Gather Around Gather Around
Daedal Earth’s flocked and feathered friends
As I sing a song about a Pan who is most unwise
A sour note the trickster’s piping did rend
In the Poet’s challenge that Apollo’s mind devised
For there can be no battle greater-- than the
Muse of Poetry’s words recited and revised.
The devil lies in nature’s secrets that Pan unweaves
Inviting the Sun God’s ire--like innocence stolen
At an early age. Is it a satyrs’ place to reveal in his
Sweet piping, which makes the caged birds sing?
To bring forth the knowledge of how Spring’s showers
Play the reeds or the bees, how their buzzing rings
Up the Myrtle, just in thyme to the honied rain
Coming down. Damaged goods are what Pan now sees
And believes himself to be the keeper of ruined lives.
What is normal? He now has no ability to gauge
Whether it be wise for Almighty Gaia’s children to hear--
It is the New Old God’s thing to spread good cheer.
Pan’s life is no longer a child’s carefree game
Every religion preaches how he is expendable and cheap
Swathed in a residue of self-loathing and shame
Gone is the comfortable safety found in Eos’ arms of sleep
The pain he has bottled up won’t let him win
He finds no satisfaction in another creature's touch.
He cannot be hurt again if no one is invited in
Constant apologies for his grotesque faux pas have become
His warning to others, not to lean too far on ego’s crutch.
The Muse is most comfortable in rays of the Master’s
Warm welcome unaffected and aloof is the imperfection
Of his masquerade--the truth of this secret has yet to
Let him be free from the angry ass’ ears that refuse to fade
When he is raucously braying, “what is wrong with me?”
Haunted by these memories embedded in his mind.
How many others did not his silence doom to his fate?
Apollo’s pity is the emotion he should take care to find.
Vengeance is a thirst he’d longed for eons to sate,
But alas it would only be a hollow victory in the end.
His devilish pride’s demise won’t make him return whole.
His troubles are hiding in the void of his heart rather than
An antidote to mend that vacant part of his soul that is
Necessary for forgiveness to be retrieved. Pan can
Only heal when he begins to let go his failed poet’s pride--
Even Shelley knew the power of a bad review
In the wordsmith’s mind. Each new day
Breaks teaching that Pan did commit the crime!
His duty is to pledge allegiance to the Master
Commanding the Rosy Dawn to fall at his knees
In the Sunbeam’s Heavenly and poetic presence.
Full of awe and wonder--Apollo is the intensely
Burning reason to rhyme. Survival’s gain too much
A temptation to remain the humbled pawn with
Apollo’s bedeviled donkey with a nimble tongue
That stings with no resonance. Pan learns his place
Within the realm and to swallow his sweet piping
When trotting upon Apollo’s hallowed ground.