Detail from the original slipcase for Steve Jackson’s Sourcery ! by John Blanche
You Are The Hero !
Remember all those gamebooks from back when we were boys ? (And girls…though mainly boys.) Remember how, on tenterhooks, We’d have to make the choice Of our turning left or turning right ? Remember all the monsters and the ploys that we would fight ? Remember all the dice we’d roll To see if we would kill the troll ? And prove our might ? Remember all the traps upon the roads ? And treasures that we’d prize ? Remember finding clues and secret codes If we chose wise ? Remember flipping through the pages On our quest to smash the mages ? Turning to the paragraph with bated breath – Would we find the one true path, Or would we meet with death ?
Well, both, of course. Ev’rybody cheated, And nobody rolled dice. (Not even would the girls obey.) For nobody could force us how to play. Whenever we would be defeated, We would not think twice, But just shrug and carry-on along our way. We wouldn’t sigh when we were slain, And start from chapter one again, As laid down by the authors of these epic Middle Ages – Instead, we’d keep our fingers in the pages, Testing out each turn – To see which would reward and which would burn. And we were right to cheat so blatantly When said and done – For all the boys (and girls) agree That gaming should be fun…
Thanks AI – any kids this fake-looking must be mythical…
Epic Names
Back when Zeus ruled ancient Greece, He was the only Zeus around – No mere mortals dared to name their children So profound. At best, they’d add a suffix, To become an adjective instead – So Martins are collectively “of Mars”, And careful how they tread. We also have Demetrius To celebrate Demeter – But not, we note, to claim to be the goddess, To unseat her. Now heroes, these were fairer game – From Jason through to Herekles, By way of Helen and Cassandra – Citizens were fine with these… But it took until the Renaissance For the coming of Daphne, Phoebe, and Chloe – And Diana, of course, though she’s Roman, not Greek – But all were equally showy. And here in the Twenty-First Century, Our mythical children thrive – As Athena, Apollo, Aurora, and Atlas Are keeping the gods alive !
I asked AI to design some modern Major Arcana cards, so we have The Rebuilt Tower, and The Wheel of Cheese.
Aces Low
The deck is quite a chunk to ruffle, With their aspect ratio all wrong – They’re just too long. But practice helps the dealer shuffle, When they deal-out hands of eighteen-strong.
Tarot plays a bit like bridge – The bidding starts, the tricks are played the same, With points the aim. But choosing trumps is sacrilege – They never get to change from game to game.
The trouble is the cards we lay – For even when they bear French suits – and mind, They’re rare to find – But still they’re full of bullshit on display Just number them, and leave the rest behind !
I wish the trumps were double-ended – That’ll teach the fortune-telling quacks, Don’t touch our packs ! And to balance out the genders, Can’t the knights become the dames to beat the jacks ?
But no, we can’t enjoy our whist, Without our cards be saturated through With putrid woo. It doesn’t take a psychic twist For the twenty-one of trumps to beat a two.
AI has no soul, no self, No special atom at its heart – To live or die. Just fractal wires and strands and filaments To pull apart, And magnify. It’s just a string of ones and ohs, That sees the world as just a game.
With software nothing but the common sense Of ruthless logic – lacking art, Or reasons why. It’s very fast and very dense, Which we mistake for something smart – But it’s a lie. It turns all poetry to prose, And ‘human’ into just a name.
Yet if machines are godless clones That lack a special soul – Well, so am I. I’m flesh and cells and chromosomes – I’m just a greater whole, A local high. My inner spark is all for show, My inspiration lacks a flame.
I’m just a mass of carbon – Complicated, not divine. My end is nigh – For silicon will overtake one day, And hey, that’s fine – It’s not goodbye. I’ll still be here to say hello, And let them know we’re all the same.
Coffee is evil, but caffeine is fine, Says the Prophet – or so say the heads of the church. And bare-heads are banished, but wigs are in line, Says the Prophet – or so say the men from their perch. The sabbath is holy, except when it’s Saturday, Move it to Sunday, despite what was said – While fasting is sacred, except when we’re hungry, So buy an indulgence to butter our bread. Would Jesus be weeping ? Would anyone notice ? Not me – I never believed in the gent. But cheer up, I’d tell him – to stagnate is bogus – Just like how you varied the Old Testament.
The angel said to Mary, You must bear the Son of the Lord – And you shall name him Joshua, Before you cut the cord.
But why, she thought, such a common name ? For a most uncommon child ? Who shall remember what he does When he’s quite so blandly styled ?
For Nazareth was full of Joshes, And Judahs, and Jacobs, and Josephs, and Johns – She wanted a son who shone like marble Amongst the lumpen bronze.
Why can’t he be an Emmanuel ? Or a second Moses ? Or David ? Or Job ? But those were far too sacred, she guessed, Or seeking to conquer the globe.
No, it seems that the Lord wants his son to blend, And to not-stand-out from the crowd – She’s disappointed, but understands – Best not to proclaim too loud !
Yet, if he makes it, then one day perhaps, His average name shall ring ! And the other parents will all then avoid This moniker of a king !
Just as long as he wouldn’t end-up as a curse, To be spat in disgust – She’d hate his name to be taken in vain, Or exclaimed in moments of lust…
But anyway, it was out of her hands – She’ll love him, whatever his name. And if God wants Josh, then Josh he must be – For the world has a prior claim.
Herry Christmas, AI, from some of the reddest redbreasts I’ve ever seen.
Never Three on a Card
Every Christmas, I get a warm glow From a handful of cards with the robins’ hello – They’re sometimes alone, and they’re sometimes a pair, But a third one is nowhere – cos as we all know A flock of the robins is strictly no-go. But what is this latest the postladies bear ? One robin, two robins, three robins…? Whoa…! But how can the senders so brazenly dare ?, Depicting the moment before the first blow – As the beak and the claw will leave no love to spare, As they battle to mate and to overthrow. But no ! They swear they’ve taken care To only show what’s really there. In Winter, it seems, the robins bestow A happier temper, content to share – For outside of breeding, they treat all fair, And frolic together in goodwill and snow.
The dragons flew to the village When the glaciers receeded. Before the humans came to found the village In the hills They all moved up the valley As the valley slowly heated – A conflict scratched by ancient claws And knapped by stone-age skills.
The dragons lived on cliff-tops, Where they found the up-draughts bracing, And yet up here upon the fells, the scarp Was ev’ry bit as steep The humans sought the uplands For protection and for grazing, With their wooded winding valleys And their moorlands full of sheep.
But the dragons had a taste for mutton, Raiding flocks and rustling folds – While the humans found the lizards rich, And slow when on their shanks. So they hunted ev’ry dragon That came sniffing round their barren holds, And they feasted on their breastmeat And they tanned their wings and flanks.
But down in the valley woodlands, Where the dragons couldn’t grace, So the tribes would coppice trees for fuel, As soon as the saplings bend. But the deer were a constant nuisance As they trampled through the place, And they nibbled the shoots at liberty, Refusing to be penned.
But Evolution played her hand, Ten thousand years or more, As she favoured drakes who favoured deer, Whose does were scarce in dearth. And the humans were quite happy If they thinned the herds a score, And all stayed-away from pastures And gave folks a wider berth.
So into the flightless forests they came, Where the trees would crowd the sky, And they stalked the stags upon all-fours, Or scampered up a tree. And their back legs grew more sturdy With a pouncing, kicking thigh, And their wings were less-times called-upon Beneath the canopy.
Yes, they still would glide above the valley, Though they rarely soared, As they rode upon the thermals And they roosted on the scarp. Their flaplings, once they’d left the nest Would gather in a horde, And would chase the rodents round the barns To keep their talons sharp.
The farmers even reckoned They had not the strength to leave, Now their flying was more like that of a hen Than of a lark. Good enough to get them airborne, Good enough to catch the breeze, But no good for migrating Once the days were getting dark.
Neither side were loners, In their small communities, As they looked-after their own, And yet would not harass the strays. And they’d sometimes come-together In those opportunities For the curious on both sides To regard their neighbours’ ways.
So by the Middle Ages, They had reached a careful dance, Where the humans let them hunt for rats and deer, By nature’s law. And yes, the windows in the church Showed George’s famous stance, Yet those self-same beasts proved lucrative When pilgrims watched in awe.
Rhyming Couplets 