Storyteller and Raisins

By Perry L. Powell

Storyteller

How I would close my eyes and see
the marvels that were
your words—
the ever-tall oaks dark and green, piercing the sky,
the sunlight thrown like gold coins across the meadow,
the curve of a hand raised to touch Her hair.

How I would hear
the giggling water of many streams,
the howl of distant wolves at the approach of the hero,
the closed cadence of a last breath
in your guileless art.

Did you know
someone like me would be brought to know
in that way that knowing is not knowing 
but seeming to be?

Did you expect readers
to come to meet you,
or did you just follow the trails

in search of what
you could not say?

Raisins

The front of the box is labeled: Raisins.
On the side, the list of ingredients reads: Contents: raisins.
No mention of added salt. No added sugars.
No preservatives with chemical formulae or acronyms for names.
No numbered food colorings.
No enhanced scents.

This is a box of raisins.
Simply raisins. Nothing more or less.

If only people were just one thing
and came labeled like this box of raisins.
If only people were not these tortured mixtures of ingredients.
How much simpler life would be.

Perry L. Powell lives near Atlanta, Georgia in the United States. His work has appeared in Cattails, Dead Snakes, eyedrum periodically, Frogpond, Haiku Presence, Ribbons, The Heron’s Nest, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Lyric, vox poetica and elsewhere.