The truth of the vine.

Birthed of earth is the blessed vine and from it in turn comes finest wine. In wine there is truth, and it is a truth of many things. In wine there is all of what life life brings.

From the sweetest wines we draw the truth of love and life and too the way to quarrel and hard-fought strife, to find that best lit corner of heart and hearth, to make peace and war bound in madness and in mirth. 

In the dry there is the taste of bitter and cruel defeat, mourning for the past before the altar or at death’s very feet but too of fine deep thought far and unto heaven cast in society of such wise ones as we may meet.

In the red there is the truth of blood, of all generations gone before, begotten in love and lust, and past, gone away and fell to dust. Too the tie of men unto the land and to the last, parted should he die for lack to break his fast.

In the white there we hold the truth of light and all things reborn as new and bold. Grown up from darkest earth and gladdened in the sun, thence unto winemakers hands and done within the bottle and unto tongue.

Proper rains and rich placed earth, bring vine and truth and wine forth unto birth, neath open sky and raven’s perch.

There the final truth of the vine, that all that would be must ever be born and grown and wrought and die in time to return once more unto the earthen womb to come again.

Advertisements

Peace within my garden, rest inside my home.

My hands they till this good earth, to bring forth beauty and what is of worth. At dawn to plant, at dusk to reap with such tools as is meet to use but ever are my hands the engine of creation in this little place and if lax in my care I seem give but time and a little bit of grace.

Black and red are the lands that I prefer, where always there be green, in spring and fall and high tide summer. The dry and sandy places, of my skill there I can find no traces.

But a poor druid am, I leave it unto others to bring forth Eden under barren desert sky.

Still my hands unquiet move, here to trim, there cut, there to prove. In my quiet little garden, I paint the world with blossom and with garland. 

I dream to bring forth here in this gentle place, the druids’ peace that transcends all of time and faith and race. 

Every life is welcome here, from those upon the wing to those who live below and never see the sky come clear.

Out among the roses do I bide in the quiet calm and wait for more to come. The lavender and mint and honey-mild bee balm. I have sown them all perhaps they’ll grow whether all or some.

Catnip brings those who go on fours, here they’ll keep the peace, there food enough indoors.

Snapdragons bleeding bright, draw all who seek rest and show the path aright. 

Here among the trees and light, no better temple could I ask, for the fostering of life is a good and holy task.

Welcome to Grove my little piece of home. Come and let be healed the hurts of heart and hand and bone.

Clouded dawn.

The dawn today is grey, angels’ tears stream down as diamond shards down from silver sky.

I lay back down to dream, yet unquiet, my mind worries at its every seam. I doze a while and silent, almost waking, drift that I mistake in the much fogged windows mists of elder times with mere muggy steam.

A raven bird circles yet on high, sure tis one of the Danna who knows the trick to fly. How far into fairy am I now become? Shall my feet yet bear me back from whence I come?

I leave my walls in slumber’s flight, now to the forgotten forest path and all is right.

I feel the earth and leaves shifting beneath my feet, sweet is the smell of deep earthen places an mist lay all about and too the song of owls my coming to greet.

I walk beneath the trees, high as temple arches, trunks of oak and birch, all I greet and on my dream-self marches.

I come then to a fork within my path, where withered crone leans upon her black, gnarled staff. Her have I seen here often times before, she often darkest council brings but catch her at her game and the heart for her blessing sings.

She points me to the ways and as the sighing wind, she speaks, one way to comfort and one way to toil for he who seeks. 

I know this trick, she tried it once before, the way comfort is but false, nought I so gain be earned.

I take the toiling path, as I shall again and more for all my lives returned. 

I doft my hat to you lady, well have I my lessons learned. 

The wheel of the world

Summer follows winter follows autumn and the spring. The wheel it turns and change is the only promise that it brings.

Time and time and time and time again, seed rises unto flower only bent to die again. Earthen beds they hold the wheel, to feel it’s turn and bid new life to rise again.

Ever does a bird take wing upon a breath of air that’s not been breathed before, first foul now clear? The air keeps to the wheel and whistles thundre’s score.

Within the deepest waters unseen that shall swallow one day, life yet swims, ever as the wheel, the end is where it begins.

Even fire with its burning pain and blight waken life from the ashes to set the wheel aright.

Wheel of seasons, wheel of worlds, ever onward fate and mischanced fortune twirls. 

Raise a voice,  a glass on high, toast the wheel of life afore we die.

Ever does it turn, what may be shall come to you upon its time. All things unto all life.

 Keep hope even as ye burn.

Hangover.

Well well well, it seems last night went right to hell! Off to my best liked bar and dressed unto the nines, what might go wrong apart from some speeding fines?

Now I wake and in the mirror stare. What ghastly horror waits for me there!

My eyes are red and one be blue, what manner of things, in the lady’s name, ever did I do? 

My back is full of needling spines, my throat only for sweet water pines. Surely some foul thief has speared me upon a knife of many tines!

I shuffle off, I might be sick, no breakfast shall I risk. I want to remember but I know just that the smoke was thick. I always remember! Damnit it’s my favorite trick!

My hand hurts too, my knuckles ache and shift and swell. Whoever I hit, I hope I hit him well! 

I know not truly what the night did hold yet somehow, when I think of it my smile is wide and bold. I’m pretty sure I kissed a girl and a fleeting beauty in my arms did fold.

Her perfume lingers yet upon my shirt, covered as it is with a bit of rain and a lot of dirt.

Come what pains they may, I think I’ll go again at dusk of day. If only to hear what the rumours of my name do say.

After all, for merry meet and memory new, tis but the price we pay. The drunkard’s due.

Askew.

Askew! Askew my works have gone! Withershins was cast the circle and broken all I’ve wrought.

I’ve lost the prize I sought to win, the lady’s heart, an now I stand in my chagrin. I must cast all away and return to where I did begin.

With breath born of blessed of air, I shall her praises and her virtues sing.

From the bussom of the sacred earth I shall flowers and goodly herbs till and bring.

By the holy flowing waters shall I change my glamoured face, that she love me anew and forget my tall disgrace.

Of the sanctioned beltane fire shall I offer all my life and passion, never to burn to ash or tire.

Askew all my world may be, but lady yet unchanged I seek my way to thee. Lady true, let us lay aside all ire an welcome be unto each the other. 

Now to peace and unto rest. I find succour and forgiveness at the lady’s breast. I come to you lady, you who above all other and all else I love the best.