XXI. The Sons of Songs, Sing They On

Robert Service, my loyal friend, stay by my bed until the end, for you are my loyal friend.

Siegfried Sassoon, my broken brother, you I hold above the others, for your bayonet leaves none uncovered.

Mr. Longfellow, my fond father, what have I to offer? For you are my fondest father.

Sons of songs, sing you on, for you now I sing this song.

Walt Whitman, my wildest rebel, you in I shall always revel, for you are my wildest rebel.

Sons of the Bible, my sinful brothers, you are men just as the others, for you came from sinful fathers.

Edgar Allen Poe, my somber friend, in you as I child I begin, for you have always been my somber friend.

Sons of Songs, sing you on, for your songs they speed me on.

Tennyson, my valiant one, white rook I am thy black son, and I look back to the valiant one.

Robinson Jeffers, my cynical mason, for you this tower is emblazoned, for at 27, we became cynical masons.

John Donne, my saintly sinner, ink is thin, yet blood be thinner, and you are my saintly sinner.

Sons of Song, sing you on, I hear your songs though you are gone.

Kevin Morgan, song son brother, how we have watched over one another, and I will sing your song forever.

Young Sons of Song, my little brothers, keep you always one another, for there is none so dear as banded brother.

Jacob Mannan, my bloodink brother, we in the trenches ‘ave eachother, and to our grave we go as bloodsung brothers.

Sons of Song, sing you on, for your songs I lean upon.

And the Sons of Songs, sing they on, on and on and ever on, and to these songs I shoulder on.

XX. The Summer of His Death

The summer of his death came and went, a breath inhaled, then completely spent
The red of his hair shone in the sun, a flickering flame that came undone
And all the miles that he had run became a ghost path ‘cross the sun

The years of his youth came to rest, but a pain clasped to his momma’s breast
The echo of his laugh but rang in ears, and haunted they in silent fears
And smote upon the earth’s sad ears was the song of a boy’s last years

The summer of his death has come and gone, leaving a trail to tread upon
But each new summer that falls away, he seems to stray further away
Still in manner is he free and gay, but upon some other unearthly plane

They who were babies now rise up, in stature past him they rise up
Of many summers, still more were meant, but God our Father his winter sent
And as the summers for winter are spent, the summer of his death came and went

XIX. Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!
To my family and friends!
From the face of the earth
To the universe’s end!
Merry Christmas!
To my sisters and brothers!
Under the arch
Of our angelic brothers!
Merry Christmas!
To our father’s son!
Who gave us life
When His was done!
Merry Christmas!
To my children!
For in innocence
Grace is given!

Merry Christmas to all God’s children!
For in this innocence grace is given!