Skip to main content

The Story Of a Storyteller

"Once upon a time", began the blind old man
"There was a sea as endless as time; and
It reeked of stories of survival and death,
But none could wait to watch the waves break.
A sailor lived once, I don't remember his name,
Whose skills did put the others' to shame;
He'd conquer the sea, they would all shout
And the sky would rumble at the scream so loud;
That day, and the ones that had shone brighter
Will be drawn by a kid and poetised by a writer-
A hundred years from now, just a hundred wee years."

"One fateful night, the storm wanted to play
With the one little boat that struggled to stay
Afloat; and the sailor heard his name loud and clear
Shooting back from the hungry waves far and near.
He kissed his oar, for the last time he could see,
And closed his eyes to embrace the open sea.
He was found a day later, on a plank, alive,
But the rest of the boat was gone, like life.
The sailor searched for her, from daybreak till night
And like true love always does, she had vanished from sight.
Every mouth around him whispered, 'You must be strong',
But a hundred years then suddenly seemed too long.
With her, his beloved boat, he could have conquered the sea
But instead he told this little story to me."

The children left, and the old soul promised
The rest of it the next day, and mused how well
He sketched his own story every day, without
Breaking the bliss of ignorance; yesterday it was
A knight, with an armour not so shiny, and today it was
A sailor; tomorrow, well, a selfish king would be good
And a queen perhaps. A smile escaped. And a sigh.
This is how 'once upon a time' worked for him.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Dream

I live and breathe like a misplaced dream In this labyrinthine construct of time; Like a flower that blooms in the wrong garden; Like a kite that soars in the wrong sky. I try to find my place in this maze; Where the horizon is a cerulean haze; Where children are taught how to lie; Where a flightless swallow dreams to fly; Where tears burn the eyes like a pyre; Where simplicity gets butchered by satire; Where justice is just like a starless night; Where compassion is always a lost fight; Where deaths can kindle an endless debate; Where love is defeated by war and hate; Where colours of humans put seasons to shame; Where despair is the prize for the agonizing game. I watch, I cry, and I wish to be born In the distant future; For one day there’ll be A world that cares, a world that dreams; And I will find the right sky for my kite.

The Exoneration of Heidi Schäfer

In the shadows of a dead city she stood And waited for the sun to go down. Heidi had been a daughter, a wife, a mother, But never Heidi. She watched the remnants of a long forgotten song Lancing towards her from the medallion above And her heart looked for the listener; The one who had listened to all her prayers. "Now that my road has come to its end, Show me where I can wash these stains Off my broken skin," Heidi whispered When she found the listener, Playing his flute under an ageless tree. "You've come a long way, Heidi," he said, "You were too cautious not to fall, Which made you forget that you could fly." Heidi watched the hills falling in love with The abstrusity in the melodies he wove And said, "The hills look like a dream." "Yes, but a dream you chose to bury, Under the weight of your sins," he said. "You have been all, Heidi - You have been a seed, a plant and a tree But you never danced wit...

The Riddle

Says the poet, “O divine little sunflower, You make my pen and my heart stop. There are no limits known, the enigma Of your surreal beauty cannot reach.” It is a fear that lingers in the rhythm; A fear of letting her watch his naked heart. It’s his love the poet shall never speak of. “What if she refuses to bloom?” Fear has myriad shades, but this shade Was no stranger; “We share a bond,” He says, “And for her I’m just the man Who waters her and watches her bloom. I am nothing more. I am nothing less. But does she know her place In every dream I have? Has anybody else Watered her the way I do? Has anybody else feared To not wake up to her effulgence? Maybe she knows,” thinks the poet, And he asks the Sun, who knows all, “Does she tell you about me?”  When the Sun goes down, the poet watches His little flower, still dispelling all the gloom, And his heart yearns to believe, “She knows.” A poetised riddle is what they share, and he Accepts, a poet in love i...