In a wood west of west under trees full of trees
Lies a garden of Pixie’s who calls those in need
Twenty-seven such men, bodies young and old
Did heed her soft call from her garden.
Timid and torn, or incautious and bold
The Men called did arrive from the world
Hoping and praying, or simply saying
Please let there be healing for me
The matriarch of the garden, Pixie by name
Saw the pain and anguish each held inside
Men twenty-seven, whose life’s harshest lessons
Taught children that they must go hide.
Within the men twenty-seven boys called their home
held in stone shackles and armor of heart
Though prisoners be, they long to go free
If the world be proved safe and secure
Pixie most kind knew that now was the time
The place was now ripe for the work
And so she unleashed the menagerie of beasts
To bring home the boys to their men
It is not very clear who was first to appear
Of the creatures who Pixie unleashed
Each came to the men and with a gentled hand
The healing of men did begin
Came a Lion up front, the leader of all
Whose vision and kindness displayed
A compassion unknown to the men gathered ‘round
As he welcomed them to Pixie’s glade.
Next came a Bear with golden maned hair
And a growl that was soothing and mild
In an effort to be a great comfort to he
Who had just realized how hurt was his child.
Nobility exudes from a creature who stood
With the others whom Pixie did send.
A voice ever kind and reasoned and wise
Uttered softly from the mouth of this Stag.
Pixie knew best what to send to the men
A motherly presence was needed
To nurture the boys the men held in their hearts
And so a wood sprite and an elf did appear
Two creatures more of frightening mien
Appeared behind forms feminine
But the dragons divine settled peacefully down
Ready to render their aid
Last but not least was a most fearsome beast
A devil of Tasman couture
It was easy to see, that the clothing on he
Concealed an angel in Devil’s disguise.
The menagerie present, the men did now work
Struggling with past mortal wounds
Aided by Pixie’s generous friends
The healing did quickly commence
Now the writer of this poor poem and prose
His own battles he did have to fight.
His luck running well, he was lead out of his hell
By the stag and the devil who’s not.
The poet writes now in memory of how
His irons and chains were dissolved.
It began on one night when the devil and sprite
Took to dancing in front of them all
They moved with such grace that the tears on his face
The poet let fall where they may
He watched them with awe and smiled as he saw
And he marveled at such a display
Soon it was he, the poet, you see
To move to the music they played
It frightened him so that he feared he’d say, “No!”
So Menagerie’s aid he did seek.
First was the Sprite, who youth was belied
By her silvered lustrous long hair
She hugged him so tight and told him that night
“I believe in you; you’ll dance in there.”
Next came the devil to who this poor fellow
Accosted him with all his fears.
The devil did grin and he promised him that
The writer would move with the beat.
The poet, you see, looked so fearfully
At the task he would take on that night.
One of the kindly great dragons spied him
And inquired as to his plight.
“I am shackled and tied in my body,” he said,
“By huge chains of iron ethereal
I’m afraid that I’ll freeze and fall to my knees
When it comes time for dancing for real.”
“What are your fears?” The stately beast asked.
“Are they from now or the past?
If from the past they be, then you owe yourself, see,
To dance with your hidden inner child.”
The poets eyes misted and he resisted
The words that this dragon did speak
But try as he might, the dragon was right,
And the poet could not counter him.
Welling up in the poet were anger and shame
And in no small part sadness was added
A steely resolve in the poet did form
He would move to the beat of the music.
The time finally came and the music began
The poet only wanted to bolt
But the dragon, the sprite, and the devil, that night
Gave the poet the strength to emote.
Dancing was he, the poet, you see
To music as was his fear.
But rather than leave, he moved and he freed
A part of that child within.
When morning time came and farewells were said
The elf with elfin-wise eyes
Embraced him and squeezed him and cried
“You see? You can do it! It now is YOUR life.”
The time came to leave and the poet, you see,
Did not want to drive down the road.
A hug from the angel in Tasman-like clothes
Warmed him and allowed him to go.
A poor tale is this, from where this poet sits.
It’s silly, with lots of bad rhymes.
But if you agree, then you can proceed to
Kiss this poor poet’s backside!
Dedicated to everyone at the Ben Lomand Weekend of Recovery, March 2008.