Mead Making

The origins of the antiquated art of fermenting honey are lost in deep time. Where the first batch made it’s appearance, reported to be between 20,000 and 40,000 years ago, is a mystery buried in eons. Little chance exists that it will ever again be part of our living knowledge.

What remains to us, the process and practice of it’s making, forms a more direct connection to our history than any found among ancient texts. Consider that a brewer today may mistakenly ruin a batch in precisely the manner of a batch ruined 400 centuries ago. Difficult as it is for each to conceive the other’s existence, they are bound together by unbroken tradition.

With a history that can be measured in geologic time, it is right too that mead should derive from honey, the only food uncorrupted by passing years.

May Mabon bless the mead-makers of every age in turn, until the Cosmic day draws finally to it’s close.


Congratulations! (a diatribe)

I’d like to take a moment

and acknowledge the enormous success

achieved by those magnates of

modern industrial society.


The battle was by no means an easy one

opposed by truth at every turn

motivated by nothing more

than the desire for financial gain


What stunningly ingenious fabrications

cut from whole cloth

how reasonable their presentation

made them appear


Integrity, morality, ethics

unhesitatingly sacrificed

on a golden altar

in the name of wealth


What glittering wonders

of technology

sold at exorbitant prices

you can afford to buy!


Still, with overflowing billfold

what coinage is required

for the washing away of stain

from a corrupt heart?






Bearing Sunrise

Again, the circadian oscillation

rounds to blazing rays,

Again, body and mind

wake overfull of a pain

defying explanation, or remembrance,

Again, consciousness concludes it

imagination, errant nerve impulse

wounds dreamt of, yet never borne,

Again, wisdom raises voice,

counselling that wound causality

is dual, as much the result of inaction

as of wrong action,

Escaping such pain is the dream,

lacking the omniscience

to make no errs,

Living perfectly lies outside

human nature,

our purpose not to deny, lament our pains,

rather to learn from them,

Each sunrise,

brightened with unbound opportunity,

tasks each with bearing the joy,

of infinite possibility.