Raconteur

Raconteur

Tobacco smell fills the air

The back and forth of the old squeaky rocking chair

As he subtly asserts his patriarchy

The smell of tobacco and the old squeaky rocking chair

Were synonymous with his presence

On the verandah

We Jostled for front-row seats

The multitude of eyes and ears gathered at his feet

Hanging on his every word

The verandah was our cathedral.

He enthralled us

We would return summer after summer

For his mouth-to-ear stories

Of the mythical rolling calf  

You just wanted to be in his presence

He was magnetic

I wish he could return

To fill the vacant chair

To bring back the multitude to the verandah

A new generation

Now, the only movement of the rocking chair

Is the passing wind

And claims of his presence

The Novice Poet