Poetry: Pan by Dennis Fritzinger
pan played the syrinx,
a rustic kind of flute;
it must’ve been old time, i’m sure,
who taught old pan to toot.
he toodled where the creek ran wild,
he toodled by the sea;
and everywhere he went, he wrote
amazing poetry.
his poetry, o by the way,
was not always in words–
he wrote for whales and wolves, as well
as trees and bees and birds.
he didn’t have a family,
but what you’d call a clan;
and he moved on, but they’re still here–
remembering old pan.
January 26th, 2009 in
poetry | tags: Land of Pan