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İlayda Korkmaz Sep 2020
The candle on the window was a-flickering,
Struggling to draw its light from the waning moon,
With the flames, the east wind was playing,
There as her proud vanguard, already waiting.

The crone herself had arrived at last,
With the clouds promising rain ******* her heels,
Those clouds were mimicking the sharp waves of her stormy hair,
And the spirits were all dancing with the thinning veil.

All raised their glasses to welcome the crone,
All revered the dark mother, whose might could never be surpassed.
They all knew that now they could reap what they had sown,
And sit by the hearth as the winds howled past.
LittleFreeBird Jul 2020
Wild spirit  
dancing under
Moon lit
bathing in  
Her nocturnal


Shadow twisting
around the fire
naked skin
toes skimming
in exultation

Michael R Burch Apr 2020
The Kiss of Ceridwen
by Michael R. Burch

The kiss of Ceridwen
I have felt upon my brow,
    and the past and the future
    have appeared, an eerie vapor,
mingling with the here and now.

And Morrigan, the Raven,
the messenger, has come,
    to tell me that the gods, unsung,
    will not last long
when the druids’ harps grow dumb.

Originally published by Songs of Innocence

Keywords/Tags: Ceridwen, white, witch, enchantress, sorceress, crone, cauldron, awen, throne, Morfran, power, Wales, Welsh, Druids, Banshee, Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
ghost queen Dec 2019
why do you pretend to be so tough, projecting a hard exterior, when i so clearly see the little girl behind a paper tiger. a little girl who wants to be loved unconditionally, protected fiercely, embraced heartily in her father’s arms, is that what i see in you, a reflection of me, a little boy, afraid, alone, craving intimacy, fearing, distrusting to love and be loved.

take my hand, let me lead, let me be the man, missing from your life, let me be an example, to witness, to rebuild the trust, that has been lost, remove your armor, slowly, piece by piece, let me see the child that you protect so fiercely.

learn to trust, allow yourself to be vulnerable, you have to give to get, trusting another is difficult, you are not to blame, there is no shame, being a child soldier, in an adult world, a veteran of lecherous wars, having your emotions manipulated selfishly, mangled carelessly, becoming cynical, suspicious in order to survive, leaving you disillusioned of the world, disgusted in those you need and want, depressed with the reality of a ruthless society.

we are older, wiser, bolder, the wounds have crusted over, healed, leaving scars as reminders, of what we want, but can not get without giving, patiently tilling, turning another’s heart in the spring to harvest in summer.

it is frightening to show our true selves to another, perilous in what is required to develop the craved intimacy, frightening in escalating, arduous in sustaining, and reciprocating personal level of self disclosure.

we anesthetize ourself with drugs and alcohol, or distract ourselves with mundane things, quotidian tasks, to numb the deep need, the intense yearning for emotional connection, the warmth and security of being held like a child in mother’s arms.

you have to give to get, to love to be loved, to accept to be accepted, for “the greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return (1).”

(1) Nate King Coles (Nature Boy)
ghost queen Jan 2019
there is hope
like a rising sun
on a distance horizon
lighting up the morning sky
pushing the darkness aside
melting the clouds away

the rays warm my face
coaxing a smile
squinting my eyes
i take a breath, savoring being alive

the sky is blueing deeper, clearer
morning haze is lifting, disappearing
life is awakening, stirring, moving
the beauty is overwhelming, awe inspiring

i see anew, with an indigo eye
things i’d sensed but never knew
i feel too deep, intuit too much
beheld as a curse, repressed, suppressed

i burned, screamed, fell into ashes
my soul lay fallow, quiet, healing, waiting
resurrecting from cold dark depths
heart beating, eyes opening, arms reaching

vindication from self doubt
forgive me Cassandra, Cairn, Mother
i weep, openly, proudly, for your grace
it is the 9th and final gift
indigo flower photos
ghost queen Dec 2018
you are the center, the sun in the sky
warming, lighting, guiding those below

you are the core, the hub in the wheel
forming, maintaining, strengthening the circle

you are the earth, the bedrock beneath
supporting, stabilizing, reinforcing our lives

you are the reason for our being, our births, our lives
nurturing, nourishing, caring for our hopes, our dreams

you gather, sort the fruits, roots harvested from the land
tending, stoking, reviving embers smothering in the hearth

your strength transcends your body, your mind, your heart
from the first child, to the last, your love, affection is forever

you cradle, caress, kiss, comforting the child
reassuring, protecting, shooing monsters away

you are the strong, tough, steady woman in our lives
fierceness of a lioness, tender as a kitten, loving her child
Thank you Mom, for the sacrifices, you made for me.
storm siren Oct 2016
"Do not judge them,"
She whispered softly,
"You may be old,
But you have yet to live as well."

And they stared at her,
For the first time in decades,
With eyes wide with wonder.
"But I have seen so many things,
I am certain I know more."

Smiled the crone,
Orange eyes twinkling like starlight.
"You know what you know for yourself,
And yourself alone. Your wisdom is yours."

"Shouldn't I make my wisdom theirs as well?"
Cried the playwright.
"They're making too many mistakes, I have to fix it."

And still, the crone continued to smile.
"Their mistakes are theirs to make."
She reached out and placed a hand upon the playwrights' paper.
"Just as your wisdom is yours, their experiences are theirs, and just as valid as yours."
She took the quill from the playwright, and tucked the crow's feather in her hair.
"Allow them to grow without your bias."

"But I don't approve--"
The crone gave the playwright a bright smile,
Though her eyes were dark,
Which ultimately shut them up.

"Your place is not to judge. It is to nurture. It is to guide."
She said softly, though her tone was much more assertive.

"Then let me guide,"
The playwright began.

"There is a vast divide between guidance and control."
The vision of her shimmered, and she took a step back.

"I don't understand."
The playwright held their head in their hands, knuckles white while gripped onto curls.

"And you will not understand until you yourself live."
The old crone cooed, before her image blew away in soft red wind.

And there the playwright was left,
A half written letter filled with judgment and smudged ink,
And no quill to finish it with.
They fell back into their chair,
Glaring at their writing desk.

Whether or not the crone was right or wrong,
They still didn't get their quill back.
Just a thought.
Autumn Briarhart Mar 2016
I am resilient today
I've yet to right a wrong,
Write poem,
Sight a note,
Convey in pros,
Hope for hope,
Join the stream,
Bathe in logos,
Come close to host the thoughts of all;
Boast? I don't think so.
What's not achieved Isn't real?
I cannot convey the souls that reside this body,
This mind,
From which end of the chimera?
The poem intoned,
Vocal aspects of the crone.
Cyclically saying,
I am resilient.
MC Hammered Dec 2014
New beginnings sprout in feminine Earth.
Legs rooted in blossoming
Newborn innocence cultivates in
raw purity.

essence of life,
predecessor of power.
Like fruit ripening in preparation of harvest.
Fertile fulfillment found in

a culmination of earned experience,
compassionate wisdom.
Cold winter bears bereavement.
Change in continuous


Mother earth,
complexion of cosmos.
My celestial
Maiden, mother, crone. Woman.

— The End —