Tell the story in a poem.

I read

that Red

had read

what blew

the blue

to the white

of Wight.

No more a’green

’bout the green.
Orange you glad it was not a knock-knock joke?

A wolf by any other name

is more than a friend

when a friend is in need

and indeed, in these dark woods,

there is more to be feared of

than a wolf on the prowl

with grandmother in its belly,

so take heed, Red the Head,

for instead of wallowing in fear,

bring the wolf close

and disappear.

How the Story Goes
My name is Red

for all the usual reasons – the hair,

the character flaw of anger, a preference

since childhood for scarlet hoodies.
I am a comparative mythologist – I know,

I know, people call me the Fairy Tale Sleuth,

but the media – what can you do?

I’m really just a text wrangler,
a recorder of oral histories. I listen

at the pregnant belly button of the world,

omphalos of all story. I am

the squirrel Ratatosk running
on Yggdrasil, the eternal green ash tree

whose branches spread over the nine worlds.

I listen to Nidhug, wily vampire dragon

of the roots, and I carry his unlikely tales
to the eagle flying from the leafy

top of the world. I see all restless heroes

setting forth from little cabins squatted

too contented in the woods. I hear
the subtle Calls to Adventure

that whistle them down the wind.
And I have been known to help the hapless hero,

but there are other helpers, too, the King of the Ants,

Jesus or the angels in disguise, the tired,

the poor – Samaritan blood spills eternal.
I watch, I listen, I see those children

cross blind into the Zone of Heightened Power

and begin that terrible Road of Trials

from which no god can save them –
not even gray-eyed Athena could save

Odysseus from his tragic voyage home.

I thrust my hands in my jacket pockets,

pull the red hood up over my flaming hair,

and turn away.
I know how it goes, and knowing

maybe makes it harder to watch, easier

to turn away.
Crucifixion. Dismemberment. We laugh

when Coyote, trapped in the Great Mother Tree,

has to take himself apart to escape

that suffocating womb, pushing
his body parts, even his balls out through

the woodpecker’s hole,

all needing to be reassembled

on the Other Side. That’s tough.
It’s always tough. But that’s just

how the story always goes.

I’m up here in my Ivory Tower

trying to play it cool, but I still
get angry at the dimwitted Fool

stumbling along the rocky road to love,

or power, or enlightenment.
I feel every story like bearing a first born child,

and every fairy tale or ancient myth

is that dreadful push to leave

the Mother Tree behind, to reconcile
with the Sky Father, find a name

that is our own, one that rings true

to our toes. We seek the Elixir of Life

and Mastery of Two Worlds.
Let’s face it. We’re all lost in the woods

stalked by the top predator of the soul.
My name is Red.

And I know how the story goes.