‘Storyteller’ and Other Poetry by Michael Harmon The Society April 11, 2016 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 1 Comment Storyteller We sit around the fire. The storyteller drones, until his words expire in silence like the stones. Primeval darkness frames the flower-yellow flames enlightening our faces. Like breeze-blown blossoms, we shift mutely in our places within the ring while he, as yellow flowers fail, resumes again his tale, which seems to have no end. Or we may wish it so. His words bloom and transcend the darkness that we know and, through descending night, bring on another light to follow, leading to a place we can survive, and our own dark subdue. His words keep us alive, and, like the dawn, display the flowers of our day. The Moon The moon, a mottled circle cloaked in blue, As pale and vague as twilight, meant alone The self I was, the self I barely knew. For years, before the twilight came in view, I instigated vain pursuits to own The moon. A mottled circle cloaked in blue, I, pale and vague, explored each avenue: Not one the meaning I had sought, and none The self. I was the self I barely knew: Behaving like there never was a clue Around, pretending I had never known The moon, a mottled circle. Cloaked in blue, The moon at twilight hangs in nothing new, But mottled, pale and vague, cannot condone The self I was. The self I barely knew Pursued the unforeseen which only grew Too late to now with any grace disown The moon, a mottled circle cloaked in blue: The self I was, the self I barely knew. Odysseus Overlooks the Obvious One day we came ashore and stayed a month. Aiolos wished to hear the details told about the war, our travels, hardships, luck, and how the others who were absent fared. I told him, answered every question posed to humble guest, and satisfied his thirst for news of things I knew beyond his isle, because the ocean stood between our home, and wanderers like us would need his help. He gave it willingly. But at the sight of home, and after all this time, a captain’s greed became the rumor rolling down the deck. The bag beneath the bench contained a storm and not the bag of gold they thought was there. So, while I slept and dreams of home prevailed, my men sought gold they thought I wouldn’t share. The storm unleashed, I pondered jumping ship to quickly drown, or whether breathing air was still the way to go. Resigned to life, I huddled there inside the stinking bilge I was the captain of. This was my life, empty of much ease, and full of lack. My wife and son returned to being dreams. The wind with random anger blew us back. The poet gave me wisdom, so no threat was ever overlooked; I knew it was an obvious mistake, and not my fault the poet never had me warn my men. Featured Image: “Homer,” by Jean-Baptiste-Auguste Leloir, 1841. Michael Harmon holds a B.A. degree in English Literature from Long Island University and B.S. degree in Computer Information Systems from Arizona State University. He is a retired computer programmer and lives in Scottsdale, Arizona. His email address is: email@example.com. Related Post ‘Island City: Auckland’ and Other Poetry by Jan ... Island City: Auckland I’ve grown to love this place of sea and noise Where buildings have assumed a regal poise As high they stab on sultry... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail One Response Corey browning April 11, 2016 I truly enjoyed the poem “the storyteller”. The lines that most stood out to me in beauty were “primeval darkness frames/the flower-yellow flames/enlightening our faces”. Truly stunning how you switched around “flower” and “yellow” in the second stanza, and then on through the piece completing the metaphoric imagery. Well done! Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.