The Pagan Poem

Come,

Sit by the bright, bright fire,

Your eyes show all who look,

that you are tired,

What’s this?

You’re shivering with fear?

Know now that,

Naught pursues you here,

The dark forest where you felt alone,

Is to us a sacred grove,

The beasts that yowled and those that cried,

Announced to us that you’d arrived,

That clamor that the wild things made,

Was a welcome to you that they gave,

Freely enter the stone circle if you like,

None are barred except by choice,

Of judgement we will extend none,

Druids offer only love.

 

 

Lost Children of Science

To the lost Children of science,

sequestered in sterile labs,

untouched by solar rays,

toiling to decode the nature of life,

Beyond Your high walls,

each tree, each flower,

intone pheromone answers,

to all Your many questions,

in their silent language,

offering truths deeper,

than any that can be contained,

within a spoken word.

Sowing

Kneeling in the damp soil

dirty fingers gently make holes

for seeds.

Across the road

a construction crew builds

many houses.

Like me they sweat

mud-spattered and muscle sore

from the labor.

Like me they believe

what they do is right, is good

they are not evil men.

They began their work

in a copse of trees which had to be removed

allowing space for building.

Mine began

on a small, sandy patch of ground

where sparse grass grew.

They cut trees

dug stumps

preparing the land.

I spread depths

of mulch and  compost

preparing the land.

From the high seats

of diesel excavators

they waved hello.

My bare feet

damp and connected to the earth

I smile and wave back.

 

The Last Butterfly

Deep in a dark wood

cloaked from prying eyes

seven Druids with bowed heads

circled the last butterfly,

The seven prayers spoken

were older than old

in a language long silent

heard here and no more,

each of the seven

who stood vigil there

saw one last tiny wing-flutter

the enchantment was gone,

of the seven Druids

no more may be spoke

when the butterfly passed

each one became smoke

 

 

 

 

 

Mage

A mage

and One who isn’t so,

the only difference

what each knows,

No genetic heredity

gives birth the Mage’s ability,

while passing by

Her mundane Sister,

It’s a skill

that can be learned,

a Mage’s power

must be earned,

The mystery schools,

of long ago

taught each apprentice,

this was so

this lesson must be,

carefully sown

lest the knowledge thought,

to be theirs alone

The key to any,

mystic door

lies within,

the reach of all

This truth of course,

was always known

for as it is above,

so it is below.