Skip to main content

Tell Me a Story

Tell me a story, tell me a story,
Of numinous entities that come at night,
Of eldritch figures that gibber in light.

Tell me a story, tell me a story,
Of aeons dispelled from the histories, from time,
Of ages forgotten, of cave paintings and rhymes.

Tell me a story, tell me a story,
Of ambivalent maidens, of onanistic regrets,
Of chests of gold and pirates. Arr.

Tell me a story, tell me a story,
Of whence the witch goes to find eyes,
Of ghouls who WHAM at the ceiling tiles.

Tell me a story, tell me a story,
Of the window, the curtains, the height,
Of the wrong that, henceforth, is right.

Tell me a story, tell me a story,
Of teeth-clenching children awake in their beds,
Of monsters that gather behind their sweet heads.

Tell me a story. I’ll tell you a story,
Of babes of the future, presently napping
Of ye and y’all with those fingers snapping.

--

Mad Words List 7.3.18

Numinous
Eldritch
Gibbering
Aeon
Presently
Whence
Hence
Onanistic
Clench
Wham
Ambivalent
Y'all
Ye

--

This week’s poem is a tribute to storytellers and the children who request stories to be told to them. You are both heroes in my eyes.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bonus Poem: Look Up!

Looking down, I read the priceless pages, Someone else, sweetly, precisely, Had written their drinkable life on. And I drank in the appreciation Of her words, one sentence at a time, A good, fresh white. Sensational, the clouds were Pouring in, filling my cup,  Easing in, with a soft voice that said, "Look up!" My eyes glanced, only peeking At first, toward the sky. Those rain-bringers harnessing My irises with glee. And as if it had been there All along, the whole long while, A sparrow drifted into the Watercolor before me, soaring. It glided on the currents That were my own world, too. And we shared the view, Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now. And then the wind found itself Playing in the cottonwood's hair. And I smiled, thinking About how good it probably felt, Those wind-fingers, sifting through. 
Post a Comment
Read more

Leashed on the Edge of "I"

Do you ever wish you could view yourself As others see you? At a distance? That you might become one of the crowd Or the speck from the airplane? Or maybe you might become so close That you are nothing but locks of hair And the smell of Cabernet and black tea And a force in the night. I imagine you could even be mistaken For someone else. Could you mistake you For someone else? I think I could do it, Be you, or her, or him, or that dog over there Sniffing the fence, sorting out these Divisions. I didn't say I was I from the Beginning, but I wonder how we drag "I" Around like a stick, and chew a piece off Now and again. You were thrown the stick, And you fetched. But what if you could sniff Beyond the fence and be something more Or something less? Would you? Could we?
Post a Comment
Read more

I Don't Know How To Be An Ocean, She Said

"I don’t know how to be an ocean,” she said. To become an ocean, Don't drown in yourself. Reflect the sky, as above. Feel the pitch black of night And the torches of stars, the only guides Until morning. Welcome those who would tread, And the urchins, and feel the trash islands Press you down. Press back, harder. Know the temporary. Be a receiver of boats, of Ships passing in the night. Don't let high tide Have any more strength than low tide. It's all part of the process. When the rage surges through your waves, Know the stillness that once caught you Breathless at the shore. “I don’t know how to be an ocean,” she said. Don’t hold back. Overflow, and Recede when you’re ready. But go ahead, Taste saline. And feel the wind against your back. Know you can be destructive, a force of unpredictability, And also the peace someone else is looking for. Do you feel your depth? There are pieces of you, so below, no one has ever seen, even...
Post a Comment
Read more