Beltane 2005

What I have left to strike a spark
is just a book of grayed and dusty matches;
not much good at dispelling dark
when the flint is reduced from ancient scratches
where once I sought to catch a fire
against the troubled wind of youth,
fueled with some bottomless desire
to speak for Beauty, Love and Truth.

It seems as though my kindling’s turned to rot,
soaked through with time’s stale sweat;
even the bark has curled where water has got
and turned the umber wood to jet.
Still, there is quite enough spare chaff,
cast off from years of gleaning grain,
swept up against my mind’s baseboards
to feed a bonfire, this Beltane.

As summer brings its sweltered breath
again, and warms my arid bones,
I will return from Winter’s death
and on my hilltop, stand alone
while the flames lick the turgid sky
with their caress of wild desire;
in that bright light, the world and I
are spark and tinder, fuel and fire.

29 APR 2005

Share This:

A Beltane Blessing

There is a fire inside you that must not
be extinguished. From the heart comes the spark
that lights your life. Once gone, it can’t be bought –
and you will have left only the cold dark.

It is this flame we nurture at Beltane,
echoed in each pyre on lonely hilltops,
rejoicing as the pale winter months wane
and the earth begins to sprout our new crops.

It lights a heat in the belly and heart,
a great force of both life and destruction,
giving us both freedom and self-control,

a glimpse beyond our sense of beauty’s part
in the wide world’s method of construction,
and with its touch, centers us in the whole.

01 MAY 2003

Share This:

A Druid Reflects on Patrick’s Sainthood

I won’t march in your drunken green parades,
nor think of your name when I spy clover;
I’m tired of these cruel lies and the charades –
it won’t be my eyes your wool pulls over.

For I am of the breed of snakes you fought
and drove from Erin’s shores in ignorance,
when with a blessing of my blood you brought
your cursed words of sin to my Beltane dance.

You stole my history, my country’s soul,
and yet, your patriarchal leaders boast
that somehow you redeemed our sacred isle.

May your eyes be lain with live, burning coal;
in the Hell you created may you roast.
I shall think of that scene in March, and smile.

07 MAR 2003

for Live Journal user estersin

Share This: