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Quietly the willow bends
Into a flowing crystal stream
Faeries sail on silver leaves
Through her emerald curtain of dreams
@LadyRavenhill 2021
a work in progress
Lawrence Hall Nov 2020
Lawrence Hall

                What I Found While Cleaning a Faeries’ Well

Perhaps it was because I cleared the vines
The ancient vines, with tools of iron, of steel
And traced the circles of the well’s lost lines
With my unhallowed hands, by touch and by feel

Or that I wore my boots, or forgot my prayers
To the White Lady said to haunt this place
Or whistled secular songs, careless airs
Until the dusk, when I came face-to-face…

I have lived to tell of this wildest of adventures
I found on the lichened stone – a set of dentures
Despite my disapproval of exposition:

Until we became Roman and respectable, my Celtic and English ancestors made offerings at sacred wells associated with pixies and fairies and a mysterious White Lady, or Sheela na Gig.

I regret that the old well in my yard, the surviving structure from an old farmstead, is probably not a sacred well, or at least no more than any other well. While I was cleaning away the English ivy (which in English folklore binds lovers), I found on the edge of a brick a denture plate from years ago.

When I have finished cleaning the well, covering it with a sturdy concrete disc for safety, and topping it with a wrought-iron arch, I will add a crucifix.

I hope the resident Sheela / White Lady won’t mind.
Amara Selraei Feb 2020
Graceful as a bird on the wing
Opening its beak to sing;
Slender hands dancing to and fro,
Weaving gossamer threads of snow;
Eyes piercing as shards of ice,
Quick to name fate’s price;
Lips as dainty as a flower bud,
Red as the color of fresh blood;
Ears with slightly pointed tips,
Soft as velvet, yet sharp as whips;
A tiny little button nose,
Slender as the petals of a rose;
Hair as golden as a ray of sun,
Shining when the day is done;
I saw her amongst the golden trees,
But deaf ears fell upon my pleas,
And on fleeting feet she fled,
Back to her mossy forest bed.
If you listen very closely
You can almost seem to hear
The sound of faeries dancing
Upon a sea of fallen leaves
To an autumn evening hymnal
Carried by the river's humming course
And the beat of bright red embers
Cracking in the frosty breeze
This is a poem about camping out in the great PNW during the beautiful autumn season!
Artemis Aug 2019
Do not give your name away.
It is the one thing you should

There is a strange feeling
that follows you
into the forest and across streams.

Do not turn around.

Don't accept gifts from
beautiful people
who seem far lovelier than they really are.

At least,
not for free.

Don't say thank you.
It's as good as owing debt.
Say you appreciate the assistance,
but never thank directly.

Tread lightly in all things.
Wear bits of clothing
inside out.

Stuff salt in your pockets.

And if you here music flowing from
a nearby stream or ring of mushrooms,
do not dance to it.

You will not be able to stop.
ravyn Jul 2019
theres a danger to redheads
twisted legends
their freckles arent souls but beware
if they ask to have your name
red to white to red; life to death to decomposition
theyre of a lost breed, of softly whispered promises, of favors
theres a danger to the wild ones
Moth May 2019
There in the flowers
another watches
writing on petal pages
attentive and fascinated
by the poet that lays
Just expressing the fae loving part of me.
Come and sit beneath the tree
We'll watch the fairies, wild and free
Shimmering wings dart here and there
Carrying tiny beings without a care
On tiny toadstools they do land
With blooms and berries in their hands
Wearing broken twigs and maple leaves
And bits of moss torn from the eaves
Now that they've finished playing games
They'll dance and sing round brilliant flames
Underneath a shining crescent moon
Til' dawn they'll sway, and drink, and croon
And when the sun is overhead
It will finally be time for bed
Magic flows throughout the night
When dainty fairies are filled with delight
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