VOTE! 2010 SAMHUINN/BELTANE LONG POEM

[Earthwoman]

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[Fox of the Oaks]

Bugs in the Lawn

Bugs in our lawns, you have your place,
Please overlook it, if we shrivel our face
Upon seeing you; we know you are right
In dwelling down low, so keep to your plight.

On behalf of my species, I apologize,
For acting under sway of our orderly eyes,
In keeping our gardens so neat and tidy,
In using that lawn-mower, it's our 'duty', you see...

A discordant dance of mechanized forms,
Descending upon our silver frost lawns,
Spreading their stinking petroleum smell,
Slashing and cutting, a pre-harvest fell.

Leaving none taller than that notch always says,
Wire-blade under force of fuel, spins and it slays,
Paving our days with neat grounds and ordered paths,
Moulding the melody of our garden's sweet laughs.

The first inch is a shelter for all manner of bugs,
The second a war zone not safe, not even for slugs.
It's all done, the work, for the gardener's top pay,
Grass kept at level to the serpents' dismay.

Where will the wild world go,
When all the grass is shorter than a toe?
Where will our children know,
The many faces that Nature does seasonally show?

What's more, these days the lawn is plasticized,
Bought at the store for $19.99.
But I say such cents spent lack sense,
Earth cannot breathe under such imitation vents.

And bugs cannot eat those hydro-carbon polymers,
Without ending their days feeling sorry and worse,
And when bugs feel that way, at the end of the day,
How feel the birds that eat them and say:

"Oh these bugs taste like plastic,
On that green stuff that smells sick.
Oh I'd rather the lawn fed bugs any a day,
But now all those humans don't want it that way.

If only they'd learn, they'd save themselves fuss,
If they'd accept Nature's beauty, her natural rough,
They could live finely with us, in the greatest of field,
Eating all wild things, that She freely does yield."

[Mellinda]

Stones of Mystery

Such a dark night, a strong north wind is blowing
Moonlight illuminating the stones, casting shadows
I stand here by the whispering Knights
The wind whistling over the warn stones
Do they notice me I wonder?
Heads together, standing deep in thought
I wonder what they are whispering about
Lost loves and battles won
Are they waiting as I am? On this dark night

I gaze out over the scene that now unfolding before me
Sounds echoing and bouncing from stone to stone
The wind blowing in my face, hair blowing in my eyes
My cloak flapping in the wind around my feet
I hear music dancing and singing
Voices chanting, coming my way
Closer and closer they come, getting louder
They are here, time to stop my wondering thoughts
Drums now beating out a rhythm, vibrating on the air

I leave the knights still whispering
I make my way to the gathering below
Shadows dancing to the left and right of me
Figures in warm cloaks of many colours seen
Red, blue, black, purple and green
Glimpses of white robes showing beneath
One man is clothed all in white, shinning in the moonlight
As they proceed along the path to the gathering site
Pausing a moment at the old Oaks

The dancing stops, the drums are silenced
The singing now no more, we walk hand in hand
As we enter the gate, the stones now standing before us
We take a candle one by one
The candles are lit and placed by the king’s men
Every stone now bathed in flickering candlelight
Except for one, the largest stone, alone and tall
The Kings Stone, standing proudly
Looking down on his Knights and men

The figure of a man clothed all in white, now moves
In a silent Procession in sets of two
We follow closely behind
Slowly making our way along the path
He turns and walks up to the Kings Stone
Bows and places a large candle in front on the ground
Lighting the candle he chants a greeting and gives an offering
Then turns and we walks back slowly to the Kings men
The Kings men look on silently as we pas them
Silently we walk to the Stone circle below


Everyone now makes a circle within the stones
Linking hands we stand, feeling the energy all around
Turning we look at the man in white shining in the moonlight
The Grand Druid Is standing there in the middle
With a long white hair and beard
His staff laying at his feet on the ground
His fine Robes of white dancing in the wind
On his head he wears a crown made of Oak leaves
In his hand he holds a silver sword, he points it to the sky

The blade shining in the candlelight
He speaks words of wisdom and blessings
As we standing here with arms held high
Trying with all our might to reach the sky
Arms high stretching to touch the moon this night
I’ve never seen a moon so big and bright
Glowing with a faint haze as on this night
Shinning down on all within this sacred sight
Bathing us all in its moonlight

As we stand here, gazing up at the stars
The air is fresh; we breathe in deeply savouring the moment
Oh such a sight, we have seen on this blessed night
Candle lights dancing around the stones
Casting shadows of the Kings men on the ground
The Kings Stone standing tall and aloof
Gathered here at this special site we feel the magic all around
As we all join in chanting the Awen thrice
Here at the Rollright Stones on this dark moon lit night

Edited and revised verses 10.10.10
L F Tallis/Mellinda ©2010
Entered in BS before

[meicalabawen]

rain falls through

rain falls through
where the roof is not
onto the patio

i try to keep it dry
i brush water off
i rearrange leaves
i push my will into play

you cry your will
against mine

let me in
no
let me in
no, not until you try
no

rain pours through
where your mind is not
onto our lives

i try to keep you dry
i brush water off
i rearrange leaves
i push my will into play

you try your will
against mine

let me in
no
let me in
no, not until you try
no

rain seeps through
where our joy is not
onto our hearts

i try to keep us dry
i brush water off
i rearrange leaves
i push my will into play

you ply your will
against mine

let me in
no
let me in
no, not until you try
no

and still the rain falls through

[wyeuro]

tammy's time machine

tammy built a time machine
to take her back and forth
along the time continuum
to anywhere on earth.

it was a rather good one;
she’d found the kit on-line.
she bought one for her nephew, too –
‘twas such a good design.

she screwed the parts together
and then she plugged it in
got snug inside the driver’s seat
and took her for a spin.

she set the dial for ancient gaul
a thousand years bc
a flash, a zoom, a swish, a whisk,
and there at once was she.

she climbed out of the time machine
and had a look around
and praised the tidy villages
and farmlands that she found.

she liked their torcs and brooches
and she praised their nice clean clothes
she much admired their dancing
and their noble solemn oaths.

they gave her mead and honey comb
and came to wave good-bye -
when it was time for her to leave
there was not one dry eye!

then she got in and set the dial
for home, and with a grin,
she tried to start, but oh alas -
the thing was not plugged in!

the thing was not plugged in at all
nor e’er could be, my dears -
there’d be no electricity
for near three thousand years.

so she’s still there, in ancient gaul,
her time machine is rusty
with toadstools sprouting up inside
all dark and dank and musty.

her camera’s still all right, she’s got
exclusive footage there
which we will never see because
she can’t come home to share.

so now she lives there, in the past,
and earns her keep, what’s more.
she’s teaching future history
and dining on wild boar!

[Fitheach]

KERNOW

Magic Land of Giants, Pixies, Witches, Druids
Buccaneers and pirates roam the rocky coasts
Where tin miners work deep within the earth
And every inn and public house is full of ghosts

Kernow, of stone circles and of cromlechs
Merry Maidens dancing to a piper’s tune
Those in need crawl through a holy stone
The rite of Men a Tol, a healing boon.

Saint Michael’s Mount, an emerald gem,
A holy island in the crescent of Mount’s Bay
Lleu, the Sun God blesses pilgrims, where
A cobbled underwater path leads the way

Pilgrims visit Holy wells, portals to the underworld
Guarded by Goddesses transformed to clootie trees
We tie our ribbon petitions to their limbs
And their blessings, in return, bring us ease

A land of ruined castles and broken abbeys
Their high roofless walls, now a flower bed
We wander through the tumbled stones
And pay our tribute to the mighty dead.

Stately manors, expansive gardens
Picnicking on Bonython’s grounds
Where once stood an ancient abbey
Some can still hear the monkish sounds

Merlin’s magic raised the Dragon’s Breath
To transform King Uther at Tintagel
The magic can still be felt in Merlin’s Cave
Every shining stone contains his Druid spell

Some say Arthur takes the shape of a chough
And others say he is hidden beneath the land
Does his spirit fly swift and free across Cornwall
Or does he sleep under hill with his war band?

Hidden in a church, high in Zennor
Sits a chair dedicated to a Mermaid
Legendary tale about two lovers, from
Different worlds, yet they were unafraid

A cozy home along the lanes of Bude
An obscure artist who was not regaled
Pamela Colman Smith, retired from the world
And now her Tarot imagery is being hailed.

Darker places, hidden in the moors
Outlaws, dreaded wreckers of infamy
Du Maurier’s eerie epic, Jamaica Inn
We peer into maritime calamity

Sacred pools deep within the forest glade
Stone built Chapels in the Greenwood
Where still is worshipped St. Modron, and
Her older version, Morgan, once stood

Cornwall lies along Saint Michael’s line
St. Elen of the Roads led the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Mary and Michael weave entwined
And at every step upon the path, we pray

The food itself is magic in Cornwall
Every bite is rich and tasty
From their elegant Cornish Tea
To a roadside Cornish pasty

So many treasures in Cornish shops
I haunted every street and bazaar
I found two Cornish tin figurines -
The God and Goddess at the Healing Star

Returning home at last, the emblematic Chough
Red legs dancing in the wind as they fly
To protected homes along the rocky cliffs
Their red beaks emitting a joyous Corvid cry

Along the way, I met many sages
Who offered their visions of the land
Mara, Ley Hunters, Cheryl Straffon
Who taught from forest to sea strand

My final tribute to Cornwall’s Mage
Hamish Miller was his name
Artist, blacksmith, writer, dowser
May his brilliant legacy remain

My Cornish journey finally neared its end
Last night in Penzance, where to go?
So, I drank a pint in every pub, from
Turk’s Head to Admiral Benbow

[Earthwoman]

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