that started when I was born,
no telling what the future holds but I know;
it will be beautiful.
Let it begin like a war drum cracking the ribs of the sky.
I rise here not as a man,
but as a scorched monument to every lie flung at me like burning tar.
I rise as the unwanted mirror, reflecting back the chaos she hurls,
the contradictions she stitches into a patchwork of impossible stories,
the shrieking, spiralling cyclone of memory shards
that cut no one more deeply than the truth itself.
I speak from the eye of her storm —
where timelines collapse,
where facts melt,
where every accusation is a ghost wearing borrowed clothes.
She comes at me with fractured recollections,
with déjà vu hallucinations,
with dreams mistaken for history,
with wounds older than my presence
and shadows she drags from childhood graves
and tries to nail to my name.
Her narrative is a bonfire of inconsistencies,
a theatre of shrill laughter and catastrophic leaps,
a mythology rewritten each time her emotions change shape.
She is a storyteller lost in her own labyrinth,
a witness drowning in her own tide,
a historian who cannot remember her own years,
yet insists on rewriting mine.
I stand here —
not begging, not bending —
but calling the chaos by its true name.
This is not trauma speaking.
This is not clarity speaking.
This is the echo of a life lived in storms,
trying to turn me into the lightning that caused them.
I refuse the role.
I reject the script.
I tear the stage apart plank by plank.
If she wants to paint me as a monster,
then let her confront the truth:
monsters are made of intention,
and hers is made of retrospective revelation,
of partners whispering reinterpretations,
of therapists planting new meanings in old soil,
of memories bent, stretched, and re forged
until even she cannot tell where the truth ends
and the performance begins.
I am done being the altar
on which she sacrifices her past.
Let this be the first strike.
Let this be the opening roar.
Let this be the moment the ground trembles
and the sky takes notice.
You wanted outrageous.
You wanted poetic rage.
You wanted a platform to build your fire.
Here is the spark.
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.
Hashish smoke trails her
along a dusky corridor
Aka the hall of fires
where mirage chimeras unleash
Encumbered with hands splayed
her crystal ball lumens
wires ghostly apparitions
mnemonic attachments
What mystery ensues
a phantasmagoria
of horror nudging
the demonic
Sitters drenched
in profuse sweat
fainting one by one
Alas unconscious
their fate met?
Coroners couldn’t ‘ve clarified
Described as an arctic chill
bolting across the sector
through each limp body
claiming mortality
As icy temps rise
Hypothermia responsible!
for the fatality, for their demise
Latter days professing onto
recordings of a gathering that took place
confessing that a séance
performed by a mysterious woman
in a trance—was the case.
The
Moon is waxing
First quarter crescent
The beckoning begins
Nodding, gurgling
Opening realms unseen
to the naked eye
Madame
Mystic, psychic,
a beguiling storyteller
and Medium
Down in a cellar, along with a Ouija
volumes of her writings discovered
delving into société espirita
The Goldilocks of the occults
Esoteric subjects,
a burgeoning interest
Astral travels,
unexplained laws of nature,
powers latent in man
Madame channeled
ascended masters
The Voice of the Silence
The Two Paths
The Seven Portals
"gifts" from the specters
This time Madame stands
to receive between intervals
and only he is seated
Warning him of dark spirits
a dimension outside
of our physical time-space reality
shadowing, making absence
of light a necessity
To invoke them
another nod
Continues unabated
Reveal the truth!
By sacred decree, by order
Behind the phenomenon
details of schemes came to light
Denounced as Black Magic
she was no longer to fright
Marked as a fraud
it all a façade
The moon is waning
Third quarter