Poetry by Ravenbard's Friends & Other Kindred
A Celtic Year of Trees We begin the year with Birch white bark pure as Winter snow silent and empty we know our will. We seek out Rowan in fay twilight for far sight in light of dreams with clearer purpose to divine. We journey forth by Ash our vision ever before us plied over waters far and wide to prosper. We endure hunger and hardship in Alder our shield and shelter in every port where red wounds can heal in the greenwood for rebirth. We flow with Willow born in water love's muse waxing with the Spring enchantment's use in waning Moon for healing. We gather Thorn flowers for garlands plant a pole and grab the ribbons for a May dance's woven way to fertility. We swear our true hearts by Oak at the high Summer Solstice sun for integrity in the work begun our strength. We gather from Holly evergreen sharp thorns and purging red berries finding the deeper meaning from release to increase. We harvest in full with Hazel a cycle of learning to reap as fruits drop Fall's abundant crop of wisdom. We drink deeply of the Vine celebrating our friends and family dancing around a fire ring with joy. We climb entwined in Ivy winding a spiral of becoming for opportunity to bring us luck. We huddle down among tall thick Reeds to wait out storms sudden sent against the cold north winds bent for protection. We summon in the end with Elder our days have flown by fast now spirit calls us to renew at last our magic. -- Walter OakRaven, Copyright 1997
Poem for a Stormy Night There's a Storm raging outside my windows. Not just my window But my windows Inspiration runs high Along a crocked line I adore these stormy nights With thoughts and possibilities Passion and Thunder So far away from the gray day A dark lodge somewhere In a nowhere place Not difficult to reach Warrior witches dancing nude Around the hottest fire There are torrential rain The fire burns on There are firemen doing their worst To put out the fire With gasoline They fail miserably In their rage they drop An atom bomb on the ring The star of fire More gasoline feeding the fire The day after is never the same After this, who can say There isn't life out there? The sun rises in the east Setting in the west Night begins anew... And the blood give up its secrets --Amos Keppler, copyright 1998
The Tragic Love of Green I am the shamrock, the thistle, and the thorn. I am rolling hills of green I am the endless silver depths of the Atlantic, and shaggy ponies stretching their shaggy legs, high on the hill. I am a lilt, a cadance, and a fall I am the tragic love of green I am the white potatoes, when they saved us, and when they left us to die I am heels hard on tavern floorboards I am a reel, a jig, and a fiddle, playing music of fire I am unquenchable spirit I am grandmother, wrapped in her shall I am a scrap of delicate lace, hung on the wall of an American store A part of a lady's petticoat, that she wore on her way to the boat that would take her away I am the kiss she blew over the railing of the boat, leaving the shore of the island that was all she knew I am the firm set of her shoulders, and the determined way she pulled her hair up and pinned it back I am the water, the ship, the crying of children below I am an American girl, so they tell me every day I am the red, white, and blue I am the Pledge of Allegiance, I am baseball and hotdogs and apple pie But a breath of wind across the water makes me turn away, and remember that I am the green white and gold, that I am the shamrock, the thistle, and the thorn.
--Hawksong Brightwolf, copyright, 1998
THE MORRIGHAN Who am I? I am the washer at the ford of two rivers. I am the Fifthich who flies before battle. I am the bean sidhe that sings of death. I am the driver of the Battle Chariot. I am the teacher of the Art of War. Who am I? I am the sister who stole the sword that was stolen from our mother. I am the maker of the scabbard that heals. I am the steward of the Isle of Avalon. I set sail nine apples in the Western Sea. I am the queen of the nine ladies. I brew the sacred herbs in my cauldron. I am the healer who heals the king. Who am I? I am the maiden in the woods. I am the singer of strong spells. I am the stillness of a mountain pool. I am the growth in the ring of trees. I am the force that moves the wind. I am the heat that stirs the blood. Who am I? I am the Lady of the Lake. I am the Muirgen of the sea. I am the singer in the wind. I am the seducer by the shore. I am the Selkie on a rocky isle. I am Morrighan! --Susa Morgan Black, copyright 1995