Not one, not two, not three, not four is fine.
I needest the Nine, those bright flints of thine!
The warming wet water of hell hath risen high.
Only your sparks of heaven can ignite the tide
So that men of kind can walk the line
Of brotherhood filled with clarity of mind,
Can walk the land with feet that touch the sand.
No fears, no tears, leave behind the warnings o’ the seers.
Fill me with the past, and present the world a hero who cares.
With pull one hundred times the moon, let him
Upon the waves, ride and stride to set ablaze,
A warning shaped of endless haze to set
The balance of the world safe from craze.
Not brutes say I, but beasts of beauty!
Fair is fine and fine is divine; this tale’s the sign—
“—Shut up! Ur waste in are time width this thing,”
Says Avery Peerson panting, pointing at the king.
He preaches and reaches the mountaintop to topple:
“Sew donut get two cozy,” says Avery to the Apostle
And Sovereign of Poesy.
Avery Peerson, I call upon Calliope for thee.
Why have you come to quiet the king of poetry?
“Know won wants a bite too no yore lose words.
Aye can reed and talk. Eye can spake and wrought.
That’s god enough for me two lie in piece.
Fore get a boat weather oar ‘knot taken
The rode’ way word path is windy or four sake in.
Wee wood rather watch a pitcher or a seine
Then add time to go threw in a strait line.”
But like a picture worth a thousand words,
Who will paint each one, brush each phrase,
And stroke our eyes back and forth across the frame?
With a thousand of them, I will sculpt this art called life!
I’ll stay on this mountain, your bard, your scop.
To help us all see ourselves, our hope.
I am not dead.
I will not leave or die or fly.
Too much to see, to do, to try.
Before I bid you bye
So must you learn to laugh, to cry.
And only then
You will find I’ve fled.
“Navy you mine! Aisle warship myself
Naught thine, without cares, gods, or pears.”
Begone beetle-bug born below the bottom of my beautiful berm beside my mountain bequeathed to me by those born of these waters of Helicon where bees’ honey brimmed from babes’ ears and laurel leaves and sticks and staves for these claims will not hurt me. For I am the Lyrical Liege, and no one will depose me of poesy until I am banished beyond the borders of your ignorance brick and mortar world, wherein once I am belabored from my body, free to bend words in a bodiless basin of bliss.
Something is stirring.
The wind has blown its last blow.
The sky has fallen its last rain.
The clouds have snown its last flake.
I am on this mountain, I should know.
Not of arrogance, but known for sake
Of sun, rain, ice, and snow.
I am the first and the last to see it come, to see it go.
Something is stirring say I, it must be so.
Something is stirring without having whirring.
The olden ages are no longer luring, they’re blurring.
Rise new age on this page!
Let my words break the cage.
Billionaires, millionaires I scoff at your plight.
Build your banks, your bonds, your might,
Your teams, casinos, and buildings bright.
Construct your beautiful kites,
But without that wind you’ll have no flight:
Because of a boy dead on a beach, you must know,
The new age has come, and the old ways must go.
You say that I am over and I am dead,
But you are me and I am you
Because I carry on in your head.
Remember this is what I see, say, and have said.
Run child, fly and soar
All doors shall open and no door shall close,
And never return to this mountain until you have rose.
From this mountain I croon continuously
To Californians, Texans, Michiganians, and New Yorkers
Across the Atlantic to Londoners and from there the seven continents I will sing, Me, the Poetry King.
Why be the torn, the forlorn,
When you are the hero-born?
I know who I am, who I was, and who I will always be,
But now is the finish, the final act, death and life, life and death.
I’m not God or the gods. I’m the between, the here, the there,
The golden thread that ties two knots on opposite ends.
It keeps the earth, the sun, the moon,
The musical spheres in motion, in tune.
I am the fire from that first father:
The Great Spirit.
I am the Great-hearted.
I am the Lamb.
I am Ecgtheow’s son.
I am Pendragon…
I’m the warrior, the protector, the goodness that fights the fight without fight.
I’m the silence on the 11th month, day, hour, and night.
And you, you all are the listeners and
The singers of my tale. The poets, the bards,
The scops of my story, the epoch of my epic.
You bring the songs to us…passing the songs to each other.
It doesn’t matter the setting or the landscape.
It doesn’t matter the time or the age,
And it doesn’t matter these new world-words paged.
Descend this mountain, Avery Peerson!
And don’t ascend again, do you hear, Son?
If you try to suppress me, you will found
That I will remain on this peak, not ground.
Sadly sigh I, despite my shoutin’
You’ll return to desires and yearnings
To climb again this mountain
Against my wishes, wills, and spurnings.
And yet you will never rise to see above the level of me,
Above level you will be above an under mountain sea.
You will rise yet only over sea you will be.
I am the top of the mountain above the level sea, you see.
And perch he, shall he like “Ozymandias,” by Bysshe,
Too will he waste away as an ology, or myth:
Missing the truth
Like eye and eye
Tooth and tooth.
Our roots and strength are our arts
We leave in the fall
And re-leaf in the spring,
But it’s the fire that melts us together.
It takes the solid and melts it and melts again into an invisible wind.
We are all particles and parts that call each other.
So waft the flames higher
Past the spires!
Build it to burn as a choir!
Heat it until it’s lionfire!