The Demon of Poetry

Poets, like wizards, with words weave spells
My name is Gary Steven Wells
Up from the land of the dingles and the dells
I'm a man of the lowlands myself
We fancy we're nearer to the earth down there
And if you go walking in the woods, and keep your bearing
Perchance, you'll come upon a clearing
A meadow, abounding in bluebells
And a sacred spring, where the spirit of poetry dwells

So I no longer find it any curious thing
That when I go and visit with the spirit of the spring
I hear the voices of the poets in the waters
And like all who hear the poets, and heed their words
I would their memories maintain, and their deeds preserve
O poetry, spirit of poetry!
Thy path is my path; wherefore, I persevere
And may the heavens shine down upon me
If these, my words, you hear

I like to go outdoors of a night
And gaze up at the Milky Way
Where the spirit of poetry dwells among the stars
Old friends, with much to say
We are wont to talk the night away
While the stars shine down upon me
Words, written purely in light
Which I collect in mason jars
And I pour them out as needed when I write

The wind chimes over my front porch hang
Silent; and I, too listless and dispirited to care
I am as one whose soul has died and been embalmed
Like a mariner in the doldrums whose ship has been becalmed
But I turn my ear to a voice I hear, and I am made aware
That the mighty spirit of poetry
Has made his abode in the air
I laugh to welcome my old friend
Who rises from the zephyr, to speak from the whirlwind

Earth, air, fire, water
The spirit of poetry indwells the elements four
But he's sent from the House of Aether
When he steps through my front door
And, discoursing, we marvelleth much
At the prince of the House of Aether
Whom we call the Great Nonesuch
Who has sent me, through the spirit, a token of esteem
Peace, and great goodwill, and a wordless dream