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Ormond Jul 21
.
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
.
Tim Jordan Jan 4
This is a hieroglyph in the middle of the ocean,
a message to the center of space,
it is Stravinsky in a metal box;
a prayer in the grave.
It is not to be heard, read, or felt,
but is sent out into the darkness
like the wheezing breath from my last cigarette ,
the chill of the last river I altered with my step,
the forever in the space between our eyes,
and the time machine of you and I.
There is a snap of electricity that moves you from here to there
and there is our world in the hollow spaces of your brain.
You are the blood, you are the marrow,
you are in my depths and in my narrows.

There was a little boy who saw a tail on the sun,
wandered into the wrong back door
and stumbled out the front
with a pocket full of kisses,
and there was a girl who was far from home,
tiny hands and full of wishes.

Close your eyes.

Do not read this next part.
It's a secret I cannot share.

There is a picture that I look at often and it is of a ridge of mountains,
snow on top, jagged edges like a page ripped from a magazine
and I know now what I didn't know then
that after I snapped that shot everything would change,
that I would go home and become something I never could be again,
that I would discard gods like tissue
and drive my car as fast as it would go in the rain,
that I would share this picture on a tilting Saturday night
with a sigh and the subtle rustling of metal and cloth,
a susurration settling over us like a shroud,
and that I would surrender myself to the chaos,
lose everything within our delicious destruction
and spend the rest of my life wondering where all the pieces of me landed.

This is a riddle you are not meant to understand.
This is a Celtic Cross spread by a dead man's hand.
"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star." Friedrich Nietzsche
void Dec 2018
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone

Immortalized with the mark of Sloan
He thrives amongst forgotten gravestones
To restore their legacy is why he intrudes
For systemic erasure he believes society must atone

All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone

Empathy drives this misguided untomb
Generations of oppressors he seeks to dethrone
Reality remains an unfamiliar interlude
For to delusion The Wanderer is prone

All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone

All alone with no place to call home
A hero called The Wanderer roams
Complacent in his intrepid pursuit
Unfaltering ‘till the world sees glory of Arawn
C Mahood Jun 2018
Faries live in the hawthorn,
Gnomes live under rocks,
Trolls stay under bridges,
And nessie’s stay in the Loughs.

Pookas come close to farmers,
Changlings come to babes,
Spirits in the mirrors,
Kelpies in the waves.

The little folk are trouble,
In the heat they bring the cold,
They trick the weary traveler,
With pots of magic gold.

They whisper on the breeze,
While hidden in the mist,
Without them doing anything,
Remind you they exist.

They write about themselves,
So we don’t think they’re real,
They carved the lines in oghm,
magic words in ancient ghael.

Yet still we leave them gifts,
Bits of whisky & pooka’s share,
We have never ever seen one,
Yet we know that they are there.
Coventore Feb 2018
When the moon rises and the sun gives way,
The shadows creep forth as She enters the fray.
The strike of her spear will end your day;
The Morrighan's ravens will take you away.

She who darkens the battlefield skies;
She who listens to the soldiers' cries.
She flies over the fields on black wings,
Vigilant of those ready to hear how Death sings.

But She is protective and nurturing, should She choose,
Just as easily as She decides who will win or lose.
Glory and defeat, life and death,
She is The Morrighan, praise under your breath.

When the moon rises and the sun gives way,
The shadows creep forth as She enters the fray.
The strike of her spear will end your day;
The Morrighan's ravens will take you away.
Now this is something that, for once, is not inspired by my emotional state at all. It is merely something I randomly came up with. Glory to The Morrighan. The Old Gods will be remembered once more.
I know that I hung on a windy tree,

cross

Nine long nights.

Hanukkah, Christmas, Saturnalia

Wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,

Longinus

Myself to myself...

Abandoned by God

On that tree of which no man knows

The Tree of Knowledge

from where it's roots run.

Laws by mankind

No bread did they give me nor drink from a horn,

Suffering, no mercy

I arose with the Word,

Ascension

and came back down to them.

Resurrection
This is an ancient Celtic poem. No author is cited.  It sounds like the, "son," of God(Odin) lamenting whom in Celtic fair should be the character known as Esus. He is depicted in stone as being a carpenter surrounded by animals. The spear of Longinus from, "Odin," represents the lineage of Kings and their judgement. Odin means, "Father," and God as all earthly Kings descended in spirit from God into their human forms.
At school I had trouble socializing,
And still, The Owl, comes all too late?

My formative years are spent deep within caves searching,
Yet The Owl is never found there?

The failures and sadness accumulate over time,
Leaving The Owl traversing some other’s sky,

I feel life slipping away each day,
And still The Owl never manifests!

Where is The Owl? Does it not come with time?
Will cleverness induce her, perhaps woo her with rhyme?

Quell restless mind, The Owl reforge me so I’m freed!
Grant me your talons so that I may succeed!

And still, The Owl, who never manifests,
And still The Owl never manifests.

I curl chalky fingers into travertine-grip,
Aged ruin takes a hold, in my despair as I slip,

Sans which The Owl never did manifest,
To wit, sans The Owl, pounding sand as I jest,

So what, The Owl, never did manifest?
And still The Owl never manifests.

Life without The Owl, was no life at all,
No solemnity of greatness, a life of doltish pit-fall.

And still The Owl never manifests.
And still The Owl never manifests.
Most people believe they have a guardian angel looking over them and intervening to make their lives better; more fulfilling. Angels in ancient art were represented as owls(watchers) for the god(s) would inhabit animals to monitor humans.
Rob Sandman Jan 2018
The Harbour quakes as we break your Boom,
The Nemesis Sails-Harbinger of doom,
A New Chapter - the Sly Celt Raptor,
Bain **** proceed us-Scream in rapture
As The Bodhran shakes your eardrums shatter,
Lightning rakes- your defences Scatter,

It's raiding season!-Take your Oars!,
Boats filled to the brim with Ores and ******
our targets-fat Merchants waddle,
Crimson seas as the Forces Battle

The Morrigan Swaddles our mind with the caul (call)
no Mercy asked(None Given!) SLAY ALL
Widows scream as they're dragged to the Ship
Towns burn to ash in our wake as we rip,  
A Blood red Swathe Through the Dawn in the east,
As the Nemesis Sails,The Harbinger Feasts...
This is the second of "The Nemesis Tales" (Number one is just called The Nemesis and is up here)
a Serial tale based around a Demon Ship called somewhat obviously The Nemesis,
there will be blood!
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