VOTE! 2010 BELTANE/SAMHUINN LONG POEM ENTRIES

[Earthwoman]

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[Fitheach]

The Moon in a Tree

I found the Moon up in a Tree
Caught within the boughs
I reached up high to set her free
Standing on my toes.

All that night, the Tree held tight
And wouldn’t let her go
I struggled with all my might
We swayed to and fro

At last the Faeries from the Glade
Came tripping through the wood
The King and Queen came to our aid
And under Tree we stood

They formed a fragile fairy stair
Out of stardust and moon beams
The moon descended, pale and fair
The mistress of our dreams.

A Faerie fiddler struck a tune
And set the Tree a-dancing
The silver lady of the Moon
Joined him in his prancing

At last the sun began to wake
And the moon began to pale
At Moonset, the tree did ache
For his true love, he did wail.

The moon was free to make her round
On her daily sojourn
From dark to light, she was bound
Before she could return

But true love can never die
And the Moon will rise again
Tree stood sentinel under Sky
Until his heart, Moon would mend.

[Mellinda]

My Poem 2010-04-07
Easter Monday my husband and I went to The Rollright Stones it was a very cold wet windy day

They inspired me to pen this Poem

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 there 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 around my feet
I here music 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, on this dark night

I leave the knights still whispering
I make my way to the gathering
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
Bowes 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 approach

Everyone now makes a circle within the stones
Linking hands we stand like the stones
Turning we look at the man in white
The Grand Druid with long white hair and beard
Is standing there in the middle
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
And in his hands he holds a sword, he points it to the sky

The blade shining in the candlelight
He speaks words of wisdom and blessings
We standing there with arms held up high
Trying with all our might
Stretching arms high to touch the moon this night
I’ve never seen a moon so big and bright
Glowing with a faint haze as on this sacred night
Shinning down on all within the circle
Bathing us all in moonlight

As we stand here, gazing up at the moon
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 moonlit night

By Mellinda April 2010



Sorry about all the editing, correcting spellings I have dyslexia lol

[Dragonwyst]

This was written for homework for one of my writer's group meetings. One of the topics offered was 'houses' so I looked at it from a different perspective. The Sestina is a form used by old French troubadours. It obeys strict rules regarding line length and repeating of certain phrases/lines in the correct order, thus making it a bit like a challenging word game.

Houses on the shore - a sestina

There is a place where houses may be found.
Their colours, often gentle on the eye,
Adorn their sweeping curves and pleasant lines.
And often where the wavelets greet the palm
They may be found aplenty on the shore -
These homes for crab and snail, both great and small.

Now as I paddle where the waves are small
I gaze at all the treasures I have found.
How much I love the wonders of the shore!
How very pleasing to the artist’s eye
The stones and shells that lie upon my palm.
How surely they inspire poetic lines.

The morning sun reveals the snail’s lines
Across the pristine beach. This one so small,
This monopodal artist in my palm,
Has left a map. Whatever may be found
Depends upon the sharpness of the eye
That might discern the wonders of the shore.

There, glinting in the sunlight on the shore
Where waves have left their tidal marking lines
The little houses rest, and grab my eye.
I marvel at the details, and how small
The dainty red ones are that I have found,
These tiny homes that rest upon my palm.

To hold a little house within my palm
Is marvellous. And here upon the shore
A home of sorts for me can, too, be found.
The walls are marked by the horizon lines.
So spacious is this home, and I so small,
And gazed upon with warmth, the sun an eye.

Perhaps these thoughts are merely in the eye
Of the beholder. And here on my palm
Rest nothing but some seashells, quaint and small,
That I have found along the golden shore.
Yet my mind lingers on along these lines
That these are someone’s houses I have found.

I cast my eye along this pleasant shore:
There stands a palm, and patient fishing lines,
And freshly-washed small houses to be found

[kitkalas]

Through Which All Things Pass

Crawling, grabbing
From within my muscles
Pulling at sinews
Half woken, half made
Golems of possible selves
Called up from their quiet
By each thought that breaches my senses
Snatches of sound
Breaths of vision
Callings of scent
Lingering taste
Pungent touch
The ritual and the litany
Of the world upon me
A living suggestion

Wraiths and shadows
They are summoned up only to fall
Sometime-shapes
Never-shapes
No time to discover a purpose for themselves
Before they are churned back under
By the senses' next advance
In brief lives they call out with a wildness
At the possibility of persistence
Each cry building on their chorus
Of garbled divinations

I go about the business of my proper selves
Weary and worn companions
Who know their right places
And how they are to guard them
Those skins that cover me in human shapes
Remind me that strength is on their side
Because my heart is with them
Though I might walk from time to time
In those half-made shifting forms
They stand ready
To call me back from my flights
Gently, patiently, knowingly
Reminding me that I forged them
For paths
That need walking
Watches
That need standing
Others
That need honoring

The wild throng of a thousand maybe-selves
They are just sublimations
Rising vapors from the living stone of me
Instructive
Like all echoes and ashes can be
As I calcine, condense, distill
...and inevitably putrefy
Transmuted and recombined
By my contact with the ever-becoming world
Yet never arriving
Never resting
At some distant weightless divinity

The constant parade
Of purifying flames
The sages bring forth in their turn
Burn or warm me
Raising their own dancing shadow-selves
Upon my inner walls
None ever providing a clearer light
Than cast by my churning alchemy
Pantomiming hints of it's own secret opinions
That the unifying principle
The joiner of opposites
The orderer of chaos
That these torch-bearers have groped
For a thousand lifetimes to unmask
Is really the crucible itself
Into which they pour, pummel and burn their labors
And disregard in their wonder
At the rising smoke

[seabhac star]

AWENYDD ( The Essence )

Oak Tree stands…
His roots stretching deep into the cold , frozen bank.
Limbs posed to sweep Heaven’s subtle Fire.
Grey is the hour among the peeling bark, gold wreathed bough
And spiny white of Winter’s forest places.
Quiet.
Still.
A breeze, and tiny scales of snow silently cascade to the ochre,
leaf strewn floor.
Weathered and furrowed wooden fingers are quiescently
turned to fetch the daintily descending play of flakes.
Laughing, the cold creek passes into hidden places,
He bends away and turns along- glad in summer, chilled
and hollow in the haunted winter.
Snakes of sleet slide through the naked canopy
hissing amid stone and tree,
a serpentine liquid muse.
It passes quickly as if it had not been-
Stillness returns- silence.
Droplets, like stars, hang from elfin saplings.
The forest transforms:
Bole and bramble, root and wand shifting shape
into a mighty wooden hall.
Emerging from the lattice of limbs,
Round portals peer into another world still
veiled ‘neath the Gossamer of disbelief,
a lichen headed augury beyond the snow brushed
knees of trees.
Birds awing above,
Burrowers asleep below-
The Fox, the Hawk, the Sparrow.
These and more come and go in this secret kingdom.
A leaf.
A breeze.
The creek bends.
The rain falls.
And suddenly…

MAGICK.

An oak tree stands… his roots stretching deep
Into the cold, frozen bank-
Limbs posed to sweep Heaven’s subtle fire…

[Earthwoman]

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