The Story of Word Pictures

[serai]

rakshi just posted a very lovely little poem that she has held dear since childhood, and reading it, I feel inspired to do the same.

The following poem, The Story of Word Pictures, is a piece I became familiar with many years ago when I was performing at the Southern California Renaissance Faire. It was there that I met Mark Lewis, Storyteller, one of the sweetest, kindest, huggiest, most amazing people I've ever met. Mark's warmth, charm and absolute delight in life were and continue to be an inspiration to everyone that knows him.

Mark is one of the main reasons I became a storyteller (along with my grandmother Dolores, Harlan Ellison, and Michael McCarty). He is incredibly inspiring to listen to, mainly because he just loves telling stories so much, and his love shines and sparkles out of him. Also, he gives enormously amazing hugs. I count myself extremely lucky to have known him. (Alas, it's been many years since I saw him last.)

So, on with the poetry. This beautiful piece is the poem that Mark ends every performance with, and it's a perfect capsulation of the spirit of his art.


The Story of Word Pictures
by Mark W. Lewis


Sit down beside me
I'll tell you a story,
Of beautiful women
And men who are bold.
The kind of a story
To help you remember
The wonder of childhood
Before you grew old.

A story of "Word Pictures"
Of sulphur and tin,
Of fernbanks and forests
That you can hide in.
Of little brown people
As tall as your knees,
Who walk very quickly
Through doorways in trees.

Spires of moonlight,
Shells on the beach.
The soft, silent sermons
The butterflies preach.
A small Elfin maiden
In spiderweb gowns
Goes gliding right past you
One foot off the ground.

The old learned Wizard,
Whose mist-shrouded tower
Watches his watches
Chime hour on hour.
And wait for the wind
To come running up fast,
And watch as his footprints
Go past in the grass.

So think of a feeling
From when you were younger.
Now, give it a color
Or call it by name.
Then pull up the covers
And keep your head under
And smile at the darkness
And know who's to blame.

So if you can gather
The pictures I scatter,
Like daisies in sunlight
You weave into chains...
Then we'll be the ones
Who will look for the rainbows
When others think only of clouds
When it rains.



ETA: I've just noticed rakshi's instruction after her poem. While I have an abiding love for the above poem, I must admit it is not my favorite. That place is held by He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven, by W.B. Yeats. I made a wallpaper with it a while ago, and you can see it (and feel free to save it) at my website here:

Cloths of Heaven - 800x600

Cloths of Heaven - 1024x768