On my TV screen I watch a real time bus journey through green rolling hills. It’s so long since I saw a wide open field. I am jealous of all the passengers, though they ride around in a box.
in my silent room
here’s how the zoo lion lives
enclosed with no space
well worth a read – no shortage of wisdom here – let’s not say it’s impossible to change direction – change ethics and all else follows
Love the earth
As I write this, a brave group of Native Americans are standing in support of the earth and protesting yet another oil pipeline that threatens water supplies, health, and home. Here, we see the clash between those defending their mother in care and compassion, and those representing profit and pillage. It is in the care for our lands the tribes take a stand; it the understanding of sacred connection of all things, all life, that helps them brave the dogs, pepper spray, the intimidation and much worse abuses. In some ways, the situation unfolding in North Dakota is a representation of similar circumstances that peoples and communities find themselves all over the world facing: fighting giant corporations who seek to pillage and profit while paying little attention to the human and environmental costs involved in their actions. I believe that many of today’s problems stem from a…
View original post 2,194 more words
Hell happens when the evil of this world exceeds our belief that we can conquer it
I remember you little girl,
I remember you so well,
(still with a smile in my eyes)
and our home in the hidden hedgerow
and your pink tray with painted roses
you’d dragged from a tangled ditch
and scrubbed clean as a whistle
to serve me tea, one day, long ago,
when i returned from my wandering hunt
in the unfenced, treasure filled hills.
I remember your bouncing braids
as you ran and skipped on ahead,
to the shade of the bluebell woods.
I remember your chapped lips,
dry, from long summers suns;
the lips that i kissed so chastely
and thought it a daring deed
that I waited for days to repeat,
knowing you wanted me
to practice more kisses in play.
my princess of summer meadows,
my princess of virginal snows,
my princess of warm rains and ice,
my princess of the beckoning
who thought she was only a girl
we knew how to savour life
we knew how to live for one day,
and never for yesterday.
we only wished our tomorrow
to be the same as today,
in the simple trust that it would.
now, i remember you, little girl,
i wish that it always was
Spring was full of promise,
Summer bloomed forth and shone,
But, with the coming of Autumn,
The blossom I thought would bare fruit,
was the last to be stripped away.
I wonder what Winter will bring
a fae should never wear feathers
they would float much too far off the ground
they’d soon blow away and might not get back
that’s what the old wives say
*****
don’t drag people down rabbit holes
until you’ve been there and back by yourself
*****
meddling with magic has unforeseen results
thinking you’re clever is the act of a fool
wizards and chess masters think they see all
but they have no control of the stars
*****
if you live in stone houses
don’t cast the first glass
we are all far too fragile for that
looking tough never works
when you’re shattered
false dignity makes it worse
*****
I am not wise
I’m an idiot
So I never bother with fools
Some people share joy, some spread defeat,
By placing small obstacles under our feet.
Any small weapon for them will suffice,
Any device that comes to their hand
Will be used with full force when they can.
I’m flat on my back, stunned, on the floor,
but I too have a weapon, I dream in the dark,
so I’ve turned off the lights and opened the door.
Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out
And that’s never been what this house is about
Words have been spoken that filled me with doubt,
Thoughts have been scattered and tumbled about,
They crept round our building dispelling delight.
The carpet was swept from right under our feet,
So I stare at the ceiling and wonder all night
What we ever did to cause such dislike.
Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out
And that’s never been what this house is about
Act what you say,
Say what you act,
Say to our face
What you say to our backs.
We will still party,
Despite your attacks.
If the cap fits wear it.
We know how you are.
Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out.
That’s never been what this house is about
There are dark days ahead for us all.
Storm clouds hang close above.
I see how the stars, revealing the map,
have slowly extinguish your eyes.
The future seems something to dread
when your planets never align.
Come sit here a while, and rest.
The road has been long and you’re tired
and you lost many friends on the path.
You’re the last of the fruit of your family tree.
Yes. Finally. Yes. The last.
Every day it’s the same
empty house, old dreams, gathering dust,
you don’t trust anymore in the point of this game.
It would be so damned easy to quit.
Come sit here a while, and rest.
Look into the flames of this fire,
this fire that burns so bright,
red embers that glow in the night.
There are voices hovering near.
Loved ones are never lost.
They are one sidelong step out of sight.
Come sit by me here, in the light.
nice article that arrived in my inbox today – and illustrated by the wonderful Brian Froud, who really knows what The Gentry look like :)
Painting by Brian Froud
I’ve been looking into old faery lore lately. Not the sanitised Victorian version of miniature winged beauties, but at the old tales of strange encounters, customs that go back beyond memory, time lost in the faery realm and the darker aspects of the hidden folk. At the instigation of my writing partner, I watched a documentary and, amongst a few other ideas, one in particular got me thinking. The suggestion was that if faeries do not have a concrete and objective reality of their own in our world, but do exist for us in the realms of imagination, perhaps imagination itself is a state of being we do not fully understand, bridging the gap between our usual vision of reality and unreality in a way that has a validity of its own. As a concept, and after years of working with magical systems, that…
View original post 949 more words
A storm was above and the wind was intense,
Rattling resistant windows,
It battered against the glass,
Salt patina crazed, obscuring the view.
The sea wall boomed, a dark drum.
The rocks, veiled by mussel shell
Opening wide to the tide,
Lay hidden beneath the wild surface
Of broiling and tumbling water
Turned in a pool of cross currents
The fog horn sang out
Above the deep throated echo of sirens
Who lure sailing men to their sea graves.
The tides of the turn leave us debris,
Strange treasures with rope and mast beams,
Blue glass rolled smooth by long tides,
Smashed shells and well polished pebbles.
Fragments of cuttlefish bone.
After the storm we gather them home
To make decorative frames for our mirrors
All our mirrors face out to the ocean.
Wind chimes of shells hang in the light.
Cuttlefish carved into faces unknown
Hang from blue string on our walls.
The storm did no damage at all.
The Dreaming Path 