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!
Silvered, circled glass, ringed by places high, as fine a place to live as to bide.
An eye to stare unto the aether and endless spaces, moved by moon-tide and kissed by whispered winds alone.
Beneath the glass lies who knows what may, iris by light and pupil black at dark of day. Glamours to charm and beasts by droves to slay.
Lost and by all time forgot, all the deeds of Lords begot, the wending depth-bound way hither conjures my thought this day.
In clear waters to forget of rage and woes, to find again my way to gentler roads, to twine thought with stream and become as one and pass as it may go. Flowing back unto glories past and foretold.
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.
I probably harp on about this too much but after reading the news today felt this was important enough to post both here and on my opinion blog. Please read and react to this. Keeping quiet will lead to disaster.
This is about double standards. I have recently noticed in the news that there are serious double standards when it comes to what is considered racism and hate speech.
One Capetown resident is facing prosecution over calling out a mosque over the noise it generates on a daily basis. Understandable when a Christian is forcibly exposed to the rituals of another faith, though very poorly executed and rudely stated.
Another has already been fined huge amounts for saying that beechgoers acted like monkeys over the December holidays. Whether racially motivated or not, it was an accurate description given the state of the beaches as pictured on their Facebook page (since removed). It should also be noted that not all beachgoers were black.
However, at the same time an “artist” is being allowed to display plainly racist “art” which consists of wrapping things and obese people in black and white tape with the slogan FUCK WHITE PEOPLE written repeatedly all over it.
Despite numerous protests from members of both white and black communities the display has been continued and lauded as some “wonderful form of raising awareness”. I say to you plainly, this is bullshit.
If I am not allowed to insult you based on your race religion or creed then you may not do the same to me. Nor is it in any way acceptable to insult a race in general. Had that message been reversed to say “FUCK BLACK PEOPLE” I can personally guarantee that the so-called artist would never stand trail, because they’d be lynched long before the got to a court.
I ask all true artists, please, do not use cheap methods such as politically sensitive subjects just to gain a few moments of fame. You have no idea of the harm it causes to an already fragile country nor of the animosity it stirs up between races that are struggling to reconcile themselves with eachother.
Controversy is not art.
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 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.
Procrastination is most definitely my vocation. No matter where I am I’m always on vacation.
I can while away my hours thinking up schemes and building sky castles with lots of turrets and towers or lay down in the swaying grass to imagine the smell of flowers.
But give me a job and a pen, oh watch me scuttle about then! I should have hidden in my blanket-built den.
I adore the quiet hours of idle contemplation, where in my brain I solve all the problems of ever single nation.
Everyone thinks at work I’m quick and sure, the truth is I work fast to return and succumb to daydream’s lure.
My secret is out, now everyone knows, I wish to be outside dreaming of watching the flying crows and to let my spirit wonder where the river flows.