Midnight Poet‎ > ‎

A Tiny Tale

For years my friends thought I was daft -
I told them stories and they laughed,
I tried to tell them all, you see,
That little people lived with me.

They hide 'round corners, run 'cross floors,
They peek 'round curtains, under doors,
They even hide beneath the bed —
I see them, when I turn my head.

I saw one once, he moved so quick,
I thought my eyes had played a trick...
Then, proof of his reality!
The little bugger moved my tea.

I turned round quick and did not see,
And spilled the stuff all over me.
I leapt in pain from my hot bath,
And roared about in naked wrath.

I tripped myself and fell down hard -
A juggernaut, a live petard;
And when I finally came to rest,
The teapot smashed upon my chest.

Its contents spilled on shirt and pants,
And up I jumped, again to dance
And thrash about in scalded pain,
Tripped on the rug, and fell again.

I crashed to earth, a giant, felled.
I moaned, and cursed, and screamed, and yelled,
Until I felt the pain subside,
And rolled upon my drier side.

Dazed, confused, I carefully
Raised myself upon one knee.
I stood to look about once more,
But didn't see the cupboard door.

As sight grew dim, I felt with dread,
This new pain blossom in my head.
I forward fell, to crash once more,
And kiss the hard, unmoving floor.

Sometime later, sight returned.
I sat up, beaten, broken, burned.
I used my tea-soaked wrinkled clothes,
To wipe my bloody, broken nose.

I shifted from my wrecked repose,
And slowly, carefully, I rose.
I let my eyes begin to roam,
Survey the wreckage of my home.


I stared aghast, could not allow,
The view that lay before me now -
There was no wreckage I could see,
No broken pot, no blood, no tea.

As I surveyed my pristine gaff,
I swear I heard a tiny laugh...
I turned quick, sent my head a-spinning,
And swear I saw a small face, grinning.

He winked at me, and as he laughed,
Like smoke caught in a sudden draft,
He vanished, leaving not a trace -
Except the wonder on my face.

My cup had vanished, with the tea,
(Except the tea I spilled on me...),
And of my pot, though I searched hard,
I never found a single shard.

My nose, it healed, and left no trace,
Or scar on my mistreated face.
My clothes survived, without a doubt,
The blood and tea stains came right out.

The cupboard door, though worse for wear,
Remains as sturdy, hanging there.
The bump on my head healed quickly.
The headache — just a memory.

My friends, of course, still don't believe.
They think my tale meant to deceive.
They smile, and say I'll only find,
The little people in my mind.

They think I made it up, in fright;
Or dreamed it, on a winter's night,
When snowy winds and howling gales,
Recall some dark and gothic tales.

Yet memories are what remain,
The tea, the cup, the pot, the pain,
And in that vision, center place,
A tiny, grinning, laughing face.

Mick McKellar
January 2003