Land Of The Pixies Poem by James Walter Orr

Please pass me the bottle!
The liquor is fine.
My heart is still craving
To cross that thin line,
That has kept me sober;
That’s kept me away,
From devils that stalk me,
By night and by day.

This bottle can save me,
Just fill up the glass.
I call on your help now,
Please show me your class.
My pleas must be answered,
Don’t turn me aside.
Don’t make me face up to
A task I’ve ne’er tried.

The pixies are drawing
Their trails cross the sky.
My spirit is falling,
Each time one must die.
The fog looks so chilly,
So dark and so cold,
My spirit will wither,
Or so I’ve been told.

I looked in the valley,
That time-misted land;
I saw something moving,
A beckoning hand.
I turned my face backward,
Toward whence I had come,
With the rock-solid trails;
My home they led from.

I looked again forward,
Where pixies go play;
The trails of their bright
Pyrotechnic display;
A slow-motion lightning
Against the blue-gray;
A deep water Iceberg
That warns me away.

I tried to turn homeward,
But ere I was gone,
Once again showed the hand
That beckoned me on.
And passes the pixie:
Now I understand,
The pixie was caught by
The beckoning hand.

A view through a window
Was thrown like a net:
I was caught in a way
I’ll never forget.
My trail through the valley
Was etched as in stone.
My spirit was captured;
No longer my own.

I thrust my foot forward:
First step on the trail.
Each step of progression,
My nerve did assail,
But I felt, with each step,
As mists closed behind,
My eyes would be opened
By what I would find.

Time rustled in passage.
The trail took its toll.
The blossoms I passed by,
Played a special role.
“Come back with the answer”,
Though courage may quail!
I’ll die on the journey,
Before I will fail.