Rumple Stein opens his great
book of old,
Under the blanket, a tale will
unfold,
Magic and monsters and
heroes so brave,
Pointing his finger to a deep
hidden cave,
Leaving you dreaming of
secrets he gave.
We all remember Captain Kangaroo
who lived in his treasure house as opposed to a shoe
he was a most enthusiastic storyteller
when kids went to sleep he’d head for the cellar
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
BLANK PAGE
a blank page whispers,
ink spills like a timid stream—
where have the words gone?
My tale may well pale
by the light of the harvest moon
Yet should it fail to woo
I’ve another – and another – for you
Words
Seem to arise
Declaring independence
Naming everything
Which cannot be named..
An amazing story
Storyteller unknown...
Once upon a time in Nigeria
Lived a storyteller with a voice like the wind
His parables, like whispers, traveled far and wide
Touching every corner, stirring every mind.
He wrote of a land where the yam was king
Where the ancestors’ drums forever sing.
He told of Okonkwo, fierce and proud
In a village where voices rose clear and loud.
With Things Fall Apart, he tore down the veil
Unveiling truths buried deep in each tale.
He spoke of clashes, of struggle, and pain
Cultures colliding like thunder and rain.
Once upon a time in Nigeria, lived a man
Who awoke a continent, once tightly bound.
Through the pages of history, his voice ascends
A river of stories that flows without end.
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
A good storyteller knows how to make an audience hooked
Making them anticipate each and every move
And crave for a good story while not wanting it to end
For a good story should find a way to always live on
A good storyteller has his cards on his chest
All this time looking at his audience
Building up the tension as people wait
Wait to see what the next would be
A good storyteller has a good ink
Ink that makes the words in the book to glow
As it easily flows from beautiful pieces of ideas
As they make a masterpiece that drips into people's souls
A good storyteller knows when to lie
And make it believable, for if one doubts your plot
They'll try to go deep till they find a flaw
And that's how you'll lose your grip on your audience
A good storyteller knows how to seat at the back
To watch on as people enjoy the show
For his next story lies in their reactions
For he feeds directly from his audience
The PO£T
We are
Storytellers
In our speaking
Conversing
Interpreting..
Seemingly
Making sense of
The indescribable
Spontaneity of this..
Death of the
Storyteller
Frees the story
Telling itself
With a character
Fondly
Known as the
Storyteller...
Storyteller
Now, as spring light fades into
a soft blue night, I turn to you and ask
Tell me more.
The river doesn’t run rapidly as before
The lake is dry
No wind blows away broken dreams.
Tell me more, if you can before, the light
Is an empty space
The stillness has lost its echo.
Back story: I wrote this is reference to a lady expressing your struggles when she was homeless on a community app and someone commented and stated that they could not take her seriously because she spelled a word wrong...
I never claimed to be one who was a good speller.
Or someone who could pronounce words well.
But I always liked to sing and people listened, because I was a good storyteller.
I don't mind if you correct me, to make yourselves feel better.
But I find it intriguing and ironic, that even what I say or do is wrong.
That you can still understand me, like a puzzle piece in a song.
Staring into the written moon
Words illuminating my space
I stand still inhaling syllables
Lost in the story’s embrace.
The pages cast a shadow
Imagination in the shade
Lyrical mating of the mind
A literary serenade.
Trees of erudite branches
Fallen leaves of knowledge
Raking piles into my memory
In hopes of paying homage.
Spellbound by the paragraphs
The smells of inky dew
Entranced by this moment in time
Appreciated by only a few.
Do you want
your story to be told?
Then, meet the new storyteller:
he'll write down every detail;
pull those memoirs
out of the drawer:
sit down with him
and start telling it all!
Reveal every secret,
be open and be bold:
others can learn
from the tough days
you went through!
From beginning
to end: get pain,
delusions, tears
and anxieties
off your chest;
feel no shame,
show courage!
Do you want
your story to be told?
I'll be your ghostwriter,
don't say a word,
keep it a secret.
Meet the new storyteller,
this stranger can become
your trustworthy friend;
pour your guts out:
lash out with rage,
let your courage
ease the heaviness inside,
renew your hope, not fear!
Meet the new storyteller,
let's create a lasting bond
between two who have lived their life
and won't ever surrender
to whatever may come...
defeating thoughts that bring doubt!
What has not been said
That has not been heard
Come along
We shall you a song
One of loving
Sought through longing
Take the journey
Through our unique discovery
The rock God filled with love
Through bond from above
Made our feet sturdy
Crushed with empathy
Giving thanks to the land
By the river we stand
Love explains
Why God remains
Never shall we move
Or ever lose
God is our muse
No one shall remove
OFTEN AS A STORYTELLER
Quite often as this storyteller bloke,
I like to play on words,
Seeing if it makes me to be,
In a sense of being
A wordy kind of fella,
Or am I just a plain
And ordinary wordsmith;
As the user and the chooser
Of what I put down
On the finest parchments found.
And then there is you see
As it escapes from me;
In short intervals be,
Many tales of sad,
And many tales of glad,
Told by someone
Of the olde school brand.
For I have come to realize
That of the many journeys made,
In order to relate
And wise wisdom words put on down,
In order to bless;
For there is another thirsty soul,
Awaiting, awaiting!
Therefore, I am at an age
It is a privilege to have attained,
To be a narrator so,
A teller of this man’s past;
And hopefully bless
A listener with me words.
And as we so do sit;
Around the campfires of life,
Where flickering embers glow
And sparks dance their last request,
Therefore, as we depart
And go our separate ways,
As you the receiver have listened,
‘Bout the many journeys made,
Coming from deep within
And from the soul,
Of this bush balladeer bloke….
Francis Cooper - Mac
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.