about 90 on-line articles about archaeology, folklore and mythology
via this link http://www.indigogroup.co.uk/edge/
Author: A. Gouedard
Mystified
How do people fall in love?
Is it purely chemistry?
How does that work
When you can only feel an atmosphere?
Body language, eyes,
A smile at all the right moments.
But more than this it must be.
All meetings are by chance
So how is one more meaningful than another?
Instantly and mutual.
With friends it’s all we have in common
That makes and holds us, long or short,
But love? We fall before we even know.
The head may struggle to hold back
But the heart is already given,
And who can ignore the heart.
So without a metaphor or rhyme
I ask myself these questions.
The older I grow the less I really know.
No certainties any more.
I am mystified.
My heart is not.
Distraction
i write
she sits by the fire
stretched on a rug
smiling
i try to write
how distracting
how beguiling
the bees in their hives
lazily buzz
outside the cottage door
my pen drips honey
sticky, sunny, runny
not a word reaches the page
i stare at the page
keep glancing at her
remembering moonlight
starlight
firelight
last night
and honey
always more honey
Pan is out there
in the garden again
spreading his scent
in the air
the sweet floral notes
that play
with his deep musky darkness
wafts through the window
the silver bells
on her ankles jingle
as she uncrosses her legs
she is dreaming
i watch every movement
her toes to her thighs
they invite me
delight me
excite me
unwrite me
Pan
Pan hides in suburbia
But he stalks the midnight streets
Bringing amorous dreams
With secret smiles.
Some people say he is dead
They must have no sense of smell.
Some say he’s the devil
To tempt you into hell
But I know he is magic.
I heard his thrilling music
As it flew along the wind.
I fell under his spell.
He got in my hair and tangled it,
He made me feel free and real,
He whispered on my skin.
There is no danger in Pan.
He brings nothing but good,
Pleasure is no sin.
Pan never caused a battle
Or shattled anyones feet,
He dances with joy
In a dervish whirl more wild
Than a tornadoes spin
And brings in a summer breeze.
He sets all the leaves to dancing
And flickering with beautiful light
High up in the branches of trees.
He makes brooks babble
And babies laugh at nothing.
He shines in lovers eyes.
If more people followed Pan
The world would be more wise
Old West Country Customs
I have added some videos on my Driftwood page – including the Padstow ‘Oss on the second link there
Gannets
in an empty room
i held my breath
in silence
with thoughts of a lonely granite rock
far out to sea
where the cry of birds is deafening
where the surf spray rises in air
and the high sky above is grey
A poem by Tamara
Old shell
Empty shell covered with wrinkles
Pearl shine brushed away by winds and tears.
Drops of memories dried by layers of sand.
Sad eyes looking blindly over my shoulders.
I stop and stretch one arm forward.
Touching the white unnourished locks.
Sudden rush of images inside dead eyes.
A smile between the drapes looks surreal.
Little sound comes out of the bottomless cavern.
Fragile like the fairies wings
Sparkling like children voices on the snow.
Just one smile, filled with tender memories.
Short.
Gone.
Silence is back inside the empty shell.
(This was written by Tamara, not me – having seen, through a window, an old woman out in the winter street)
There is a Love, Like No Other
There is a love, like no other
I try to find the words to tell
It swells the heart
And swims in the throat
A golden burst
Both high and deep
More than passion
It glows, not burns
Soft and wild
Sublime embrace
That reaches out
Explodes, yet stays within
It reaches for the Universe
Strong and peaceful
Always growing, always huge
Yet dwells inside a human heart
Heart-long-leap
Boom-gush-torrent
Doors flung open
Wide and warm
No touch or kiss
Can quite express it
I need a word that says all this
But I can only call it Love
Old Man Willow
I am Old Man Willow
I nurture bees
I am called The Honey Tree
I am loved by Thrush and Hawk
The Cat and Hare confide in me
I shelter Mistletoe and Primrose
Primrose juice inspires the Bard
I gave dreams to Orpheus
I am of the Sacred Grove
Honoured in the Wisdom Old
To talk to me, it is not hard.
I am home to resting Cranes
Who like to build their nests nearby
Together we will bring good fortune
And many stories we enfold.
I protect the rivers banks
I am first and last in leaf.
Rest by me
Come give me thanks
I soothe all grief
Lay beneath me
Watch the shadows
And the flickering of Sun
Filter through my sighing branches
I am Old Man Willow
You need have no fear of me
If you walk gently, kindly, in the wood
And damage not any tree
We talked to our kids about souls
hard to be a parent sometimes when they ask these questions but good for your own clear thinking and lovely too, especially when years later you realise they took all you said on board and kept it
(except my son wanted to come back as a teddy bear and i imagine he must have changed his mind about that by now)
Swinging Bridge at Babcock State Park, West Virginia
“Hey Mom, are trees living things or living beings?”
Our nine year old son looked into the forest then up at me as we hiked side by side along a gurgling brook. His dad and sister walked a few steps ahead of us. Upstream was the Glade Creek Grist Mill in West Virginia, a rustic wooden building with a pitched roof. Today its wet planks were framed by yellowing autumn trees.
“I guess that depends on what you mean by living being,” I said. “I think of a being as — ” I tried to think of words that would be familiar to him. I failed. “As a sentient being — something that has a soul.” The path was littered in gold, red, and toast brown leaves, and I kicked at a drift with my leather hiking shoe.
“Personally, I think of trees…
View original post 937 more words
The Dreaming Path 