King Midas and The Golden Touch
A wish was granted to a king
King Midas I am told.
He wished that everything he touched
Would turn to solid gold.
But soon he found he couldn’t eat,
He couldn’t drink nor sleep -
His pantaloons had turned to gold,
His horses and a sheep.
And so he prayed his wish be gone
Admitting to his greed,
He had to jump into a lake
In order to be freed.
And as he jumped into that lake
The bottom turned to gold -
That gold was gathered by a king
King Croesus I am told.
The migratory mind indomitable,
the spirited surfer on surging waves of life,
creates the curled crests of fractured moon,
and the dark troughs of sinking fallen stars.
The swell recedes with the ebb of time,
seeking the secluded depth of the past.
The shifting sands etch the seaward footprints,
contoured as the corroding design of decay.
The time arrow finds the destined course,
seeks the serene topography beyond the shore,
away from the eroded wilderness abandoned,
where emptiness engulfs the hues of hope.
In the weed-webbed terrain deep within,
piles up the wreckage of life unlived,
turns the flushing garden to template of wasteland.
The pathway paved outside its frail fence,
waits to be walked fascinated,
reach the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow.
The innovative memory then invents
the arcane acumen of alchemy,
glitters gold in the rusted existential ruins.
Marigold blooms in the aureate junkyard
on the scrap stack of the bleak being,
with the touch of the Midas mind.
Midas Well is the final destination
Of pilgrims who are slave to their thirst.
It’s also known as a criminals’ oasis,
A palm tree-shaded den of the cursed.
Midas Well tempts the lazy and the foolish,
With hazy gas-lit visions of wealth.
Gleaming buckets full of wishing coins,
For little but the hazard to one’s health.
Once you’ve made the Devil’s compromise,
Apologies won’t un-ring that bell.
In the end, you’re just the victim of your choice.
Your fate is sealed once you get to Midas Well.
I didn't borrow it, it's apart of me
Like the rainbow fleece
Like a trophy waiting for me
Like the breath I breathe and need
But it leaves
Flowing like my tears, a river doesn't have enough water to see
I have the Midas Touch
I turn poems into paintings
That shine like the sun because diamonds have too much shade
The pressure is not from fear of messing up but fear that happily ever after may not come
I have the Midas Touch
p.s. but I can't seem to put my finger on the right relationship...
Being bigger, better, faster, stronger
These modern times, a far cry from
Being saner, kinder, gentler, wiser,
Are a cancerous race to satisfy the insatiable.
With our advance into abundance
We have lost touch
With the old world
Of tradition, balance, moderation, restraint.
Instead we now have all that we dream,
Each of us a Midas
Able to grasp
If not ever hold.
Able to spoil and pervert
All that we touch, taste, and feel
The everyday and mundane
With the rare and exceptional.
Now we each deserve it all
To have our cake and eat it too
With all the lust and greed, envy and resentment
That comes with limitless expectation.
No longer tempered in desire
By limits
Self or other imposed
We grasp for the highest fruit.
Confident as in a dream
We will fly
When we lose our grip
And fall.
(11/23/23)
Love’s melody has Midas touch
Love says it all and means so much
Love is leaving the world behind
Love generates one’s peace of mind.
Loving someone above all else
That's the real meaning of wealth
Love’s truly what happiness is
Pure contentment and joyful bliss.
Love’s the key that opens one’s heart
Together always from the start
Bountiful blessings come what may
A gift that’s opened every day.
Love raises and gladdens the soul
Love makes your world special and whole
The seed that brings doting displays
And fragrance to auspicious days.
Love is what keeps the flame alight
Boosts the day and enchants the night
Love with all your dynamic knack
Love will come boomeranging back.
Tho' life has many swerves and turns
Love's candle consistently burns
Love gives a reason for living
Love means trusting and forgiving.
Love's a song as precious as gold
A melody one’s heart doth hold.
The mobile mind of the indomitable mariner,
the resolute sailor floating on the waves of life,
rolling on the curled crests with splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of drowned stars,
spread to oblivion breaking on the shore of past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of decay.
Time arrow points to terrain beyond the shore,
away from the abraded wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm consumes the collapsed hopes.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the washed out wreckage of life unlived.
The withering garden garners metallic bleakness,
as the path paved outside the familiarity fence,
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the mesmeric meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemy aptitude of mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the scrap heap of abiding hope
in the Midas touched junkyard of the metallic mind.
_________________
February 19, 2023
For Brian Strand's Your Choice Again Contest
the alchemist
turned sand into gold
an irreversible transmutation
the beach has disappeared
he now carries the cross
alone and despondent
07-February-2023
He felt so cocksure
his Midas Touch was proctor.
Vegas pulled him down.
Now his Midas touch is brown.
His failure was a shocker.
NB: Inspired by, but not entered in, Edward Ibeh’s This of That, Vol 15 Contest
Some called him Bacchus, some Dionysus:
god of the grape-harvest, winemaking, fruit.
Giver of joy, dispenser of sorrow,
famous for orgies, bacchantes recruits…
Enter King Midas, ruler of Phrygia
encountered a peasant, drunk on much wine.
Fed, entertained him, showed much hospitality;
Bacchus’ old mentor, returned in due time.
Bacchus, in gratitude, granted a wish;
everything Midas touched turned into gold.
Overjoyed, set about transforming all he saw;
gift became curse with his food hard and cold.
Some say the king went back to Dionysus,
pleaded the effects of the spell be reversed.
Others say Midas succumbed to insanity,
wasting away as his hunger grew worse.
Wish not for changes to your circumstances;
perilous dangers await, unforeseen.
Your best intentions end up being flushed;
that’s what the Reverse Midas Touch truly means.
----------
for the This or That, Vol 15 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Edward Ibeh
written on 1/14/23
Everything glimmering was not gold, it was black onyx. A side effect from the bad luck curse called birth. A desperate touch evaporating the shiny and fresh finish of life. Hands absorbing the goodness replenishing it with shadow.
The smiles are welcoming but the terrified eyes warn. Beware. Run in those fields of stardust and dreams. Run and leap into the stars before the black hole of a soul unwillingly sucks that utopian plant barren. .
Hiding away in the darkest corners feels futile as the light always breaks through. The sunshine seeps through on a mission for self destruction. There is no clash of thunder or spark of lightning; it simply disappears in the presence of the darkness.
The midnight knows the noon deserves better than its emptiness. Yet it cries and yearns for the warmth of the day. It knew the heat of the day once but warmth was chilled to ice.
Black onyx apologies to gold as it slowly grows. Soon no light lives to show the shining beauty of either.
Oh how I love you, Darling.
Your beauty is too much
for me to behold!
But I am not a person
you can ever be with.
My body you may never hold.
Please come no closer.
Stay your distance, Dear.
Dare not to be bold.
I can trace your face,
but I can only wish your arms
around me could enfold.
Though I may kiss your lips,
you cannot kiss me back.
Resist the urge. Don’t fold.
You see, I am a Midas
but of a different type.
What touches ME turns gold.
This is my curse. Believe me.
Hold not my hand to solace give.
Your blood would then turn cold.
I suffer; how I suffer.
Untouched I must remain.
Alone I will grow old.
Jan. 2, 2023
For Edward Ibeh's This Or That, Vol 15 Poetry Contest
Such was his damnable gift
Being little more than a curse
Others he wanted to lift
His touch left them so much worse
His mind lacking all insight
Leaving so many disturbed
Utter wrong being his right
He blundered on unperturbed
Freedom his cry for Ukraine
That was the hope of Putin
All he delivered was pain
Just another Rasputin
Sadim touch, I must say. Is this upturn, yet, bad?
Didn't Midas' touch become, ultimately, sad...?
Not being greedy - is the moral of Midas,
Yet, isn't the Midas episode an eidos...?
What did the king not have, that he didn't decide,
When death meats, who, in this short life will take whose side?
To have health, wealth, and happiness is each one's dream,
Isn't riches in plethora, part of the scheme?
There's a time in each one's life when wants don't come true,
Midst good thoughts and actions, like yeast, frustrations brew...!
Expectations, like wild lilies, grow numerous;
When they fade, for others, our life turns humorous...!
Each touch must be a touch that turns hate into love,
And yearn, contrary to gold, the kingdom above...!!!
27 December 2022
Like Rip Van Winkle, she confronted a new world;
Hers was one of commonplace and acceptability,
not exceptional nor eager for excellence.
Remember when bacon packs were a pound,
and diesel was cheaper than gas? 16 ouch packs
are now replaced by 12 ouches with higher prices.
I understand inflation. Have you seen Common Sense lately?
Craftmanship and the Midas Touch are disappearing also. Perhaps you
will find them with a gallant search, but be enduring and patient; for it
could be a rare find. Like many things of quality and pricelessness, The
Midas Touch appears to be quietly exiting the stage. The curtains are closing.
Unfortunately, some things don't get to be made great again. She gave her
best as she sighed by day and wept late at night. She could not compromise
the essence of her soul. She wanted to stay, but could no longer compete.
Often outbid by style and mediocrity, she maintained her integrity.
122622PSCtest, Edward Ibeh.
Contest Name: This or That, Vol 15
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