Christopher Hanson

The Dreaming

All Dreaming ended. Secret, countless years
of life behind the ocean’s glassy veil
were over in a blink. We had no fears —
it seemed a stupid, clumsy kind of jail,
near-starving, cowering beneath the cat’,
impermanent and thin. They showed us tricks,
and gave us rum; their muskets barked and spat.
Disease and dull democracy would fix
the savage heart. Our silence was erased
by guns and chainsaws, bleating sheep and cars;
our Gods, as strong as Zeus, were soon replaced
by pallid, hanging effigies. Some scars
might never heal — small wonder that we scream
for solitude, and one more chance to dream.

Pantomime

They mixed their tales and came up with a hit:
The king is mad, the princess is obese,
the royal dog can not be taught to sit
and football eggs erupt from awkward geese.

A gentle, vegetarian wolf is friends
with all three little pigs; the wizard’s brew
is overproof, and thus, the tale transcends
all reason. Yet you cheer the prince and boo
the evil giant, and groan through every pun
delivered by the brave “Sir Laughs-a-lot”.

You join in with the final, happy song
and clap through tears at simple, brilliant fun.
You finally rise, and mingle with the throng,
then drive home while your child explains the plot.