Come the withering seasons night-time mists

in the days before fiery invention

the blackness of wide open spaces conjured up bogus beliefs

credible magic, stark fear and worthy legends

sugared coated by the storyteller and heirs apparent

the whole of history was in narrative, in those times before

the wonderment of pigments and dyes captured the spoken word


as forest myth bewitched willing ears and eyes

the safe birthing of twins, folklore and fiction was assured

the then known world, yet to evolve into a fertile, multi-coloured globe

just a perilous expanse of level smallness, at the far reaches of which one could tumble

over the edge, into the wide worthless yonder, never to be spoken of in confidence again

some, the foolish or the explorer’s fell, those out of the ordinary, were driven over by the perturbed


to the music of pan pipes and castanets, from the mountains The Satyr came

a cortege of blowzy immodest petticoats followed in the shameless dance

would later scatter, darkest corner shadow bound, dismissed, undesired

as he shared rough wine, later the pleasures of the daring one, The Sorceress

in a storm of furious passion never to abate, his reputation for wantonness intact

such was the way of romantic blending of sweet charlatan and ithyphallic fable


be it mirror, fever or heart that broke

The Storyteller had heard say that

The Sorceress could mend as if by sleight of hand

make whole again scattered fragments

make better the curse of bestowed perfection

it was only then around campfire or in cave

The Storyteller, who relished in trial and error had

his ‘all-ears’ lucrative gallery craving for more


26 thoughts on “THE STORYTELLER

  1. I absolutely ADORE that whole bit that starts

    to the music of pan pipes and castanets, from the mountains The Satyr came

    a cortege of blowzy immodest petticoats followed in the shameless dance


    1. Born of your idea of not throwing away or deleting things Ms S. Wrote a pile of rubbish as a longish story, was about to delete then thought I might make an ‘almost poem’ out of it…not that I claim this is any good, but your comment has enthused me more than a tad…cheers!

      1. What is no good now gets saved on an external hard drive…21st century me that is! It is, by the way, so hot here I cannot even go outside…yesterday also. Why is the climate on this island not set at an acceptable 20 degrees all year round, with a pinch of night time rain when the flowers need watering.

    2. I’m with you, Lady Shey–Mike should just not delete anything ever ever EVER. I mean, the twin thing caught my eye (duh) but it was such an unexpected turn with the folklore and fiction…I never thought the two so entwined yet separate bodies, whole and unique…and I LOVE the Sorceress could by sleight of hand mend the fragments…I mean, it just begs the question: does she mend, or doesn’t she? So many elements just out sight here, with forest myths and life creations. Brilliant, Mike, bloody brilliant. 🙂

      1. Then I bow to your judgement. I never claim to be a writer…hit and miss…Jack of all trades, master of none…yet sometimes when a bit of praise is afforded in my direction I do feel rather ‘happy’. My thanks Ms Lee.

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