By Julia DeHoff
all rights reserved.
all rights reserved.
4/7/2013
Hans the Dreamer
Once upon a time in a land not far away,
there lived a king, quite cliché,
who sat on a pile of gold all day,
and watched his peoples' health decay.
King Corporation dictated exactly,
what families would eat and incorrectly,
told them what their food was made of,
and crushed their desire to be creative.
"Don't cook food, when you can buy it,
processed, packaged, you should try it!
Think of how much time you'll save,
just pop it in the microwave!
Mmmm!— the smell of melted plastic,
will make your children feel fantastic.
Pile it high up on their plates,
and watch their spirits elevate!"
Mothers and fathers of this town,
stacked their platters and then wolfed down,
buckets of this miraculous feast.
Never again would they slaughter a beast.
Never again would they grow their own food,
what for?— microwavable mystery was just too good.
"Who cares where it comes from?" they did state,
and continued to shovel down plate after plate.
But this led them to a tragic fate,
for soon they had gained quite some weight,
and could hardly fit into their pants,
they lost all desire to go out and dance,
and soon required liver transplants.
But in this town, there lived a boy,
Hans, by name, who's only toy,
was a garden spade and pack of seeds,
while all the other kids had flatscreen TVs.
They played in popcorn bouncy-houses,
wore chocolate-scented shirts and blouses,
and slide down slides of drumstick chicken.
But their pudgy little faces continued to thicken,
so Hans was not the least bit jealous,
and tended to the string-beans growing on his trellis.
He nurtured and watered them day after day,
and whistled a tune to a nearby blue-jay.
The last of its kind, as the rest had disappeared,
into the King's lab where they'd be genetically engineered.
Hans cherished his eggplants, his basil and beans,
his radishes, apples and his collard greens.
Rows of lettuces smiled up from the soil,
he tossed them into salads with a bit of olive oil.
But Hans could only plow secretly,
for his garden was symbol of pure anarchy,
a threat to the king and his evil reign...
No, his vegetable patch would a secret remain.
Unless somehow, he could spark the interest
of those who found themselves unable to digest,
the toxic meals which the king did insist
were the choicest meals on which to subsist.
Perhaps then, could Hans expand his vision,
and break the chains of this gastronomic prison.
He could open his garden gates at last,
welcome in neighbors to walk on his grass
and learn how sprout a mere little seed,
and watch it grow into a flowering fruit tree.
Oh the joy it would give him, his hand to extend,
and pass his knowledge from friend to friend,
holding hands in a circle around,
the newest little shoots popping out of the ground,
around the roots and the tubers, the leaves and the fruits,
their feet in mud-caked wellington boots.
To play apple-baseball and juggle with plums,
to dance to the beat of some pumpkin drums,
under the light of the stars up above,
in a land, where money was replaced by love.
* * *
One day, a girl chanced upon his house,
tiptoed to the garden-gate, quietly as a mouse.
she gaped at it, as if she'd found ancient Rome,
and proceeded to Facebook-message her buddy Jerome.
Days went by, but soon enough,
the children who'd gobbled down marshmallow fluff,
surrounded his home in curiosity,
wondered what to make of this monstrosity.
After a week, Hans could no longer see
the forest, for it was blocked by a sea,
of thousands who gathered by his gate to inquire,
whether he might enlighten them, or at least inspire
them to ask of the nature of his dwelling,
for all that they knew, was of the King's telling–
which had caused the people—so you could say—
to completely throw their lives away.
Tossed to the hands of their mighty King,
who honestly could care less about their wellbeing.
Hans straightened his back from the field which he sowed,
and over to a mossy tree stump he strode.
He wiped his brown and adjusted his hat,
and beckoned the people to his Welcome-mat,
to sit in the grass with their blankets widespread.
Then Hans took a long, deep breath and said,
"Amidst this stormy, political weather,
now is the time to come together.
The King has extinguished our creative flame,
please hear me out while I make my claim.
He wants only money, has riches galore,
while you eat yourselves sick from the food from his store,
and then spend your days working till your heart is sore,
and your children have no desire to explore,
anything other than their electric screens,
while scientists manipulate everyone's genes.
You're under his power, don't you see it?
You are not free, you are a mere puppet.
Let me remind you of a different time,
when there was art instead of crime,
when music was played on real instruments,
vitamins came from fruit, not from synthetic supplements.
Hear me now, those of you who once loved to cook,
who once had visions, and wrote real books,
we need to come together and each play our part,
in restoring the earth. Now we must start!
Come singers, come painters, come gardeners and poets,
let's care for each other and not for the profits.
Let's shape the world for us, you see,
for the billions out there, for you and for me,
for the rats in the test tubes and the poisoned streams,
for a healthier world. Those are my dreams."
With that, Hans left his podium-stump,
and brushed off the dirt of his hands on his rump.
Silence fell in the crowd for a minute,
then soon an uproar and the sounding of a trumpet,
"Down with the King and up with our hearts,
let's rebuild this world and support the arts.
Let's clean the soil and our conscience with it,
let's teach our children the right way to live it."
The people, united, marched up to the palace,
and conquered the King and his crown full of malice.
Gardens arose where factories had been,
healthy was the land and everyone's skin.
The sun shone sweetly, and fresh rain fell,
one could hear the distant ringing of Betsy's cowbell.
Everyone, even the rats, scurrying up on the rafters,
lived in healthy harmony, forever thereafter.
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