Tell me a story

Tell me a story

Of once upon a time

When magic ruled the earth.

Tell it short or tell it long,

Make it trivial or sublime,

Write it sad or full of mirth.

Knit a fabric of surprise,

Blend in truth and dreams or lies

But make it real somewise.

Make me laugh or make me cry,

Tell me tales that make me sigh,

Bid me always question, ‘Why?’

Create for me delicious fright

Or make me gasp in sheer delight,

And make sure wrong is never right.

Catch a child’s mind when you can,

Always make your stories fun,

Then, storytellers, you have won.

 Written for 'The Tuesday Platform' in 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

Delores at ‘Mumblings’ challenged us with a writing prompt. She said, 

Feel like having some fun with a writing prompt?
How many ways can you work the word 'sliver' into a sentence?
Maybe someone will write a poem.

This got me thinking so thank you for that, Delores. I need a kick-start in the mornings – or maybe just a kick.

Well, I just had to dish up some doggerel . . .

A sliver of liver

Makes small children shiver

When struggling to swallow

The unswallowable.

And all of a dither

Their tears start to slither,

Unstoppable river -

It’s horrible.

They gaze at the giver,

A look that would wither

The hardest of hearts -

Ineffable.

‘Just a sliver of liver,

To make you grow strong’,

The adult’s persuasion -

Implacable.

The sliver grows bigger,

And drier and harder,

It can’t be choked down –

Unspeakable.

If all children ate

The things that they ‘should’

They’d grow into giants –

Implausible.

(That got much darker than I intended!)

Why not meander over to 'Mumblings' and see what else is on offer?

Fire From a Different Sun

The challenge from 'imaginary garden with real toads' was to write a poem about a fire that doesn’t come from flames or the sun.

A Poem of Clichés

His smouldering eyes looked deep into hers

And her breath came swiftly and fierce,

An inferno of lust flared from his touch

Until her heart pulsed in her ears.

The heat of the moment was all she felt,

The fervour, the passion, the need,

But later the memory scorched her with shame –

Her name blackened by the deed.

Seared and dishonoured she took the veil

Nevermore to show her face,

Incandescence of ardour soon forgot

As she bowed her head in disgrace.

The Sisters Death and Night

For each night’s sleep is a little death

When the Sisters enter, arm in arm,

Smiling gently at each breath,

Wondering which of them will charm

The soul to dream or travel on?

And if at dawn the sleeper stirs,

Death nods to Night, cedes her downfall,

On this still morning she defers

To Night who knows Death conquers all -

Death whispers soft, ‘Anon, anon.’

A small amount of plagiarism – I had not realised I had used Arthur Schopenhauer’s words in the first line, or a variation of them, until I thought them rather familiar and researched them

To see more and better verse please follow the link here