The Last Poetry Friday – Final Collected Work of Susan Ramsey

Why I Hate Storytellers

Professional storytellers creep me out,

their vests and ribbons, long skirts, picturesque hats,

their shouts and whispers, hands fluttering like bats,

relentless eye contact staring me into squirm.  

They’re the Siegfrieds, Roys of story, cracking whips,

forcing sullen stories to sit up,

briefly paw air,   snarling as they leap

through rings of fire, landing on heavy paws.

Good stories sneak up, they’re glimpsed, overheard

from the booth behind you at the diner,

from the back seat, six hours into the trip,

on the radio, half-over when you tune in.

Real storytellers are quiet, even reluctant.

Casual is their camouflage.   After a long

march, supper cooked, night coming down,

the conversation passed around like a pipe,

one voice starts ambling down a path which forks

in unexpected directions and you feel

the great beast purring next to you in the dark,