Bardic Offerings M-N
MagicI ask myself in the dead of night
What is this magic what is this might
Is it the curse of an old wizened maid
With a twisted wand from hazel made
Or is it a potion from some secret blend
To alter another or their life just to end
Then maybe it's a spell or dire incantation
That weaves a web with no protection
Perhaps at some level this may, with strain
Effect a change, but then again
It isn't what I would call magic Magic for me is the first ray of dawn
It's a clump of daffodils in a country lawn
A childs first breath or a stormy sea
These hold so much more magic for me
A spiders web hung with dew
The tiniest egg that to human grew
But far away more magical than this
Was the moment our lips first touched in a kiss
Then my heart beat so fast I was happy to die
And my soul sang a song as it learned how to fly
And thats what I would call magic
Shaun William Hayes 2008
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Meadow’s Mist My soul longs for morning’s call
The peace that dimmed the day before
Again I seek with spirit above all The gentle mist over my meadow rests
The light of day still new
Offers her gifts to wandering guests Asking for wisdom to be whole
She chides me be still and feel her strength
Softly she guides home my soul Guy Jones 12 November 2005 Go to Title Index Go to Author Index |
Mochenddu I am Mochenddu,
Strong of limb, sharp of tusk,
Hairy of back, son of the forest,
Stout of heart, no fear have I,
The taunter of champions. Black in the thicket,
My eyes ablaze,
I await the men,
Spears glinting,
Their songs preparing them for,
Their fearsome task. I dance before them,
Tusks glinting in the moonlight,
I make merry sport,
And lead them into the wildwood,
Where I shall test their hearts,
And their high regarded honour. For many leagues I tease them,
Over rounded hill,
Through laughing water,
The heroes come,
No longer singing,
Thorn-bitten and weary. Then beneath the great oak,
And the cronking ravens,
I turn, I stand, Mochenddu
They await, heads bowed to me,
Before the final battle,
They make their peace. Bloody and famous are we,
I gore them, thigh to neck,
Shield smasher, spear breaker,
They pierce me, snout to tail,
Bold hunters, men of Cymru,
Sons of Cerridwen and Pryderi. They carry me home,
Shoulder high they honour me,
With songs of valour and glory,
Proud seat I have at the feast,
And listen to their tales,
Of the great Mochenddu Craig Go to Title Index Go to Author Index |
Mother of the Mounds Three faces, yet only one, twister of man’s fate
Weaver of destinies and breeder of futures
Creator and destroyer, guardian of journey’s beginning and end
Be-straddling the hearth at the border of the worlds Spawner of fire within the forge’s cold heart
Hammer pounds its staccato rhythm to the passing of life
Singing forth the steam’s hiss, into primeval darkness
Raising once again a sword, from stone’s fearful grasp Flowing waters feed the fount of life, surging onward
Past lives, recalled into the brooding lakes of the future
The cascading waterfall, veils your face, shielding the unwary
Guardian of the springs of inspirational gift and healing breath Cry of child, brought forth from your tended charge
Mother, Matron and Midwife, we sense you
Birthing Bloods and tides of life, to your heartbeat, flow
Healer of pains, bringer forth of life and spirit flame’s guide Maker of kings, you select , elect and direct their paths
Your line still courses deep, old blood, within women’s veins
Marry her and dominion is bestowed to the respecting
Neglect her and suffer the cold, slow, wrath of the betrayed Ashpretani Go to Title Index Go to Author Index |
My WheelsMy wheels turn a little too fast
My world passes by and I only catch a glimpse
of what was there Did I miss a joy or a laugh that was put there for me?
Am I still moving to fast to hear or see?
Was there a smile or a kind word for me,
Or one I was to give to someone in need? My wheels are still turning to fast
I will pedal a little slower Guy Jones (Hickory) Aug 2006 |
Mystic Glen Greenest glen, bedecked and jewelled with trees
Breathing dampened air down rocky throat
Ruffling, rustling through the valley’s hair
And living pillars of this sanctuary.
Then through the leafy fronds the fay-folk peer:
They watch our progress as we walk their path,
Their muffled laughter sings upon the breeze
Unsighted, though we sense that they are near.
Lush life and growth unfold within the glen:
Soft rugs of moss, and cliffs bedecked with fronds.
The stream runs, laughing, over rock and root,
So echoing the humour of our friends.
This mystic glen is rich in life and love
To fill our souls from both below ‘nd above
David Stone Go to Title Index Go to Author Index | Night VoyageTen moons now have brightened our bed.
I wake in the night and watch you drifting,
Cauled in blankets and the current’s rise-and-fall.
I curl myself up to you, headed
who knows where, on unseen seas.
Whose bed is it but ours,
my love, that smells of smoke?
Sage and willow and sea-myrtle,
they linger on your pillow,
they cling in your damp hair.
The sails of our ship are proofed
indeed with smoke and salt. Here,
we are safe. Let me be your steersman,
love, my hand on your side, sleeping,
steadying us where we ride
this dim grey wash of waves.
And overhead to guide us, white stars
Shall hunt and hover, and we’ll glimpse,
Slipping sheer through banks of cloud,
The sleek wet fur of the moon. Mark Wiliams Go to Title Index Go to Author Index |
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