The Morrigan

Often was I warned of walking your ways, all men said you’d end my days.

Mother of ravens, mother of night, I seek thee now with all of my might.

Lady of magic, the phantom Queen, lead me now in my dreams. Unto your side and unto your will, Queen of the aethers my heart fill!

Heaven’s Queen and mistress in hell, hear my words and hear them well. Be I chosen by your hand to die this day, that will be, come as it may.

You who know the hearts of men, seeker of right, o’er moors and fens. Listen now unto my voice, I find your gaze and I rejoice. 

Come oh lady dark and fair, come ye lady of the raven hair. Here I shall await for thee, lady come to set me free!

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This fickle mind of mine

Every day I reach to find the tumbling words of Imbass within my fickle mind.

But the day before twas burning bright, yet now the flame is dim beyond my sight. 

I stumble and misread, the embers that are reluctant to rise unto my most desperate need.

Far I search for flint and steel, the broken light within to tend and heal. 

But Imbass comes not at my behest, nor at the end of a long and fruitless quest. Rather rises the flame only at the lady’s bequest.

I bide the days by oak, circle and tide, I wander wither I am bid. Perchance upon a day to find the high house whither the copper cauldron of endless inspiration be hid and thus to at last bind, for once and all, my fickle mind.

Pain.

Pain, I don’t mind it, hell I’ll take it where I can find it.

The wracking pain of a body broken, reminds me that I live yet, there are still words to write and be spoken.

The stabbing hurt of a shattered heart, reminds that I have the capacity to love still despite all my emotion being natty and tattered.

The dull throb of a lost soul seeking teaches in time all the world’s wisdom through tears slowly leaking.

The joyous pain of needle on skin, to write my loyalty in ink unfading. Pagan proud my faith never shaking.

Pain is a teacher as and yet unlike any other.  Heed it well as a gift from the lady and mother.

Roses

Roses born of earth and seed, a sight to gladden any bitter heart. In all my life this truth have I learned, never should the love of a simple rose be spurned.

 The perfect and imperfect petals, each grown and nourished at need. All a gift of unique and sublime art, every one made from the Lady’s grace to turn and smile back upon the sun’s shining face.

I’ll take my imperfect roses any day, to charm and and gladden my love in every way, I shall at her feet, all my roses lay.

I’ll take the thorns and petals both, the stems be hard, wooden, a long and hard won growth.

For such is life my dear, perfection merely blinds us to seeing beauty clear.

Let me.

Lay the yoke across my shoulders dear. Long have you carried the weight alone. Yet your tired eyes be clear. Strong you are in hand and heart and bone.

Let me carry it for the final mile, stop and rest a while. Be free to find your love and smile.

Lay your problems at my door dear love. I shall ward you from them as a guardian from above. No matter what hardship at your walls and doors may shove.

Let me be your shield. Even before all the world’s wrath I shall not yield.

Bring to me all your scars dear heart. In sharing, healing of those cruel cuts might start. Though they be as deep as the sky upon a night black and dark.

Let me be your healer and confessor, no harm to you shall I abide, neither the greater nor the lesser.

Lady love, blessed dear, spirit free, I need no reason

Simply let me.

The round.

Come now and ring the cauldron round, here where secrets be told and truth be found.

Bar the line with salt from the sea, sweep the floor with a switch cut from a blasted wormwood tree. Sing the chant to close the way and on to see what is, was, and come as it may.

In the centre place the cauldron, scrubbed and blessed until it shines. Fill it to the brim with goodly herbs and finest wines. Dance the step aright, and ware of withershins, this is where the night’s magic begins.

In the shadows sway and prance, by the flicker-flame entranced. Be thee merry and be thee free. By the stars above let your pain off to fly, let go the holds that bind you. Let flow your tears and cry.

In the step find the grace, look upon the lady’s own fair face. Terrible and beautiful as the world in which she lives, hope and hate, light and dark all are the gifts she gives.

Take the bell and swing it round, that all who hear be blessed by its sound.

Now round again, the final pace, close the circle as it was opened, with love and will and no selfish desire base. Long hallowed may be this place.

Lay aside the bell and switch.

Know you are whole.

Lo and behold.

You are a witch.

Ritus et anima pagani.

I have no writ to bind my ways, no commandments to bind my days.

By clear conscience do I bide and blind unto the coming and going of the fickle human tide.

Do naught to harm and much to heal, this is the only and highest truth and strongest seal.

I need not the threat of a fiery pit to be fair unto all with whom I deal. This is the path I choose, of my own will, and that makes it bright and real.

I fear not the raven’s shadow, for my heart is light and free. In all things there is balance by light of three. Shadow, grey and light, ware how you deal unto me, lest my gods deal unto thee.

I need not sorrow for what is lost for my lady shall repair the cost. I fear no fire theft or winter frost nor need I repent at Arthur’s feast of pentecost. 

Whole and sufficient unto the day be the evil thereof as misfortune falls and heavy burdens downward shove. For gentle dreams await along with the lady’s strength and love.