Bread and Bard 

He's honed a skillful use of words 

Released in metered flow, 

And knowledge of the actor's craft 

Help make his stories glow. 

 A burly, hirsute, bear-like man, 

He causes some to cringe, 

For most can't see the gentle soul 

Kept hidden by his fringe. 

 He's turned his hand at many jobs 

And handled most quite well. 

He listened more than ever spoke, 

For stories he could tell. 

 When he was young, he was the mouse 

At every story fest. 

He practiced his delivery, 

Then put himself to test. 

 In a time when most would never 

Wander far from home, 

He had the urge to walk far roads,

 Wherever feet would roam. 

 His tailored clothes were quality, 

Though sewn to look like rags. 

He wore two different style of boots 

And one old belt that sags. 

 He seldom got a second look 

From villains in the path, 

But should they press too hard on him, 

He'd sure to show his wrath. 

 Besides the stories in his bag, 

 He gathered news as well, 

Of big events beyond their walls, 

They loved to hear him tell. 

 He lived to learn and pass it on 

Up lifting all who heard, 

But didn't scruple when at need, 

To drop a scathing word. 

 King Arthur and fair Robin Hood 

Were favorite sagas told, 

And vikings faring 'cross the seas 

In dragon boats, so bold. 

 Some stories, softer, for the kids 

 Of people from the sea, 

Or of a fable spread about 

A princess and her pea. 

 He told of demigods and more, 

Some Roman and some Greek, 

That helped define the role of man 

When of the Gods they'd seek. 

 Of labors that soon numbered twelve, 

Or ram's skin made of gold, 

Of heroes that veer off the path, 

Not doing what they're told. 

 And then when children toddled offT

o bed and lamps burned low, 

There were some tales he had held back 

Quite sensual in flow. 

 His wood nymph's poem called Nature Girl, 

A sexual midnight dream, 

Depending on how flows the wine, 

Can really be extreme. 

 Always leave them wanting more, 

Bow out while they're still cheering. 

Don't overstay warm welcome time, 

For that could lead to jeering. 

 He'd tramp from town to village green, 

With stops for food and drink, 

Those times alone, between the stops, 

Were his to really think 

 About the life he'd loved so long, 

About his growing age, 

About if he should train someone 

To take his place on stage. 

 He knows his time is not yet come, 

But will before too long. 

Just know he'll speak his stories out 

As long as he's still strong. 

 Richard Higley © Aug 10, 2014