Bardic Offerings S-T

Said a Corpse to a Live Man

Said a corpse to a live man
“I pity you.
The places where Death’s found fill you with strife:
You are repulsed, your gaze averts from where
Decay and rot eats flesh, and you abhor
The sweetened, putrid scent that fills the air.
I look and I am only filled with awe
At how, in endless round, the Dead feed Life.”

Said a corpse to a live man
“I pity you.
You lie awake at night so full of strife
As you remember that your fate’s to die.
Death’s a word you hardly dare to mention
Hoping silence will your fate belie.
I wonder at this useless contemplation:
By worrying of death you’re missing Life.”

Said a corpse to a live man
“I pity you.
I’ve no more use for all your mental strife
I’ve passed that Portal, lost my dread of Death.
What you must guess at I have answers for
And would not swap that knowledge for your breath.
Existence ends, but this fact you ignore,
And fearfully you try to cling to Life.”

Said a corpse to a live man
“I pity you.”

David Stone

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Samhain Night

Thrice is a lucky number three
Chevron and grail make the trinity
Three the goddess: maid, mother, crone
Each face a season of it's own

Three sing magic's harmonious tones
Three were there and three were gone
Three clad in tartan took their flight
And found their way one Samhain night

Three times three nine hostages gleaned
Three takes Patrick in shamrock's green
Three sought to rule though not by light
A throne returned to the lawgiver's right.

Three white roses with young green leaves
Turn our petals to brown's appease
Black appears the mask of blight
As lyons dance on Samhain night

With summer's madness at its end
Samhain brings the harvest in
To scattered seed are we all bound
The secret three in Samhain found

Janice Lamont
August 2004

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Sanctuary

The rocks whisper beneath my feet
tearing small cuts at my skin,
jagged on the razors edge, the tiny blood pools slip away.
The veil of night draws close
and the long shimmering lines of your tides
break the stony silence
infatuated, hanging from the sky.
I reach out to touch the silver blossom
so far yet reaching up so near,
they sit just on the tip of my finger,
gleaming like a mothers pride.
I peer out through these empty eyes
reflecting my visions over in my mind
watching as your face falls down,
soaking my body, holding it tight.
I curl up in your arms; earth mother
like your child you hold me firm
My intellect falls into a unkempt fire
my sanctuary forever burns.

Jody Copestake
May 2004

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Severence Oak

North of the blue lake,
south of the sky,
Over the broad valley,
under the wandering clouds;
There at the edge,
with roots in ancient rock
and arms raised into high air,
the Red Oak stands . . .
not in vigil, not standing guard,
but in celebration
for the joy of the earth.
Green and white and blue:
oaken leaves against cloud against sky.
Red and brown and gray:
the lying leaves, and Hemlock needles
against the old, old rock.
The grove sings gently in an unseen wind,
and a screech owl whistles
behind our backs.

OakWyse,
Severence, New York
11 July 2000

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She Calls to my Spirit

This is more an inner vision than to a particular deity

She calls to my spirit from the shadows
From the blackness within I hear her
Face cragged like the high mountain peaks
Shrouded in the grey of winter morn
Veiled by the deep passage of time
Her fearsome gaze penetrates duality to its core

With one hooded eye she sees the oneness
The ultimate unity of the web
Winter storms rage, life recedes
Like an old woman gathering kindling
She stoops to gather her treasure
Priceless gems, the seeds of life

Onward she journeys, staff in hand
Tap, tap, tap
And each footstep brings death
Night storms destruction and decay
Still she travels, still she gathers
Then lingers to view her bounty

And in that briefest of moments
Her countenance is changed
Illumined by dazzling pure energy
Essence of life dancing in her palm
I see radiant features of beauty
A pledge of life to be

Phil

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Shrouded Friend

He came alone and all who saw him fled
For fear hangs about him as a cloud.
His cold embrace left all his houseguests dead;
His entertainment ended with a shroud.
I watched and saw the truth behind his mask:
Those he approached had reached their ‘lotted time.
No malice in his soul – it is his task
To free us from the clutches of harsh Life.
I met him and he gravely bowed his head
And showed me how the path of life does wend.
Then knew I Death is nothing we need dread:
No one’s more stalwart than our shrouded friend.
When my time comes, no quarter will he give,
But ‘til that day, I’ve all my life to live.

David Stone

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Singing circle

I see a tree in the wood
He is called the old man oak
I give him a jewel into his trunk
And whisper him my secrets
All the trees around made a circle

But now they are cut down
When we all came there it made us so sad
I cried at the death of the trees
But soon they will grow back
When the circle comes around again

Willowpretani (age 7)

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Spirals

Ever spinning spirals,
Twisting and turning,
Going deeper and deeper,
Sliding down into that vortex below,
Burning light and chilling dark,
Deeper through the darkness to go,
Sliding through Loam and Soil,
Letting myself drift to be as one,
Bringing my Life,
Forced into focus.
Digging,
Sliding,
Tunnelling,
Spinning,
All taking me into that oubliette of Soul.

Darkness burning with inner Life,
Well of Sorrow,
Pit of Life,
Slide and twist,
Duck and crawl,
Keep going no turning back,
"reach the core and embrace
all that makes you unique"
that voice keeps saying.
So long in travelling and so much pain,
Still on my hands and knees falling in,
Welcoming,
darkness and comfort of Life.

Dane
September 2004

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Spirit of Place

They dug you up from the ramp you were in to make that road anew. Taking you from the tarmac to their yard. From there you came here, thanks to one with a keen eye and a wise heart who brought you with him when he came to me. From water and wind to earth and sun, to sit under this oak by daffodil and willow, under the eye of the moon.

When I place my palms on you, I dig my hands deep into sand, on that beach in the west where seaweed fills the air, with the cliffs holding the bay of light blue, almost grey water. I remember the mornings when I walked my little gold dog there yapping to the tramps hidden by the dirgue, Grape Fleurie bottles skimming her tail as she ran with the gulls. That was winter - of wind and wet - all but the pines gone bald, but still some whisper of summer in their presence there, blue sky and heat in their hair. You know this: the smells, the sounds, the noise and taste of that place.

But how was it to feel the touch of car tyres on you as they rolled down the hill to park? Sandals must have tramped over you, ice cream may have melted into you, the boom of car radios must have beat through you, sun must have singed you as you lay there all day long. And yet, you show me none of this when I place my palms on you: trying to see if you accept this new home. Untouchable stone - there is no trace on you of them: no mark of black rubber, no trace, no scar. What are such things to you? The link of an eye? A cloud of midges walked through on a summer night? One breathe? You hold only the resonance of the sand and sea and sky.

And so I come, to honour you in this place at the bottom of our garden. Tentatively at first, I touch you and listen, I breath your air. I wait. I drum a slow beat, whispering a prayer. I pour water and wine over you, and blood. I spit at your foot. I bring my gifts of spirit. I give thanks. I chant:

Blood and bone
Star and stone
All is one, all is one

As the oak watches, as the crows call, as the sun sinks under the horizon and the bats flit out, you seem to say to me that this is not too bad a place to be. So may it be.

Joanne le Pennec
June 2004

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Starving Africa

This piece was written in sadness and anger after working with "Medicines Frontiers" in Africa in 1979, unfortunately very little changes.

Africa, you come to me shivering.
How cold and grey your sunny mornings must seem.
Your children weep,
For tomorrow brings no relief,
Just tears and death and another day.
Your shadows have long since taken shelter
beneath the wings of a starving bird.

Be Brave, for the bird has flown.
Soon your tomorrows will be today,
And a candle glows in our hearts.
Africa, you come to me shivering,
Soon your tomorrows will be today,
And we will bring you warmth.
Be Brave, sweet children, Be Brave.

Gwyn Thomas

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Tailtiu's Song

Toil and labor - no rest for the weary
Axe swings, muscles ache, heart races
Those who are of my kin must not perish
My energy is the energy of the land
I am one with the earth.

Blood and sweat nourish the crops
Ragged breath, burning eyes, blistered hands
Hard work and sacrifice reaps rewards
My energy fades, my heart stops
I am one with the earth

Doreen Taylor

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The Beautiful Madness

I met you on the moons crooked ice.
Where we conferred our tales,
Voices, echoing in the rain.

The silence of our conversation,
Torments
Like a sea missing the storm,
Fallen to another blind virtue.

I lay upon the charcoal bed, eyes stretched wide
As the lady strokes my head, softly chanting consequence
Her face covered by the nighttime veil.

My thoughts fall out onto your polished floor,
Making a mess as they scatter, fearful of your facetious books
The ones that painted this world, with a fine brush.

I drink in my loquacious strain.
Subdued by another effect of truth.
Consecrated by,
The Beautiful Madness.

Jody Copestake
May 2004

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The Brimstone Fox.

In the heart of the deepest shadows
At the edge of the light
In the sleeping summer garden
Right at the edge of sight
The caress of fronded fingers
Whisper soft as he slips through
So close to the walls of that little whitewashed home
To that spill of amber light
To that welcoming invite
To the souls therein oblivious
To the wild heart padding past their door

The brimstone fox will be waiting
At the edge of the light
The brimstone fox will come for you
One dark and velvet night

Friend, draw the curtains tightly
‘Gainst the vampire pull of dark
Draw your chair a little closer to the fire
When you hear the dog-fox bark
Wrap yourselves in fragile cheer
Companionship of those most dear
Lull the fear with wine and song
As outside moonlight glitters
On the glimpse of a silver tail
As the witching hour creeps closer and
A breeze strokes the ivy round the door

Come the moment when the light goes out
When your friends are gone
When you’re all alone
Come the moment when the darkling tales
Of elf and sprite
And spellbound fright
Reach questing fingers for the nursery door

The brimstone fox will be waiting
At the edge of light
The brimstone fox will be watching
Right at the edge of sight
The brimstone fox will come for you
Deep inside you always knew
That the brimstone fox would come for you
One dark and velvet night
The brimstone fox will steal your soul
Like a bright-eyed thief in the night
One dark and velvet night

Sarah Reed

Web:http://www.sarahreed.moonfruit.com

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The Change

Shedding clothes,
Naked in a Moonlight Grove,
Squatting and curling up into the leaves,
Autumn colours surround me;
I curl up into a ball pushing my body into the leaves,
My paws padding and flexing in the mould,
Rolling up I look around,
Scents of little scurrying things on the Wind,

The call of my partner close by,
Her growling and yapping as she recognises my scent,
Wet noses touch,
And we dance off running through the undergrowth;
Burrs in my fur,
Itching and catching,

I come out of the woods onto the treeless headland,
And stop!
Looking over it’s a long way down,
She calls me from the woods,
But I feel a stronger call,
I look back,
Turn and run,
Heading for the Cliff edge,
And then,
Space,
And the whistle of Wind,
As I fall toward the rocks,
Fur changing,
Man,
Then winged,
Stretching tendons and sinews,
I gasp desperately at pain of the change,
As outspread fingers turn to feathers of flight,
The cry of the Hunter as the pain passes,
And I glide out on the rising winds of the Sea.

Dane

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The Druid’s Life

The Druid's life, as it be known,
Is carved for all upon the stone
To leave a lasting legacy
For all who open eyes to see.

So enter Stonehenge, breathe its air,
Discover life’s true meaning there,
Written within the stars, so bright,
Your path of everlasting light.

Then set your foot upon this path
And do not contemplate the math.
The sky, unfurled before you now
Will sanctify your sacred vow.

The Druid’s circle, once complete,
Will lay its blessings at your feet
And bring your spirit home, at last,
To a garden of peace and love so vast.

©2006 Joseph* ~ OneLight*®

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The Eagle Sleeps No More

Across the western Ocean,
Upon a distant shore,
I hear its wings unfold and know,
The Eagle sleeps no more.

The castle gate has fallen,
With an awful roar,
I fear for my children now,
As the Eagle sleeps no more.

Once I heard the Eagle's cry,
When evil knocked its door,
A storm of wings descended then,
And that evil was no more.

So now I pray for patience,
Because it chills me to the core,
That the calls for vengeance,
Might outweigh the rule of law.

For revenge exacts a terrible price,
One we've paid before,
But many yet may have to pay,
As the Eagle goes to war.

And in its fury, it shall not know,
The evil, from the poor,
And punish all within its view,
With its terrible, swift sword.

So all good folk of ancient way,
Whom this evil do abhor,
Pray for justice, and restraint,
Let the Eagle sleep some more.

Craig

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The Honey-Tongued

Ogma, carpenter of song,
Harvest the forest of thought,
Carve the timbre of my voice,
That the nemeton be wrought.

Gnarled the Tree whence language born,
Old the God whom Ogham made.
Youthful yet the lips that speak
And the hand that weilds the blade.

Orna praises the hero,
Makes memory history.
In Ogma's service he works,
Freed from dark Inis Tiureadh.

Honey-tongue, caress my ears.
Amber tales in rivers run
Through the stream-beds of my heart,
Savoured by my loved one.

In the wildwoods of the mind,
Strange beasts rut, conceive new words
that sing in branches high above,
At the festival of birds.

Radiant-faced Ogma hears
The melding of words to verse.
Stories told, a joy to him
Who acts as Memory's nurse.

Robin Herne

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The Last Dance of Summer

Promise me, he said
the Last Dance of Summer
I'll want to hold you one last time
before I have to go.
I'll take you tightly in my arms
and together we will dance
through the fields and green woods
all moments as the Last
I'll give you all my warmth,
breathe gently on your face
and dance you slow and close
into the falling night.
And when all my strength is gone
the earth will pull me down.
Will you stay with me, watch over me
until I wake again?

Magda X

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The Last Stone

The last stone in place
the avenue complete
the priest sighed in tiredness
and satisfaction,
lifting pale blue eyes to
the darkening moon
whose full face was turned,
also it seemed with acknowledgement
of a job well done
towards the long lines of stones,
but they`d wait for the dawn to worship,
wait for the sun to hold onto
the eastern horizon
and slowly lift his face above it
and spread his golden rays over the earth,
making shadows for the stones,
for the stones needed shadows,
a light side and a dark side,
always a duality.
They worshipped the sun, the male,
the dominant one,
but when the sun slide away in the west,
then it was
the moon`s time, the female, the passive
but not always so passive,
for the throbbing drum beats
and slow but intense dancing hid
a secret, inner power
that bloomed forth imperceptibly as the moon bloomed forth
from behind a cloud,
not changing cold to heat,
not turning total darkness suddenly
to total light,
not doing anything as energetically, unexpectedly, as resoundingly
as the powerful sun
but highlighting the terrain with
its gentle, silver beam.
Shapes and shadows become
one and the same,
stones take on other forms like
humans and animals,
that coupled with the sounds
of the night thrill and unnerve as they take on
a life of their own.
Their worship complete
the women and sometimes the children too,
slink silently home,
leaving the silent stone
to wait for the sun to reaffirm
their identities as stones
in the male light of day.
Until the night comes again.

Chris Colloby
October 2003

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THE LAW OF GRACE

In calmness I sit
Enabling stillness
Acceptance, compassion,
Unwavering love,
At first I see Mother,
Behind her another,
As ancestor follows
The one stood in front.
I envision my Father
Mysterious and cloudy
And cloudier still
Is his family descent.
But Scottish or Romani
I am here to present them,
Represent and champion them
By the law of grace.

The steps stand before me
Ascending, asserting
A firmament of heaven
Depending on faith
I walk ever skyward
Till stood at the doorway
And knocking, seek entry
In humblest ways.
I come forth before them
These glistening beings,
The gods and goddesses
In power arrayed.
I beg by their favour
The gift of their Grace.

I wish for their power
Bestowed upon me,
My line and my lineage
Exempt from our bondage
By law and by grace
Implicitly free.
Unbound from our sentence
Our gaol of confinement
Unburden our future
Redeeming our past.
As to my present
My aims and devotions,
My options are opened
By Law and Grace.

Oh sacred ones grant us
A vestige of preference
A taste of redemption
For all we have failed.
Oh mighty ones hear me
My family revere thee
And know we are worthy
Of more than we gain.
Within us, oh brethren,
Find true reconciliation
Allow us to serve you
With Law and Grace.

Geoff Boswell

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The Pillow Talk

Long before my sight lies the golden pathway
Along its slim rails will I turn my eyes to rest

Beyond your reach lies the key to unbind the gates in me
Words loose the locks and tumbles move silently like heartbeats

What lock made fast upon you waits the key
So bold a warrior once made swift upon a noble steed

Not upon this valley is found a splendid cave
Inhospitable the guest who spills the lamps bright oil

And I possess a magick lamp whose oils held fast in promise keep
A shaft of golden heat flickers and sparks in blue lit orbs glow

Beyond again the gilded spirals end lies waiting for you
A cave so dark and rich would welcome such a lamp

Ride then amongst the twin oaks at my side
The fury'd stallion stamps and paws the paddock

Dark velvet mare twists beneath the moonlit green and sacred pools
My breath a shallow valley traced with heathers heady scent

Bright maid wherein shall I rest my blade
Upon this fortnights blessed sojourn a weary king seeks welcome

Holy knight so rare a gem upon my brow have thou become
Part the willows and sheath thy blade in me.

Inion
September 2004

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THE RAPE OF THE MAGDALENE

Born in poverty, your greatest sin, and in a popish state
What use are you to them who cannot fill their plate
So your sins have been assigned, to the laundries you must go
And forcefully you are taken, whether you will or no

Arise before the sun to eat your porridge cold
Then wrap yourself in provided rags, be grateful you are told
Your lice infested locks are strewn across the floor
And ridiculed you stand, behind the bolted door

You listen for your number, for now you have no name
And penance you shall do in silence and in shame
Now, it's off to the laundries, you know you have no choice
No protest can you make, for now they have your voice

The years roll by and echoes of laughter through the town
Are heard as the penitants are paraded up and down
The church's mercy must be shown to one and all
Then it's back to the laundries to toil behind the walls

Yet, merrily the Magdalene be, tis not your disgrace
Rejoice that you have shown the world a most deceitful face
So sing you women of Ireland of all you've endured and seen
Tis not the first betrayal of the merry Magdalene

Janice Lamont

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THE RAVEN’S TELLING

Some say I am the harbinger of death,
Some say my blood curdling cries foretell the fatality of mortal men.
Tis true I have cast my shadow over many a bloody battlefield.
I was present at the hour of Arthur’s passing when cold metal met warm flesh and the noblest of all kings was slain.
I watched as the conquering enemy soullessly dragged your fearless warrior queen from her chariot of hope, fighting and courageous to the last.
I flew helplessly alongside my own wise mistress, my talons and feathers flaying as they dragged her sobbing to the stake.
I perched on the wet rocks of the sacred isle as the black robed priestesses screeched defiance to the last, before giving their lives and souls to the power hungry Eagle and to the unceasing waves.
My kin even now, unceasingly guard the White Mount in the name of Bran.
Your land is in their hands.
My tale is unending, my shadow hovering over many a lonely battlefield.
I dance my dervish of death upon the rotting corpses of the departed.
With blood on my beak, I peck at the bodies.
I feast and feel no shame.
Their blood, your blood feeds my soul,
Nourishes my body.
I return you to your Goddess.
I pick at your mind and cleanse your soul.
I am keeper of your darkest dreams.
I am initiator of change.
Always though, I travel back,
Back through time, through space or distance.
It makes no odds.
Makes no difference.
I travel back and forth between the worlds.
The worlds of dark spirit and the world of men.
I journey back to where I belong, to The Stones,
Standing silent and aloof on the windswept plain.
Not all who come to The Stones see me there.
I cast a glamour; I beguile those who do not belong;
those who do not know.
Those who do know, see through my mantle of illusion.
Enter into my world.
Make the connection, enter the darkness,
Become entwined, become part of the telling.
My world is revealed at midnight and when the solstice sun hangs low in the heavens.
Then She comes, in her black billowing cloak, walking through the illusion, into the dawn of shadow.
She sees like I, the raven.
She connects, she senses, sees through my eyes.
She knows the power, from whence it came.
She knowingly offers sweet treats for the spirits who still linger at these mighty stones and for the ravens too.
She smiles, kin to kin.
She knows.
I hover overhead, then land on her shoulder.
I take her offering.
“Mistress” I say,
“You return to me, you journey through the flight path of time to the place of my heart”
“Tis the place of my heart too” she chides “You silly old bird”
Her eyes are dark, deep.
She looks at The Stones, standing ancient, tall and proud.
She hears what I hear, feels what I feel.
She feels the tides of magic, feels the currents.
Powerful energies, accumulating, building, taking shape.
The quickening.
This place is alive.
My mistress and I know.
We are part of the telling.
We walk hand in hand with death:
Your death.
Some say I am the harbinger of death.
Who am I to argue………?

Moonwillow
January 2004

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The Remembering

The bright full moon rests on a velvet black November sky
dry leaves move as if to dance on the wind and leap into the air
I hear the song of the night
I draw it in and feel the power

I close my eyes and the night echoes in my mind
like a song on the wind
longing to be heard
glimpses of a life so long ago lived but only a remembering away
I once could call the moon and she would listen
I once could hear the talking of trees in a time when they had much to say
I have lost the wisdom I once knew and now I am still
Even so, the moon still waits for me and the trees still speak
I must remember how to speak
I must remember to listen
I must remember the past
For it is the only TRUE future I have

Gyllian Wolfsong
November 2004

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The Tribe

We drift in slowly,
In ones and two’s,
Small groups and families,
Slowly we come together,
Creating small circles of extended family
Contained within the whole of the Tribe of the Valley.
Like Nomads of past times,
We come,
Renewing old acquaintances,
Re-forging friendships and Love,
Re-affirming our Loyalty to one another;
Spending time together, making time to sit and relax in the warmth of friendship,
Protected within the Haven of the Tribe.
A few days,
Too little time,
But then,
that is the way it is now;

Then on the final day
We step back from those we love,
Separate ourselves from our physical connections.
Slowly with sorrowful goodbyes,
We make our way back out of this valley of friendship,
Away from the security of our Tribe,
Journeying back into the harshness of the World,
Leaving behind nothing,
But circles in the grass to say we have been there.

Dane

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The Star & the Silver

I am the vision and the voice
I am the star that shines within
I am the will that shapes my love
The chariot that draws the flame

I am the sacred dance of life
The call of pipes – in awe of Pan
I am my warrior’s cry to arms
My lord, I am that witch I am

I am the Ruby five times girdled
Averse in my soul journeying
I am the whispered shout of god
Invoked of Heru, majestic king

I am the root, the branch, the crown
The point within the circle’s kiss
I am the beast in beauty’s thrall
The seeker ever after bliss

I search for six beyond the five
I am the wise man and the knave
I am the hawk upon the wind
Khepra risen from the grave

Gareth Evans
August 2004

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There is a Sound

There is a Sound,
That supports the World.

It is tree dance
And brook babbling.
It is summer storm and volcano.
It is in us and apart.
As loud as sleigh bells -
Still, you may not hear it.

Touch tree.
Face fear.
Light fire.
Dance in moonlight.
Make love.
Sing.

The Sound is silent
Til you sing it.

David Miley
August 2004

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The Sun is Sinking

The sun is sinking low on the horizon,
And my lady prepares for her well-earned rest
She gowns herself in the splendour of golden lingerie
No words can describe her beauty
Long has she toiled through the spring and summer
And the fruits of her labour are ready for harvest
Soon she must sleep ‘neath a crisp white sheet
But first she lovingly tends to her charges
Ensuring all are provided for in her absence
As she slumbers I will watch over her
Gaze lovingly at her sleeping form
And greet her joyously as she awakens in spring.

Phil

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Thrice Times Three

A white chalk mound, raised up with praise
To honour spirits of the land;
A rock beside the Elven Ways
Touched by trav’llers for its luck;
A spring flows out into a stream
Blessing those who paused to bathe;
A cave that gives prophetic dreams
Used by mystics, poets, priests.

Thrice times three the horn doth sound
Open these gates to elven land
Let their golden light outshine
Thrice times three is nine.

An ancient mound, ignored, uncared
Bramble strewn and left alone;
A rock beside a disused path
Just a worthless hunk of stone;
A well whose water’s choked with weeds
Has long since known a human’s touch;
A gloomy cave, now foxes den
A smelly cleft, despised as such.

Thrice times three the horn doth sound
Open these gates to elven land
Let their golden light outshine
Thrice times three is nine.

A once-prized gemstone has been lost
It’s gone for good, or so it seems,
But beauty stills lies ‘neath the dust
If one but looks to see it gleam.

Thrice times three the horn doth sound
Open these gates to elven land
Let their golden light outshine
Thrice times three is nine.

The light and power haven’t gone
Although we honour them no more.
The gateways haven’t sealed themselves
For it’s we who closed those doors.
We should recall these ancient sites
For they are places set apart,
But, more important, we should feel
Their blessings deep within our hearts.

Thrice times three the horn doth sound
Open all ways to elven land
Let their golden light outshine
With the blessing of the Nine.

David Stone

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To Feel and See

To Feel and See To feel and see, what I feel and see.
It's not necessary to become me.
Come and meet my friend Oak tree.
Now just sit,
Don't think,
Just BE.

Neal Pepperell

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Tree & Leaf

Cast back and flow forward, to a time within times,
To a place beyond reason, to a space, now within…
And finding yourself, as a watcher, a listener,
As a sensor of patterns, now breathing, begin…

Allowing the words, as if silk in the weaving,
Into meaning, this tale… In it’s telling, it starts…

There once was a tree, in a field, by a river,
Cross the bridge to the left and you shall arrive…
A splendid and wonderful, rising and spreading,
Leafy and green grown, tree amongst trees…
On its own in the knowing, of self and of season,
Alive to the magic of blossom and bud…

And tree was a proud one, as it root, bark and branch tip,
Made good on its promise, to the wild lord of nature,
To the goddess of green things, to grow and to grow…

Yet, in growing it found hard, to let go of its leaflings,
Of its buds, of its new shoots, when autumn winds blew…
Yes, it knew of the seasons, of the passing, returning,
Of the circle of all that turned endless and true…

It gave sadly its leaves; so perfect and young bloomed,
With tough tugs of west wind, to fall and to fade…
Such longing it felt for a chance to feel different,
Its dilemma was simple - two choices remained…
Give gladly my young leaves and follow with sadness,
Or hold tight and west wind will take them the same…

So dreams it fell into, on one star-filled nighttime,
And mother moon watching knew all of tree’s choice…
And in dreamtime, in no time, in the space before waking,
Spoke gentle to tree – ‘let go to let in’…

And tree woke to its heartbeat, a quickened, a pulsing,
A dream, such a dream, it had found in the clouds…
A third way, a new choice, that could both hold and let go,
A journey of magic it dared to begin…

‘I’ll create me a new leaf, so simple, so special,
That will rise on the west wind and not fall to earth…
And carried aloft on the wind’s voice in full song,
I will meet me the moon, and let go, my new birth…’

And with this as its vision, tree began to shape new dreams,
Of a leaf that would hold to a course to the moon…
And long was the dreaming, for much was the detail,
The shaping, the texture, the flow of the vein…

Until one winters slumber, tree woke into knowledge,
Leaf had been seen, had been felt, had been heard…
Roots, bough and branches, confirmed tree’s bold vision,
This was the leaf, yes this was the one…

Springtime and summer, leaf grew into fullness,
And tree loved it both for its beauty, its gift…
In the giving, tree knew it had found its own right way,
To give all to autumn, to goddess, to self…

And then one cold morning, west wind came calling,
And tree knew the time was right here and right now…
Hesitation there was, for a split seconds moment,
With a gasp and a creak, tree gave all to chance…

To dare in the dream, in its birth, in its movement,
To life, into fullness, into why it was dreamed…

And west wind it knew, and it took just this one leaf,
And it carried leaf skyward, into what lay beyond…
Tree watched for as long as leaf danced the horizon,
And when it was gone, tree spoke loud to moon…

‘I have given my gift, as my gesture to spirit,
Will you offer me something to help with my heart?
For my most perfect child, have I set free, its own way,
And deep rooted my feeling, is the need I have now…’

And moon mother smiled, from her heavenly palace,
Chose wisely the gift she would give back to tree…
Who had listened with full heart, to the voice in it’s longing,
Who had dared in the dreaming, intuition ablaze…

And that night as tree gazed, to the heavens for comfort,
Knowing west wind would return in the morn…
It noticed a wonder, a soft glowing wonder,
And heart, root and branch were healed, and reborn…

A new star was shining, on moon mother’s left side,
Its journey completed, lightly found in its place…
And with this as its knowing, tree stretched in it’s growing,
And said to its leaflings, it is time to begin…

Gareth Evans
September 2004

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Trivium

As I sit upon the leaves of Oak and look upon the Sun we spoke
In the grove and secret cave - I wonder when will it begin
The journey I know that comes with time - as wind will blow - as water to wine
The Stars have watched and waited for me
To gather up my experience and join the Sea.
The cradle of the Mother and sword of the Father
I await this journey into the timeless.

The year is changing now as ground turns to white
And winter creatures awake in the night,
As my shadow changes into emerging brilliance
And I fly with my newly spread wings.
Who will come to find me - who will tell me where to perch
And who will show me the path I search.
All I know is that I will fly - and that I will do until I die.
And after that will find the path that continues on
To where I began, waiting for the Moon and
knowing the journey will happen soon.

I take comfort in this new found Birth - a circle of life
That exists within Earth. Never again will I be alone,
Never again will I feel weak. There is an infinite core
of energy and lore - stories that passed down to the
young by old - will live forever - however they are told.

These are the lessons that I now await - understanding
that it is my fate - growth like the Great Redwood tree,
Straight to the heavens and deep inside of me.

Clover

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