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    Given to the Gods

    given to the Gods, she waits the fear inside a slow flame, burning her resolve. and then, suddenly, they are here the Grandmothers, old as Time, marking her face, ochre-striped, hanging about her neck the sacred band of amber, teeth and gold. they light the bowl of herbs and smoke, soft as silk, courses through the hut filling her head with dreams rising, she walks towards the setting sun, painted in blood-light, messenger of her people. an arrow, sent to the Gods.

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    An Oak’s Dream

    when walking in the park i stooped to pick an acorn from the grass and knew that, there, within my hand i held the souls of every oak which ever lived.

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    I Am

    I am the rising flame of autumn, kissed by winter’s icy light, I am the tender bud of springtime, Summer’s dance of gold delight. I am the space between the breath, The mountain reach to the cloud I am the lifted rush of wings as birds begin their wondrous flight. I am the tender touch of mother, soft caress upon your face I am the winter winds that blow and the morning sun as it shows its face. I am around you Always with you I am the sun on ripening grain I am the rain which falls upon you I am the warmth which comes again. (c) 10/23/09 – Sama Do not copy or distribute without express…

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    For the History Keepers

    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…

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    She is Crone

    she moves with care now, her limbs aching with each step eyes shining in the darkness. now, she is old, old as time, beckoned by the gods, needed by so many. they call upon her now to birth their babes, lay out their dead. a-night, they leave her solitary in her home, wary of angering this old, old soul who has such knowledge in her that it carves upon her face deep and careless lines. for pain, they need her, fearful of its claws they beg for aid and always and anon she answers she is all three, maiden, mother, and, now, as aged as the Goddess that she smiles…

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    For all the Heroes

    At a time when sport, which can be HIGHLY over-rated, is paying its so-called ‘stars’ a FORTUNE every week, and fashion, which is NOT necessary, despite what designers say, is doing the same for its ‘supermodels’, young men and women are fighting for other people, and for their own lives. HOW have we permitted our exquisite planet to become so FAR out of balance? I am sitting in front of my computer, in a reasonably warm, lit room, and, somewhere, a mother or a father is scrabbling in parched earth to try and find something on which to feed their children. You and I can turn on our taps and…

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    We Ride the Winds

    within our hands we hold the threats of fate woven like all, from the eternal, never-changing web we raise our arms in gratitude to those we may not see, but know within our souls are ever with us. within the Lady’s bellied pot we mix the herbs, the spices of our lives feeling each single part within our hands taking the moment to our hearts and raise the power we dance when needed, or when dance feels right among the wondrous panoply of stars or sometimes ‘neath a burning candle’s light we dance, we raise the power and in due course, the power is cast to point of need. woman…

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    The Horned One

    see, he comes now, the Horned One, stepping as delicate as doe, graceful and strong, his antlers branching wide. Lord of the wild things, Walking to join us dancing with shadows whirling among us. flame in the darkness bringer of rebirth wildness incarnate god of our forebears see!  he comes the Horned One mate of the Goddess God of the hunted Honoured art thou Fertility giver Honoured art thou Wild one of the forests

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    They are Coming

    they are coming, oh dear goddess, they are coming. now i see their lanterns glowing through the trees. and i hear the sickles crashing and the anger that is lashing at these simple souls i’ve ever tried to please. they are led now by that angry, self-important preacher, the holy man with hatred in his heart. and his ever-open book, and his angry, biting face, with his certainty he has the only way. i have helped the maidens caught before their time given salves and potions, healing for their woes. i have taken from their wombs, the mewling babies, and bound the jaws of those who passed away. i have…