A lyrical poem about King Midas,how everything he touched turned to gold,and how he learned not to be greedy.


This is the tale of an ancient king
   Who loved all thing that pleasure brings
Who as a babe asleep in bed
     A trail of ants marched to his lips and fed
The young prince as he lay asleep
   With the choicest grains of wheat


Midas grew and gathered wealth
    With which he might enjoy himself
But aside from wealth, his fingers were green
    To he loved to prune and **** and clean -his garden,
every sort of rose
    He planted there and he watched them grow.


One day the old satyr- Silenus
   The teacher and friend of young Dionysus
Had straggled, drunken, from the crowd
    And staggering lost and singing aloud
he slept  off the wine in Midas’ Garden
    And  better pray that Midas gives him Pardon


Silenus woke and by guard was brought    Before Midas in the palace court
"What brings you here?" asked the King,
     I would like to know
‘Did you harm any of my roses.?’
     You didn’t !? Then Silenus. Take your pleasure
And dine and drink to double measure !

So Silenus,the lucky, old fun loving Satyr
    Grew steadily more drunk and fatter
All merrily the old soul chaffed
       King Midas who with him laughed
And when both had ate and drank their sate
    Silenus did this tale relate:

And he told a story to the king
    Of lands where he said he'd  been travelling
perhaps yarns spun from his dreams ?!
   of lands beyond the oceans stream
-peopled by folk of long life and health
    with very vast amounts of wealth !!  :)

Now Midas listened good and well
   To all Silenus had to tell
And when the story
   Came to end
He said: " please do point the way, my friend "
   For though Midas had more wealth than he would ever need
He was overcome by greed




So he sent ships and many men
   To sail the hyperborean
With eager, brave intent to find
   A land that perhaps  existed only in Silenus’ mind
And since no such place was found by Midas’ men
   They turned his ships
And sailed home again

Silenus loved to loaf around
   All day about the palace grounds
He grew indolent he was so lazy
    He  ate and drank all he could see
He thought” This is the life, great  stuff !
    But by now the king  had had enough !!


By this time  the lord Dionysus
   Was much concerned for his lost friend Silenus
Though not far  need he search or  roam
   For King Midas sent the old man home
And most pleased was the young god-boy
    For Silenus was his favourite friend and joy

So Dionysus conveyed  his gratitude to the king
    Does Lord Midas require anything ?
For the Lord Dionysus will grant
    Anything the king may want
And so the messenger was told
   May all that Midas touch be turned to gold




And all that Midas touched upon
Turned to gold and brightly shone
Midas’ table and his throne
   And all the contents of his home
And soon he had turned everyone
   To gold
Even his wife and sons

All this wealth it brought no good
   For Midas could not drink nor eat his food
Not a morsel could be ate
   But all turned to gold upon his plate
Golden fruits and golden meat
   Golden wine and golden wheat


And so the days they did pass by
    And a very hungered king did cry
That he did not want
    No he could not stand
His golden stores of treasure grand
    for he was hungry,thirsty, weak and dry
And not a morsel could that treasure buy

The poor king Midas he did sigh
   If he did not eat he soon would die
Alone he blubbered in despair
   He cursed himself and tore his hair
He could not stand it any more
   So he crawled half dead to Dionysus's  door

So thirsty, famished, very thin
   Midas begged Dionysus to release him
From the blessing that had become his curse
    For what fate could be any worse
Midas begged, he cried implored
   That life be restored
As it were before


The god he drank
   Deeply carousing
He found the matter quire amusing
    But although he laughed at Midas suffering
He had some compassion for the king
    He said “ I hope you have learned your lesson well
The king  listened to what he had to tell

At the source of the river Pactolus
   Near the mount of Tmolus
There you may drink and wash yourself
    And be restored to natural health
And all your golden treasures stored
    Shall all become as they were before

So Midas journeyed west to seek
   The water spring near the mountains peak
His thirst was as a burning flame
   But travelling onward soon he came
Upon the mountain
   When he saw it’s water
He broke down and cried with tears and laughter

They say that Midas was so relieved
    That never again did he ever greed
He learned that his greatest treasure was his life
   His good health, his sons and wife

The sands of the river Pactolus some say -  Are golden to this very day

a lyrical poem about King Midas, and how everything he touched turned to Gold and how he learned not to be greedy.

This is the tale of an ancient king
Who loved all thing that pleasure brings
Who as a babe at sleep in bed
A trail of ants marched to his lips and fed
The young prince as he lay asleep
With the choicest grains of wheat


Midas grew and gathered wealth
With which he might enjoy himself
But more than wealth, his fingers were green
To he loved to prune and **** and clean
His garden, every sort of rose
He planted there and watched them grow


One day the old satyr Silenus
The teacher and friend of young Dionysus
Had straggled, drunken, from the crowd
And staggering lost and singing aloud
Then he sleepy off the wine in Midas’ Garden
(he better pray that Midas gives him Pardon)


Silenus woke and by guard was brought
Before Midas in the palace court
What brings you here, I would like to know
‘Did you harm any of my roses.?’
You didn’t !?
Silenus. Take your pleasure
And dine and drink to double measure


So Silenus,the old fun loving Satyr
Grew steadily more drunk and fatter
All merrily the old soul chaffed
King Midas who with him laughed
And when both had ate and drank their sate
Silenus did this tale relate

And he told a story to the king
Of lands where he’d been wandering
(perhaps yarns spun from his dreams)
of lands beyond the oceans stream
peopled by folk of long life and health
with very vast amounts of wealth

Now Midas listened good and well
To all silenus had to tell
And wehen the story
Came to end
He said please do point the way my friend
For though Midas had more wealth than he would ever
Need
He was overcome by greed


So he sent ships and many men
To sail the hyperborean
With eager brave intent to find
A land that existed only in Silenus’ mind
And since no such place was found by Midas’ men
They turned the fleet
And sailed home again



Silenus loved to loaf around
All day about the palace grounds
He grew indolent and quite lazy
And ate and drank all he could see
He thought” This is the life,
Good stuff !
But by now the king had had enough


By now the lord Dionysus
Was much concerned for his lost friend Silenus
Thjough not far need he search or roam
For Midas sent the old man home
And most pleased was the young god-boy
For Silenus was his favourite friend and joy



SoDionysus sent his gratitude to the king
Does Lord Midas require anything
For the Lord Dionysus will grant
Anything the king may want
And so the messenger was told
May all that Midas touch be turned to gold


And all that Midas touched upon
Turned to gold and brightly shone
Midas’table and his throne
And all the contents of his home
And soon he had turned everyone
To gold
Even his wife and sons


All this wealth it brought no good
For Midas could not drink nor eat his food
Not a morsel could be ate
But all turned to gold upon his plate
Golden fruits and golden meat
Golden wine and golden wheat


And so the days they did pass by
And a very hungered king did cry
That he did not want
No he could not stand
His golden stores of treasure grand
for he was hungry,thirsty, weak and dry
And not a morsel could that treasure buy


The poor king Midas he did sigh
If he did not eat he soon would die
Alone he blubberd in despair
He cursed himself and tore his hair
He could not stand it any more
So he crawled half dead to Dionysus door


So thirsty, famished, very thin
Midas begged Dionysus to release him
From the blessing that had become his curse
For what fate could be any worse
Midas begged, he cried implored
That life be restored
As it were before


The god he drank
Deeply perusing
He found the matter quire amusing
But although he laughed at Midas suffering
He had some compassion for the king
He said “ I hope you have learned your lesson well
Midas listened to what he had to tell


At the source of the river Pactolus
Near the mount of Tmolus
Ther you may drink and wash yourself
And be restored to natural health
And all your golden treasures stored
Shall all become as they were before


So Midas journeyed west to seek
The water spring near the mountains peak
His thirst was as a burning flame
But travelling onward soon he came
Upon the mountain
When he saw it’s water
He broke down and cried with tears and laughter


They asy that Midas was so relieved
That never again did he ever greed
He learned that his greatest treasure was his life
His health, his sons and wife

The sands of the river’Pactolus” some say
Are golden to this very day

The man in the raincoat tuts and mutters
stares at he puddles that form in the street
that splash up upon his cold angry feet
from the gathering streams that flow in the gutters

Tomorrow s a time like far away
and memory a knife like ice
and hope a sun to sink again
when London winter clips the skin

He turns again the pavement then
spins up glaring like a grimace
and thinking of some fonder place
he ascends the creaking stairs to the kitchen

Water boiled for tea and heat
he hates the furniture and tends
to wait for some fair-weather friend
the window rataplans with wind and wet.

Murdering a cigarette
in the saucer filled with ends
They say that God is always good
so howcome  it rain on weekends ?

Copyright London 1990

The bus driver is only doing his job-



he says i am out of my zone



come on mate- take a look at the rain-



i just want to get home



never mind- its not too far to walk



as this sudden shower comes steaming down



London Bus lookin all shiny red new in the rain.



so i take cover and hudde on the pavement



and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt



,washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-



search and return to the gushing thames



in drab doorway i see pregnant mother



with dripped make-up and cigarette-



a bloke runs past into the Tote-



theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol



The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-



pumpin out da reggae sound all round



an chillin there inside snug



an outside da rain drippin down.



headless wooden mannequins in windows



indifferent and dead to the scene



model outdated displays



of yesteryears east end Fashion



The screech -grind -halt-



of braking trucks and cars



taxis and buses



and halt heave hum, go off and on



phrases like jazz



emitted from the traffic hissing



on the wet steam road



passing the plain low gates



and walls of modest eastend brick



Little pockets of Istanbul-



vending exotic skewered tastes



empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-



sickly sweet old vegetable odours



curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes



- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,



Karla, Kassava and Jamaican mangoes



Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple p'taters



an mumble she grumble onward, homeward



past the asian butcher selling cows feet



fifty nine pence for two



sad looking cadavers of chickens



comically -hung by their feet



boney alien headless n sad



and blood spurted and smeared



and dried on a cardboard box-



so rich an odour of spice and death-



what words to use



yams and hams and potted jams



shelves stacked with imported cans



grinding horror of the butchers blade



splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box.



brown Black plantain bananas-



fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-



kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-



Illegible torn bills and posters on posts



walls and naked wooden doors



of cracked paint peeling in the rain



Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins



scattered uprooted far travelled communities



stirred in the stew of this eclectic london Crucible



shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-



an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing



twins to the child support centre-



wishin she'd married a bloke with money



north africans in bright kaftans



saunter surreally in the full cool, attitude of summer



somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters



seem more misplaced in this scene-



people with gaunt girocheque expressions



huddled in Pub over pints



awaiting the Worlds End



To my left number plates while you wait



keys cut school of motoring special rates



then a right into finsbury station out f te rain



and the scene fades.

The bus driver is only doing his job-
he says i am out of my zone
come on mate- take a look at the rain-
i just want to get home

never mind- its not too far to walk
as this sudden shower comes steaming down
London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain.
so i take cover and hudde on the pavement
and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt
, washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-
search and return gushing to the Thames

in drab doorway i see pregnant mother
with dripped make-up and cigarette-
a bloke runs past into the Tote-
theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol

The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-
pumpin out da reggae sound all round
an chillin' der inside an'snug
an outside da rain drippin down.

headless wooden mannequins in windows
indifferent and dead to the scene
model outdated displays
of yesteryears east end Fashion

The screech -grind -halt-
of braking trucks and cars
taxis and buses
and halt heave hum, go off and on

phrases like jazz
emitted from the traffic hissing
on the wet steam road
passing the plain low gates
and walls of modest east-end brick

Little pockets of Istanbul
vending exotic skewered tastes
empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-

sickly sweet old vegetable odours
curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes
- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,
karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes

Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters
an mumble she grumble onward, homeward
past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet
fifty nine pence for two

sad looking cadavers of chickens
comically -hung by their feet
boney, alien headless n sad
and blood spurted and smeared
and dried on broken ****** cardboard box-

so rich an odour of spice and death-
what words to use?
yams and hams and potted jams
shelves stacked with imported cans
grinding horror of the butchers blade
splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box

brown black plantain bananas-
fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-
kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-

Illegible torn bills and posters on posts
walls and naked wooden doors
of cracked paint peeling in the rain

Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins
scattered uprooted far-travelled communities
stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible
shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-

an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing
twins in double pram and wishing-
she had married a bloke with money

Africans in bright kaftans
Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer
somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters
seem more misplaced in this scene-

people with gaunt girocheque expressions
huddled in Pub over pints
awaiting the Worlds End
To my left number plates while you wait
keys cut school of motoring, special rates
then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain
and the scene fades.

Mark Hurlin Shelton   London 1987.

Hammersmith on Thames at Low Tide

This sparkling beach of river silt, quiet and white
the barge boats languidly tilted to rest
a rustic wind that tastes of brine the gannets nag a rebellowing cry
these spoilt natured birds hungrily hover and comb the low tide Thames

Bleached jetsam, driftwood, cork, plastic detergent bottles
frayed rope, flotsam, rusted chain, emerald-green glass
broken smoothed with time treated, caked in silted London clay
chipped ceramic, porcelain, frayed nylon twine
and rusted green copper hinges here are ideas of Caesars coins
elusive treasures, lost goblets- teasing thoughts of Londinium...
Roman Gallipots and galleys sunk deep in layers asleep beneath the river bed
an old and rusted barge an exo-skeleton grown over with watery weeds
scattered with rags and oil cans discarded rusted tools damp straw and flies

The Great Thames, smelly mother
indifferent to Empires Great artery, mighty sewer
of the city washing away the cities sins
assuming with neglect and time our spoilt oily natures
in a rising of breath and a sighing of fall
singing the metres and moods of history.

Mark Hurlin Shelton

Once I went upon a time
On tender foot down a far fled lane
A tangled haunt of yesterdays astray

Long was my hunt for a fondness or
A certain door.a value or an anchor
For a ship to sail me to myself

To the awesome abyss of the self
I fell,my moods of poison pulled
I felt the falling stars they screamed

How then I howled in the nihilate night
Too sullied to soothe my lonesome ghost
My bitten bones for hollow time

My heart a blackhole house of cards
Slipped sigh of shames, a hungered hades
A burnt out history bile and ***** had fumed

But I was too young to be that old
I must find my joy ,with fondness fly
Seek the rainbow honour life

I had been blind to the haven of hearts
On the tonguetips of touch my blessings stood
And much more than warm with will and giving

Stirred the memory of his music in me
Forgiveness cried his humble name
Peace trembled trough me stars sang life

Love shone through the ice of my armourshell
New birth for my blunt and brittle box
That breathed in a dreamless ditch of ‘ then’

And then that cherub child that longed
Loomed large so large in the life of me
Did make me doubt the shackle and the stab

Though thorny chain of void has led me here
A sprig of springtime mine
Has bathed my heart in his balmy sea

Through waves of golden nectar now
I hum with the hymns of his creativity
He sings oh poet be like a child

Be meek and kind and come to me

Composed on a walk between Hampstead Highgate (not too far from John Keat's house) late 1980's

It has been a day for wandering
beneath this sky of early spring
among these trees to freely breathe in an Eden Green
i can scarce believe the beauty of this scene
-the sunlight shines in through the trees
like bright gold blazing from my dreams
and sparkles just so that it seems
the sunbeams tiptoe on the breeze

In this my magic afternoon
of rambles over sleepy heath
I am bathed In cool tranquility
for here the world breathes out a breath
that stirs the child that weeps in me
and calls him to be free

Somehow it as occurred to me
that I will never quite completely be
at peace in the world of peoples schemes
but there is something in this scene
-that is in the soul and stuff of me
and this is the spring of my poetry

so cut me open when I die
inside me you will find the sky
and in my heart the mellow sun
and behind my eyes - the makers mystery.

Mark Hurlin Shelton

If you should ever set a sail
o'er the Irish sea
then perchance you'll hear a tale
from old mythology

and its told in local drinking holes
down valleys and up highs
and its always told with a pint of ale
and a twinkle in the eye

There was a man, who poor, forlorn
had heard this tale of old
its said "whereever there are leprechauns or rainbows
nearby's a *** of gold
and as the man could ill afford
to keep himself in whiskey or in beer
indeed the news, removed his blues
and filled him with good cheer

he went off hunting rainbows
near where the little people dwell
for only leprechauns can know
where gold is hid and they will never tell
for they guard their treasure very well

One day the man he saw a rainbow
which he followed to its end
and there he found a little pub
where leprechauns and friends
sat drinking with good cheer
from little pots of golden beer

The leprechaun proprietor
observed the man with solemn eye
he asked "what will be your pleasure?"
and the man gave out a sigh
he said ;"I have come about a *** of gold
or something of that sort
I have heard it told from legends old
that theres gold that cant be bought

Then the proprietor replied in gaelic
and all he said was "pog ma thoin"
whilst taking from his pocket
a single shiny golden coin.

"Pog Ma Thoin? The poor man asked
what does it mean, oh please explain
For I have searched so very far
for rainbows through the rain

Sir, would you like this golden coin?
you have truly found the rainbows end
yet the only pots of Gold round here
are filled with beer, my friend

But if you would like this coin of gold
said the proprietor as he raised his glass
then Pog ma Thoin for a golden coin
come over here and kiss my ****.

Once I went upon a time

On tender foot down a far fled lane

A tangled haunt of yesterdays astray


Long was my hunt for a fondness or

A certain door

A value or an anchor

For a ship to sail me to myself


To the awesome abyss of the self

I fell,my moods of poison pulled

I felt the falling stars they screamed


How then I howled in the nihilate night

Too sullied to soothe my lonesome ghost

My bitten bones for hollow time




My heart a black-hole house of cards

Slipped sigh of shames, a hungered Hades

A burnt out history bile and ***** had fumed


But I was too young to be that old

I must find my joy and hold it fond

to Hunt the rainbow -Honour life



but I had been blind to the haven of hearts

On the tongue-tips of touch my blessings stood

And much more than warm with will and giving



Stirred the memory of his music in me

Forgiveness !! - Cried his humble name

Peace trembled through me, stars sang life



His Love shone through the ice of my armour-shell

New birth for my blunt and brittle box

That breathed in a dreamless ditch of ‘ then’



And then that cherub child that longed

Loomed large so large in the life of me

Did make me doubt the shackle and the stab



Though thorny chain of void has led me here

A sprig of springtime mine

Has bathed my heart in his balmy sea



Through waves of golden nectar now

I hum with the hymns of his creativity

He sings oh poet be like a child


Be Meek and kind and come to me

Lament

For all the brain i never use

the muscles that i seldom flex

bad habits that i need to lose

the fulfilment not quite found in ***



all the hurts , we should not keep score

a life, so much i had left for dead

the abandoned child in my shivering core

and all my sadness left unsaid



what asks the sorry soul but why

why me oh why this tiresome toil

to the horizon gaze and sigh

then plod ones way across the soil



for all the world that was not mine

for all the chances past me slipped

the place was right but not the time

many a miss between cup and lip




for all the doors i did not knock

the flowers only God will smell

the passing seconds on the clock

will never wait us after all



for lands my shoes may never walk

the blue expanse i cannot fly

an earthbound angel makes small talk

while he contemplates the  sky


all the plans that went astray

the friends that flew and never waited

for every dream that could not stay

but left me feeling so frustrated.

The Flying Fish.
by Mark Hurlin-Shelton



It was late in the night
and the ships crew snored
When a rather strange creature landed aboard
I thought it
the most extraordinary thing
For there lay before me
a fish with wings
Well here is a question
for wise men to solve
However did such
a strange creature evolve
A creature that isn't contented to be
Like all of the others
that swim in the sea
I wonder when was it
that the first fish tried
to grow little wings
and to swim in the sky
What do you think
don't you think it absurd?
A fish with a wish to be a bird.

Mark Hurlin Shelton

Run Rhino Run
Let your thundering stomp
reverberate among the mountains
Echoing your heartbeat
like an angry African drum

Run, run far from the plunder
Or perish and be torn asunder
Run-run,
far from the stone hearted men with their rifles and guns.
Run. Run, runaway, run-away far,
Across the Savannah,
beyond the furthest peaks and crags
Beyond the far-flung
valleys and the hills

Far from the stench of money
Away from human sins and ills
They daily come to plague you,
ache you, hunt you, haunt you,
taunt you, daunt you,
Run Run away, surely you want to



Far far, run from those whose deeply frozen hearts
Measure your value only in your body parts,
And in their gain
subsisting in your pain,
They know not that they
sell themselves,
their souls are sold,
Only For your horn. more prized than gold.

Run, Rhino Run! !
Flee far away,
Run far beyond the furthest hills.
There are greener fields in which to play,
Run to where no human greed, can ever leave you so
to die alone
And slowly bleed,

Run to where your calf can roam,
Far from any human home
Run to where humanUNkind
Is the furthest from your mind.

Run run far, fly, flee, far
From this world,

Run, far away, far from these greedy men,

Fly to the stars, to the immortal realm from whence
Your timeless spirit came,
And never-ever look back again

Mark Hurlin Shelton       Lake Malawi 2013.

No stain no smudge no worldly wrong
Can silence the sweet sound of children's song
No Power of money No chains of might
Can hinder our journey into the light

What rulers power or Tyrants reproof
Can silence the voice that sings the Truth

For love is my Lord and light is my king
Eternal the one whose praise i sing
By whose authority and power
You cannot impede the growth of this flower

For that which is stained
This will remain Pure
And this  is the Spirit that will endure

Written during cold lonely Night in Hammersmith, London about 1988



In the shadows under streetlights


I hear footsteps behind me


I turn into the cold stone night


Who follows me?


The hovering moon glows dimly


And the world is the way I found it



Phantoms crawl the asphalt


This nagging night it hounds me


Who am I


What sort poems should I write


The canoe moon sails behind me


And the world is just the way it is


I want to see the stars


This clouded evening folds me


streets grin about me empty


The world is the way I found it



Here is my house


Key in the lock


I open the door


The clock ticks in the hall


Everything is the way it is


Where it fell


The way I left it



Dripping tap


Purring cat


Kitchen night


On my lap


I stroke and pat


The cat


tonight

Again i hear the word in my heart
falling like generous drops of peace
flowing through my grateful core
like honey glow of melted butter-mellow rays
dancing on warm yellow flowers
bursting through your benelovent visage
meandering, easing me comforting and wrapping me
in the eternal smile
of your springtime
and singing through the twinkling firmament
endless songs of praise.