The Gathering

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.