Crone

I am the last of the three
and the power in me
is the power of time
that crumbles all,
the power of root,
that carves all,
the power of wind,
that wears all.

I will walk through
the dark of the year,
and you will hear
my footsteps echo
on hard ground,
and my words will
whisper in the whirling wind.

I am the last of the three,
the one who bears
the winding sheet,
the one who stands
in the doorway,
and my strength is
the strength of the
tree enduring,
the fire burning,
the storm raging,
the night consuming.

Happy Samhain, Halloween, Day of the Dead, whatever. Bjorn has asked us to write from the point of view of a monster. I’m paying tribute to the third, and darkest, aspect of the triple goddess – the Crone. Hard to love a crone.

Head over to dVerse for some spooky Halloweeny poetry…

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NaPoWriMo 19 – a creation myth

The Orchard

I see her standing
in her orchard,
one small pip,
shiny brown, resting
in her right hand.

All around, the trees stretch out
as far as far, and there is birdsong
and the drowsy drone of sleepy wasps.

Apple trees don’t grow true from seed.
She knows this. And the fact
that you must plant 10,000 pips
to win the prize: a tree worth keeping –
an apple worth the eating.

So, she’s half laughing at herself,
but plants it anyway,
pressing it gently
into the nurturing soil.
Then waiting. She has time.

Warming it with the wild sunshine
of her joy. Watering it
with the soft raindrops of her love.

Dreaming that this could be the one
the tree that grows the perfect orb –
green flecked, and russet,
maybe clouded, wet with dew,
smelling of wholesomeness.

An apple to be held gently
and with respect – the flesh
of apples bruises easily –
an apple to be shared,
sweet as laughter,
with a tang of something longed for.
An apple to be loved.

I see her sitting, waiting,
in her orchard, patient
as eternity. Trees stretch out
all around. Blossom glints white
here, see, and there, shining
in the great darkness of infinity.

NaPoWriMo has reached day 19, and is asking for a creation myth. I hope this works as one. 

Scar Quadrille – for dVerse

Scaramouche takes flight
In a skylight currach
Skin stretched tight
Over spars of bone
Following the starmap
Scar map, far map
Scanning the horizon
For traces
Of the Amazon
Seeking out the pathway,
Runway, gateway,
The goddess triple walking
Who makes herself
Each night.

 

This is a quadrille for dVerse. We are asked to write about scars…dangerous territory. A currach, by the way, is a light weight boat used traditionally in the west of Ireland, made of hide stretched over a wooden frame, and then tarred. 

Ostara

 My spring ritual, the forking and turning
Of good brown earth; the marveling
At the myriad creatures therein,
Moist membranes, glistening carapaces;

The green blessing of onion spears,
And the generosity of kale
Filling the hungry gap;

The wonder of the mundane miracle
Of life – building cell by cell,
An alchemy of air, rain, soil and light,
The most prosaic transfiguration.

My hands are work-dry
And I ache
But these raw March nights
Are full of stars.