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Rose

November 1st, 2016

 I Rose (from a  Hekate Meditation): 

My rose was blue

I stepped beneath the arch

My rose was gold

Or peach

Softness incarnate

Never crimson

Never bold

Tentative like my

Steps.

I rose beneath the arch

To meet four faces

Framed with snake

With sea

With sinister teeth

With chains

With all the keys I need

To break free.

I rose and took

The proffered seaweed

Tiny bladders ready

To pop with salty sweetness

A shoreline promise

Of things to come.

I rose, hands out

Filled with light;

Stepping into darkness

My rose was black

Ashen; withered

Suddenly alive again!

Gold and glowing

Snakebite antidote

Starlight flowing

I rose; I gasped; I smiled.

Copyright Mabh Savage 2015. Mabh is the author of A Modern Celt: Seeking the Ancestors and Pagan Portals: Celtic Witchcraft. Image credit Sumathi Sowmia via Wikimedia Commons.

Rainbows and birds

Darkness fills the colors

As the sky begins to clear

I hear the birds

And know the town is near

I shall play my concertina

With some luck

I will eat tonight

As the butterfly whispers

Like the promise in the sky

And the beauty that surrounds me

On this bank

I will someday see.

Hold my hand

And together we’ll walk

Towards  life

A promise.

Imbolc

Stop.

Listen.

The wind is whispering

“Winter is sleeping silently but Spring is near.”

In the silence

I can hear

Her breathe

And the stirs of things to come.

As the branches of trees transform from

The crone’s bone fingers to the maidens lush hair

I wait

And learn.

For in this silence

I keep

Wisdom close

From in the darkness

Comes life

I am life

The wytches’ child possesses a silver pentagram,
it hangs amidst the green-white phosphorous
lights where somnambulists channel souls from
the oasis of stellar-electric blasts that carousel
the brown chestnuts of old oak trees.

Here, she dances sky clad among the white-silken
mists and apple blossoms that nearly caress the
night sky. Always indiscriminately, she pours her
heart out to shadowy figures most would find
grotesque, if not for the fragility of a flower, bruised,
with strewn petals.

Small animals, wild for carrot taking, stop to stare
at a cricket waving his antennae in a field of grassy
knoll opposite the wytches’ cottage, where Spirit
begins to scatter droplets of rainwater from the twigs
of bushes, darkened by a Midsummer’s wind.

Often, beneath the waves of a sparrow’s wing,
under towed sunlight gathers with mustard glow over
the rattling of tarantulas’ feet. The wytches’ child,
smells of eucalyptus and burnt necklaces made of shell,
made of bone. Every foe is her friend, and she laughs
as she builds a world of snow.

Silvery tinges of sparkles remain collected, protected, in
the magick of her moment. Violet hues radiate through
clear glass swellings. Between the idea, between the
reality of conception and creation, there is motion. The
casual are less aware, but every now and then I remember
to shake the bubble and dream!

The wind grows cooler
As I grow older
The Earth grows
distant
From the sun

I seek balance
Night to the day
Everything around me
Falling
In shades

As I grow grey
Shadows shifting, moving and lifting
Revealing the Moon
Yielding
To the Underworld

And I learn
How apples become stars
Lighting the night with
Promises
Full of life

you, who sing the histories,
who hold the memories, the hearts and souls
lift up your voices round the fire
and bless the ones who went before.
sing to the gods of battles fought, and won,
praise well the heroes – all who lived
and kept their honour with the Ones
who guarded well their souls.
lift to the gods the ones who stayed behind,
those who held the home-place safe from harm.
honour the children, new-woven in the thread of life
which ties us all to those who lived so many lives before.
and honour well the ones who love the gods today,
keeping them, claimed, within their hearts
so none are lost
but burn still, incandescent, in our souls.

copyright sama 2011

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