Little Golden Children
I am life, I am laughter,
I am breath and warmth and youth.
I am princess, I am daughter,
I am strength and love and truth.
I am running through the garden,
Past the fountains, past the vines,
Running headlong to my father
Brimming joy in heart and mind.
I ignore the court and courtiers,
With their business grand and great,
I am princess, I am daughter
And my father king awaits.
Never once have I awoken
Without greeting him like this,
Nothing uttered, nothing spoken
Just a celebration kiss.
As I near I see him standing,
Staring at his outstretched hands,
Mouth agape and eyes demanding
To be told. To understand.
But it's such a glorious morning,
And I'm young and fleet and bold!
I ignore these tiny warnings,
I ignore the gleam of gold.
Golden food on golden table,
Golden bough on golden tree
Should have stopped me were they able
But momentum carries me
To my father's warm embraces
And I'm there before he knows,
But there's horror on the faces
Of the courtiers as we close.
And I hear a cry of anguish,
And I see my father's pain
Showing torment beyond language,
Even as I start to change.
Time slows
Fingers tingle
Skin glows
Blood mingles
Thickens
Sickens
This deadly
Alchemy
Re-arranging me
Feeling strange in me
Claiming me
Staining me
Stealing through me
Metal surges
Metal urges
Purges feeling and thought
I am tempered and taught
Solid and wrought
Modified
Commodified
Sold and bought
My heart beat broken, stolen,
One last metallic breath.
Silence is golden
And so is death.
I am lifeless, I am slaughter,
I am breathless, cold and old.
I was princess, I was daughter,
Now I'm priceless, worthless gold.
The tale of Midas and his gold
Is still remembered, often told.
How kindness brought a wish fulfilled,
A fortune made, a daughter killed,
And how repentance, truly made,
Let all the gold be washed away.
But what's forgotten is while she gleamed
The golden daughter dreamed a dream,
A vision of a distant age
Where Midas' curse is all the rage
And all are given the chance to turn / change
© David Reakes
Crystallization
Now don't get me wrong, I love where I live,
But something about it has started to give.
I'm not one for biting the hand that feeds me,
But I think this town's got a little bit greedy.
Something is rotten in Glastonburg, something is rank and smelly,
Or, to put it another way, there's a dark Glast-underbelly.
And at the risk of getting all 'Ash' on yo' asses:
Mammon stalks Avalon with backstage passes
To all the emporia on the High Street,
Putting all that's sacred through a till and a spread-sheet.
Plastic effigies of the Green Man,
Piles of ceramic camper vans,
Shamanic talismans (made in Bristol),
Sandals and candles and crystals and crystals!
Yes I know, we're the good guys, and we have to keep earning,
There's no shame asking folk to mix spending with learning.
But there comes a point when enough is enough,
Do we need thirty shops selling all the same stuff?
Our High Street is still the best in the land
With the useful, the quirky the grubby and the grand
All rubbing shoulders in the huge melting pot
That is Glastonbury High Street. But it's losing the plot.
Avalon shoes, Theo Ginn's menswear,
Stationers, florists and Millers hardware:
All of these shops have lately been lost,
And if we're not careful we'll soon count the cost
Of our very own brand of homogenisation,
Where shop after shop offers no variation,
Not through Globalisation -
- But Crystallization.
I've seen a future, dismal and dark,
Where this town's one big Crystallized Theme Park,
With no Gap or Starbucks or KFC,
Just Glastucky Fried Ethnicity.
Will the pet shop or Dickets join the ranks of the dead?
Or, heaven forfend, Burns the Bread?
(Though you can stuff the Banks, the slimy barbarians,
And the Butchers too cos I'm vegetarian.)
None will be spared, all are devoured,
As the town is re-branded Alton(ative) Towers.
No single shop deserves any blame
Cos they're all fantastic? but they're all just the same!
Diversity is the spice of life,
So let's keep our shopping as free from strife
As choosing your food at a picnic al fresco.
Oh, and one other thing: say NO to Tesco's!
So don't get me wrong, I love where I live,
But something about it has started to give.
And I'll end with a warning, if I may be so bold,
And say: All that Glasto's may not be gold.
© David Reakes
The Meeting Of Souls
To cut a long story quite a bit shorter,
The Creator (up there) hadn't done what he oughta.
He'd been handing out souls as if they were water.
So a meeting was called. For the world, and her daughter.
But no meeting could accommodate all the world's natives,
So each group of species had to get quite creative
And choose from their numbers a representative,
Be they animalistic or vegitative.
The mammals chose Man as their spokesMan.
Or should I say Man had his very own plan
And chose himself, above all the others:
His warm-blooded, lactating sisters and brothers.
The reptiles sent their most persuasive debater,
A patient, cunning and great Alligator.
Who better to natter with the Creator
Than a creature with a smile that's like the equator?
The wisest of owls was sent by the birds,
While the fish chose a salmon to impart their words.
The insects, for many long hours had conferred
And settled on sending a lone ladybird.
And the trees? What of the trees?
Who did they please to send to appease?
Well?
For all the esteem in which they held her
They sent Esmeralda
Their elder
Elder.
So imagine the sight: the Creator appears!
(Beard, white robes, you know the gear)
And says in a voice like a balm in your ear:
"So lovely it is to see you all here."
"But time is short so I'll cut to the chase.
We've run out of souls, it's quite a disgrace.
And I know that you'll hate this, you'll all be appalled,
But one group here present must have their souls recalled."
Mouths, beaks, mandibles, all hung agape.
A silence rang out from which none could escape,
Until Man, that most wily of wily old apes,
His learn-ed defense he started to shape.
I'll spare you the details, as we haven't the time:
You haven't the patience, I haven't the rhymes.
Suffice it to say, Man played a blinder.
Full of himself (did we need a reminder?)
He turned all attention onto what he called
The lower life forms, those that slithered or crawled.
"Or, even worse" he said, narrowing his eyes,
"Are the trees! Take their souls, they're barely alive!"
The other animals, now sensing blood,
Jumped on Man's bandwagon, quick as they could,
And all started chanting again and again:
"NO SOULS FOR TREES!" was their awful refrain.
The Creator observed with a look on his face
Somewhere between disgust and disgrace.
He waited for silence, and then with a sigh
He asked Esmerelda "Do you have a reply?"
The great old elder, so sure and so slow,
Shook all her branches as if to say No.
She then took her leaves and started to go,
Back to her kinsfolk to tell of this woe.
Meanwhile the Creator, the great mediator,
Turned to the group of rabid tree haters.
He knew of the trouble that this would cause later
And swallowed his urge to call them all traitors.
"I'll grant you your wish, though I'm not sympathetic,
And I'm willing to bet that you'll live to regret it.
This meeting is over, and I hope that you're pleased
With the way that you've treated your neighbours the trees."
Ah, the trees? What of the trees?
What were their deeds when the news reached their leaves?
Well?
The Pine started pining, Silver Birches stopped shining,
The Sycamore felt sick, all The Holly did prickle,
The Hazel went nuts, The Elm tree went Dutch,
The Ash turned to ashes, The Birch gave out lashes,
The Larch lurched, The Spruce was besmirched,
All fruit trees were fruitless, all saplings were shootless.
The great old Oak it's council it kept,
While the Beech ran dry, and the Willow wept.
But nought could be done, the Creator had spoken,
And the link from the trees to their souls was broken.
They still lived on, it seemed little had changed,
But the trees had turned soulless and lifeless and strange.
Their roots were like bones interred in the ground,
Their trunks lifeless trumpets that uttered no sound,
Their branches clawed upwards like the hands of the dying,
The wind through their leaves sounded like they were crying.
All copses and spinneys, forests and woods
Felt colder and darker and worse than they should.
Time passed. But not for long,
And before barely two lunar cycles had gone
A request had been made begging, entreating
The great Creator to call one more meeting.
He obliged quite happily,
Dressed rather snappily,
And on arriving saw the others all there,
So he paused for effect before taking the chair.
"Well, well, well," he said, "this takes some beating.
You all seemed so pleased at the end of last meeting.
But Salmon, Owl, Ladybird, Man, Alligator,
How odd you've come back barely sixty days later.
"Could it be that you maybe have something to say
'Bout the fateful decision you all made that day?
If something is bugging you, enlighten me, please.
Is all not quite right with our new soulless trees?"
Then one by one they all had a go,
And each told a tale of sorrow and woe.
The owl said "Our nests
On which all us birds rest
Have become at best
A source of distress.
The twigs that they're made from,
The branches they're laid on,
The trees our chicks played in
Have, since we've betrayed them
Forgotten to cherish, to nurture, to love.
So all of my kind, from the hawks to the doves,
The black birds and red breasts implore you above
To give back to the trees what they truly deserve."
The Ladybird was next
Want our last wishes checked
With immediate effect.
The beetles, woodlice, millipedes and more
All take their meals from dead wood on the floor.
What once was a pleasure is now but a chore
As the wood tastes like ashes and sticks in their craw."
The Salmon said rivers and streams had been choked
By branches and roots from elm, ash and oak.
Even the Alligator said the reptiles
Had found the trees cold, aggressive and hostile.
And finally man took his turn to speak
And painted a picture both eerie and bleak.
"Our lives are now cold because fire won't be lit.
Our wooden possessions are twisted and split.
Our houses are empty for the beams seem to glower.
The fruit in our mouths tastes bitter and sour.
We stumble and trip over roots as we travel.
Our wicker and wattle keeps coming unravelled.
I'm prepared to admit that we now rue the day
When we foolishly sent the trees souls on their way."
The Creator paused and stifled a smile.
This was the most fun he'd had in a while.
"I'd give the trees' souls back, but there's only one thing:
The very same problem that made us begin.
If I granted your wish we'd still have to redress
The shortage of souls. And we can't. Unless?
"Listen up creatures, here's the deal!
That rule about trees and their souls I'll repeal.
But if anyone EVER hurts a tree for no reason,
From this day on that crime will be treason.
There'll be no pardon, appeal or parole,
The sentence will be that you forfeit your soul!"
All there agreed, and that agreement still lingers.
(Though rumour has it that Man crossed his fingers.)
And the trees? What of the trees?
Were they relieved when they got their reprieve?
Well? The balsa did a salsa, the fig did a jig,
And joy unconfined burst from every twig!
All stories have morals and this one has three
All stories have morals. Please listen to these:
Don't mess with the trees,
Don't mess with the trees,
Don't mess with the trees.
© David Reakes
