Moon Circle

It is interesting at times.
To write OF this path, without revealing this path too much.
It is not so simple, so ritualized that one knows what to expect, or that you can feel and find it all in any book.
Yet some paths must be walked directly, and must be felt as well as seen. We are at best, a quiet and shy lot.
There are some of us, like myself who show ourselves. Yet even we or I, will not show you some things.
We walk a life that is a Prayer you see. Some in solitude, and some shared. Those prayers are between us, or I, and the Creator.
We do not celebrate or pray for societies approval, so without entry, you cannot see what lies within.

Moon Circle

I stand in silent solitude.
The sun sinks slow before me
I hear the sizzling sound
Fiery orb kisses the sea.
As waves rage eloquently
Ceaselessly scrambling
To cross the boundary
Of earth and air
Darkness like a velvet cloak
Days cares fade with the light
Shorn so softly away
Lying at my feet meaningless.
Crickets mark time. Rhythmic.
The waves sound beneath.
Unwritten orchestra of life.
Lost between the worlds
Susurrations of wind brush me
Crafting shudders on skin
Secrets soft spoken within.
Alive, the stars greet me.
Like old friends
Names forgotten in time.
Lost in faded fog
Like long past souls.
Soft footfalls speak
Of bare feet easing near
The circle grows.
Laughter born of life.
Silver wrought shadows
Stray sparks of moonlight
Scurry around us
Moon rising full above
Veiled in nights deep
In places hidden
We gather delighted
In simply being alive

R.W.W.
banfiadh copyright 11/13

Witchy

Witchy.

This is for the Witches
That in their kitchen’s toil
Joy upon their faces, grinning
While their cauldrons boil.

And this is for the Hedge Witch
Who in their garden’s play
Spelling all their greenery
In the shining light of day

This is for the Shaman
Rattle in their hands
The journey past the veil
Through the spirit land

And this is for the Runewitch
Lines carved into bone
Questing for the answer
Cast within a stone.

This is for the Druid
Who walks dappled night
Tending to the forest
In touch with nature’s light

And this is for the Priestess
Who dances on the land
Brings to us the Goddess
Within her moonlit hand

This is for the wild Priest
Who in the sunlight roams
Mysteries of the Horned One
Or in a spellbound tome.

And this is for the Sidhe folk
Who watch from silent mound.
Awaiting silent questing
As the wheel turns around

This is for the Goddess
Who in the world abounds
Ecstasy of life is hers
Peace with her is found

And this is for the God
Within the Hunters blood
That watches in the shadow
From in the silent wood

This is for the knower’s
And the doer’s of the world
Those who walk the boundary
So oft’ misunderstood.

And this is for the Magick
That we find within
When we stop to listen
For the voice beyond the din

This is for the Blessed
Those who hear creations call.
Working for weaving
That connects us all.

R.W.W
Banfiadh copyright 11/13

Faces

Faces.

I have seen the face of god.
In the wreckage of the poor
Seen the hope laid bare
Knocking at deaths door.

I have seen her hopeful sorrow
In the turbulence of war
Dismay was shining bright
When the body hit the floor

I’ve seen his hidden pain
When faith faded away
Watched the knowing nod
When life began to play

I’ve heard her silent cries
Neglect within our soul
As we forget to honor
That which makes us whole

I’ve felt his rumbling rage
At the mercy of the world
As we grasp our hatred hard
And fall to angers herald

I’ve seen her teary eyes
Watching from the heart
As her children murder
While creation falls apart.

Yet I’ve heard his wild joy
At those who stood alone
To rise above the ash fall
And sit on Mercy’s throne.

I’ve seen her knowing smile
In the darkest night
As the world turns its face
Seeking for her light

I’ve heard his quiet voice
Calling in the rain
Felt her arms about me
In battles with soul’s pain

I walk existence now.
Wings flung open wide.
Hope against the storm
Against the darkest tide.

R.W.W.
Banfiadh copyright 11/13

Was not Was – Tentative

Is it poetry or prose?
I guess it does not matter one whit.
It is simply something that I am crafting.
Enjoying the play of words and paradoxical phrases.
An excerpt as it is, from a story that nearly writes itself.
A pause I’ve taken from it, yet here is the start of a possibility.
Yet it is a story, a story to tell and it is my story to tell and mine alone.
Enjoy.

Was Not Was – an excerpt.

Sit a spell and listen, while I weave a tale of eternity. A tale as it were; of nothing and everything. It is a tale of light and dark of love and fear and all things in between. From the shadowed plains of nothing from long before time was perceived across the vast wilderness of then, until now. For this is a tale of creation. A true tale or as true as any other may be and it is a tale of love. Yet there is a difference in truths for this is not a hand me down story of assembled bits and pieces, but one of trial and hurt, hope and love, fear and joy and yes, yes my children, of enduring love throughout all. I have lived this tale over and over again and I am so very tired, yet I live it this one last time in hope.

Beyond the pale of time, far before the thing called man arose. Before the water parted and land rose. Before the birth of stars and generation of planets there was, and is, and remains; nothing. Void. The Void was a vast and formless formation of scintillating but very dull gray. Yet to define it as a color is a trite fault, for there was nothing yet there to witness it, or to decide if it was gray, or perhaps the only thought close enough to describe what was there echoed backwards from somewhere that could not exist. It was black or perhaps it was white. More likely it hung silent like the soft fuzz of gray mist draped languorously over an endless gray sea. I tell you though, that in that nothing was something. Something yet undefined, unknown. For untold lifetimes, beyond the measure of a dying star the gray existed idle, doing nothing, seemingly stagnant, entropic and lifeless. In the still vast silence of neverwhere the nothing thrummed.

Eventually and of its own accord, or through some unseen motion or force indefinable the gray became striated, separating. Slowly redefining its existence through no fault or will of its own it changed. Perhaps it was the lack of motion pulling it apart, categorizing this as that or that as this. Or perhaps motion was just beginning and so stirred the gray like a vast cauldron of muck, causing various nothings to separate into two finely indistinct planes of nothing. They lay as vast expanses of nothing becoming something reaching far beyond an imagination that as yet, was unperceived. Or perhaps they were spheres lying aligned, each occupying the same space the other was, and was not; with no space in between, yet there was space. Space enough for separation to begin. The separations should sound familiar, for across all time and no time the basic understanding of those wondrous facets remains the same. As above reflected below, something, nothing and anything compressed. The Dark and the Not Dark, and The Light and the Not Light and the non-existent space that lay fine and terrible between, simply came to be. Silence ruled.

Time? Time did not exist yet. There was no thing to define time. No reference point of existence. No clock ticking slowly upwards or down, sideways or across. No measure and no meaning to yet call anything resembling time. I tell you though, in time another awesome and improbable thing occurred. A Wyrding, an unknown occurrence or happening, beyond our perception. Whether through design or accident awesome, profound and terrible the unknown happened. Through expansion or an inward turning something changed, and as it changed something woke. It woke not in the sense of a traveler waking, stretching heavy arms towards a dawning light, head tilted back with a mighty yawn. Nay I tell you, no such thing was yet to occur. Within these spheres however, twin thoughts echoed mightily. Stirring the very stuff of the universe that could not possibly exist and echoed between the two what could only be called a thought was shared. I am. We Are. One though yet divergent, two; though inextricably intertwined.

Revamp.

I’m taking a moment of time.
A short moment to go through and delete the bulk of my political rants.
For most people . . . it matters not.
Until they perceive the truth of Freedom, no amount of ranting will sway them.
So I’m refocusing this blog on Art, poetry, writing and so forth.
Thats what it was supposed to be in the first place.

Raven White Wolf.

Standing Stone

Standing Stone.

Standing stark and ageless
Born in creation’s fire.
Purpose long forgotten
I mark a soul’s desire.

Adrift upon the misty moor.
I mark an unseen line
Though I seem so rooted
I move outside of time.

Weathered beyond measure
Lines upon my face
Each mark an eon gone
Standing in this place.

Adorned I was with swirls
Runes in brilliant paint
Worn away to memory
Lines remain so faint.

A star I marked in silence
Upon the windswept plain
In memory I echo still
Of lost forgotten chain.

Hear me in the silence
Words I speak to you
Treasure of your being
I’ve held the asking true.

Mystery lies betwixt us
Secrets of your past
Knowledge to reveal
When the questions cast.

I stand upon this hill
Truth against the tide
Gateway in forever
Stark against the sky.

R.W.W
Banfiadh copyright 11/13

Shadows on the Wall

Shadows on the Wall.

Shadows on the Wall

If I chose to pass the time counting shadows on the wall,
A thousand years won’t be enough for me to count them all.
A teardrop caught in memory as it splashes on the ground.
Silence is the only legacy within the heartbeats sound.

The softness of the wind blowing quiet in my veins,
Are tangles in the weaving of life’s often fragile skein.
Each tear a tick of memory, a shadows thought that’s true,
Yet never does the wistfulness survive the thought of you.

A million years of searching far across the star wrought sky,
Times have slipped behind me with hope and faith decried.
Yet on the chase I have remained without a pause for sorrow,
Yet never with a surety of what will come tomorrow.

So wild of the heart, so like the storm forged tides.
Gentle is the being that within this shell resides,
Quiet was the breath that caught upon first sight of you,
Raging is the memory of belief that sight was true.

Freedom is the word that rises, dancing high upon the winds
Nothing wrong with hoping for this isolations end
Upon the skies of yesterday my scattered dreaming freed,
Within the void of is not there for all of want or need.

R.W.W.
Banfiadh copyright 11/13