Thought = Form

Thought = Form

Life begins.

Dreams Fade

Hopes die.

People change

Hearts cry

Souls sigh.

Death comes.

 

And the sun sets, crimson.

 

Wind blows.

Grass grows

Leaves rustle.

Rain falls

Thunder tolls

Rivers run

 

And the sky dawns, iridescent.

 

Mountains rise

Stone crumbles

Sand sloughs

To soil

Trees grow

 

And the leaves dance, merrily

 

Stars are born

Planets drift

Through time

Suns fade

 

And the universe floats, unimaginably

 

We live for tomorrow and lose the day.

We worry always as life slips away.

We fret for what we have not.

And forget what we have.

Tomorrow is never here.

And you have this day to live.

 

Some days never change, some never stay the same

Music dances lyrically and the song remains the unchanged.

Life passes in bits and pieces, moments frozen in time.

Is there a need for tomorrow, to wake again?

 

Banfiadh –  Wolfthought5/2018

 

 

 

The Spell of Being

The Spell of Being

I am without time.

I am all times.

I am a speck of dust

I am a mountain of stone.

I am without form.

I am all forms.

I am the last Spark of Hope

I am the Inferno of Creation

I am the unseen Past.

I am the unknown Future.

I am the soft sigh of Death

I am the gale of Chaos

I am without Life

I am without Death

I am a silent Tear

I am an unbroken Wave

I am Spirit without form

And I am Form in Spirit

I am not

I am.

 

Banfiadh-2017

Interlude . . .

An excerpt from life.

Since I started this site, it has been an on again off again experience.

Until recently I lived in a situation which often hindered my creativity or desire to express in line, color or in word.

Often when I couldn’t craft and create, I could vent or rant, which is why I opened Ravensong – because I hesitated to hybridize the artist, with the cynic.

With a change in living situation, income source and finally, the “downtime” from the rat race my nature desires as an artist and the creature I am, my mind has started scribbling again, doodling across the vast empty canvass of my inner sight.

And thus here we are. Fresh new poetry, new art turning over in my mind and much to my delight, rummaging through my files bits and pieces that I have dusted off to share here.

Winter is often my best time as a working person to craft. It’s rather difficult to play outside when all you see is dark, and more dark. But it is fertile rich soil for the creative child, so off on my artistic tricycle I roam, to see what I can see.

Poet.

Poet

 

White paper is the canvas

The brush an old worn pen

Words provide the pigment

To release what lies within

 

Feelings dug from memories

To color subjects true

Even though that subject

Is hidden from your view

 

Each subtle twist of rhyme

From the mild to the terse

Touches on life around

From the best to worst

 

Idle does the pen lay

As each word I view

Crafting every nuance

To tell the secret new

 

So here lies simple story

Written flowing as it seems

When the worst a man feels

There is magic in life’s streams

 

 

R.W.W.

Banfiadh copyright2006

Edited2009/2011

Leaf

LEAF

 

 

 

Leaf

 

 

Tossed

On a quiet summer breeze.

 

 

Torn drifting.

Upon playful currents

Warmed by pregnant sun.

 

 

Swept quietly aloft

Currents straining

To reach unknown heights

Of self imposed limitation

 

 

Painted glorious in light

Despite a map of life lived

Etched quietly upon a dying skin

That reflects slowly in turn

The light that dances through the dust.

 

 

R.W.W

Banfiadh copyright 06/13

 

 

 

 

 

Liar

Liar

Oh ye of little truthfullness

With even less of Faith

Follow on the words of wrong

Within the liar’s grace.

Still ye follow like a sheep

Into the slaughter house

Listen to a liar’s words

To keep your God without.

Hark! Listen to the slander

While claiming piety devout

But when the thunders over

The lie will turn you out.

Can you look in the mirror?

You can see the liars face

Over your shoulder, looking

To keep you in your place

Untruth is not the way of God

Or those who leave lies lay

Written in the heavens high

On your judgment day

R.W.W.

Banfiadh copyright 11/13

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.

An Afterthought.

I realize that for some people, raised largely in the recent era of the hyphenated, truncated sound byte and info blurb; that extended reading is perhaps difficult for you.

You have grown up in a time where information is condensed, summarized and streamlined to the point to where much relevant thought is lost and falls by the way side.

For those of you, all I can do is tell you that I am sorry for your loss. While not everyone reads or writes at the same level, it was once a mark of adulthood to have the ability to focus for longer periods of time and to invest some effort into thought and study. It is NOT my fault, that the world has changed and that you have allowed this change to affect your life.

I do hope however, that you do learn to focus, to pay attention and to invest yourself into your life and into your learning potential and ability.

WOLF

Tryst of Truth

Therein lies the very heart of all those tragic woes

Whereby sparks the start of whatever evil grows

Know ye that the lying tongue, oft destroys the truth.

Gone the simple trust that was once the grace of youth.

 

Whence the wonder on ones face upon the shadow fall

Whimsy cast upon your fate within your hidden all.

So far upon your yesterday cross branded on your lips.

Cursed to suffer silently within your shallow rift.

 

When the trust that one claims dear from self turns away.

Upon your heart the leaden fear grows slow into dismay.

Dishonor follows languidly as within your bed ye lay

Paths of falsehood lay within to grip you in its maze.

 

Wander not so idly why your trusts so hard to give.

When in kind you cross the line within white lies you live.

Small falsities lead to a road with a never ending twist.

When within you lay’s the truth in long forgotten tryst.

 

Copyright2008banfiadh

 

Mothers Plea

Can you hear my lost children, through the noise of your machines?

Do you see what you are doing as the world around you screams?

The cancer of your avarice has spread throughout my spirit.

It’s reflected in your bodies as diseases take your dearest.

You think you can deny me and it’s your death that’s truly near.

Don’t you realize wayward children that I’m not what you should fear?

Yet you seek to see yourself apart from the flesh that gives you life

And think quite mistakenly that you’re beyond the cost of strife.

Mounds of Stone hacked from my flesh in which you hide your eyes

You Mother ground beneath you yet you seek the sky for lies.

You pillage from my body sustenance for souls desires

And you burn my fragile skin with chemically wrought fire

You’ve tapped the blood stream deep within and smiled on the way

Still you seek to consume it all with no thought to repay.

Life reflects in cycles round, through which your spirit flows

Yet you’ve turned away from things of which you need to know.

Turned your face away from me though a few still hold the keys

I wait for you to return to me on green skirted weary knees

Invented Gods supplant me though all things have I provided

Upon a world of decaying hate your civilization stands divided

You quibble like lost children over morsels or tawdry bits of skin

In blind greed you destroy the home I am, this is your greatest sin.

All things I’ve set before you although your priest’s deny

To think that one who never hears loves you, simply makes me sigh

Yet will you heed the warnings loud now that Ire is born

Will you understand the words, that drive the coming storm

Without me my lost children, no life you’d ever had.

I care not what you call my Lord but your Mothers getting mad.

So please my children heed me and turn from your wicked ways.

The life you think you thought you’d built has reached its final days.

Yet there are still those few among you who seek a better way

Turn away from your greed and let your hearts come out to play

Banfiadh – copywright 2007

Freedom.

It is not something that can be given, yet can easily be taken away.

It is something that can not be forced upon another, or it becomes a form of slavery.

Freedom does not grow from handing control over your life to another. It can crumble in an idle moment of laziness.

While Freedom may be a basic ‘Human Right”, it belongs only to those responsible enough to ensure it’s longevity.

Freedom can not be defined for another person, but must be mutually respected.