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Beltane Bride

Harken to the drums of the Beltane fire
Pounding out its rhythm as the flames leap higher
Dancing around it, your senses overcome
Moving with abandon in time with the drum

The longing in your belly starts to rise
Along with the passion that shows in your eyes
Sweat soaks your body, your bloods on fire
You tremble with the force of your raging desire

You start to chant the ancient rhyme
Calling to your lover “come to me, be mine
Come lie with me in the wildwood tonight
In honour of the Ancients, let us unite”

Then through the smoke and dancing flames you see
The one that you yearn for, wild, proud and free
Wearing the antlers of the horned god on his brow
He watches you intently, then gives you a bow

You, are his chosen one, he’ll lie with you this night
Deep in the forest under the stars shinning bright
Like the Lady and her Lord, you two will be as one
As you make love to the rhythm of the distant Beltane drum

The drums are now silent with the dawn of the new day
Your loving now more gentle, for no drum beat now holds sway
Buried deep within you, his fertile seed pours forth
With each powerful ****** of his, you feel its potent warmth

A Blessing was bestowed on you virgins both that night
By the Lady and the Lord, the only witness to your rite
Today is our Hand Fasting, he whispers softly at your side
I will love you for eternity, my beloved Beltane Bride.

Blessed Be

9th April 2012                                                        Dragonborne Wolf
SassyJ Jul 2016
My Frankenstein monster*
erects in the dense night
a soliloquies of remedies
traced on pasted wall paper

It bids faster as the kites fly
high above the Himalayan
feeding respect to the sun
to radiate its vector rays

It whispers of this world
a spice of colours and patterns
a windy dainty silky road
wrapped with satanic ribbons

As the masses gather on the poles
to dance the mayday festival
the pagan gods shake the monster
their gold merry as the cloud chills

The bonfire embers and trembles
the palates vanish in the ashy wind
the crowds grow in bonded unity
*the monster smiles in rhymed terms
Beltane: Name for Gaelic May day Festival
Written in memory of May 2016 at Shropshire radical gathering
The children they run, jump through the Sun,
...scream at the Horse for nary the fun.

What have you seen? What do you believe?
Did you get burnt on St. John's Eve?

Which day is it? Oh what the time?
Who be the meaning of old fabled rhyme?

Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?

Shh, here she comes, break black -the night!
...washed away the horse with infernal delight!

One is left ******, burnt, torn, pieces broken,
..and Momma, please Pappa; one's life merely token.

The children they run, jump through the Sun,
...ritual of the fear, for New Age begun.

Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
Can you see stars? Oh great the heavens...
...can you see stars, so great the heavens?
The ritual of the May, the Spring, May-Queen, Beltis and Bacchus as Beltane for both are one; two sides. The Catholic Church folded mythology into it's own canon by deifying Celtic, Greek, Norse and Roman gods. St. John's Eve is the ritual of Bacchus. In this ritual a fire pit is made and children jump through the flames; pass through the fire of the Sun. They do this while fleeing the two men dressed up as a white horse; the Pale Rider which is the Moon. Enacting the two sides of Janus; all coins have on their face an image of the sun god or sun king and an image on the obverse of a horse or horse's head. The moon has three faces that can be seen by the naked eye and if you look at it you will see one of them appears to be grey spots that form a horse's head. They are chased by the moon and saved by the sun but one is caught and torn apart the way Bacchus was killed. In the longer form one constellation character is, "caught," each Spring as the Age of Precession and once every 2,160 years a new one is, "saved," by the Sun passing through him.
Wanderer May 2012
Day breaks over a sleepy village
Morning absolutions completed
An excited buzz is in the air
Everyone is a buzz with cleaning
Hundreds gather wild flowers in the fertile fields
Many were in charge of raising the fires
Soon the whole town had bright blooms weaved from one end to the next
The horizon alight with smoke and power
Goddess and God rights invoked within circles round
Pulsating, rhythmic energy racing through each dancing body
Gyrating to the cosmic beat of life
Couples jump merrily together over cauldrons ablaze
High hopes rise and give way for dreams of children
Lovers round and round they twine
Maypole ribbons rainbow hued passing through hand to hand
As dusk falls the Queen is crowned
Mead flows freely through the jubilant worshippers
The moon hangs round with fullness above their heads
Lighting the way for love into the night
Michael Patrick May 2013
These golden sunglasses
Appeared on my doorstep
The last day of
The spring semester,
Sitting in a plastic pumpkin.

They weren’t mine
But when they break
I get them fixed
And when they don’t sit straight
I keep them
Because they remind me
Of how finals were over
And I slept through so many goodbyes.

The night before
We lay in your room
Sounds flowing through us like
Waves in the ocean,
Then moved to the grass outside
Watching more shooting stars than I could count.
The wood by the dorms was dark
And we ventured in in fits and starts,
The shadows of authority figures
Dancing around us.
The gazebo was silent.
And we journeyed across campus,
A pilgrimage through abandoned constructions
To see the church alight in the dark,
But the power was out and it was nothing.

I woke up in the afternoon
And knew that spring wouldn’t be back
For us.

The sunglasses weren’t mine
But someone left them at my door
And I keep them.
nick armbrister Jan 2018

Here is the coming of summer when the sun shines on the land and the oak tree gives forth his new green leaves

The deer run through the forest people dance to the pipe and drum all celebrate the kiss of summer who banishes winter gone

We are all one with nature as the Gods and Goddesses are with the planet that is coming into bloom with the scent of hawthorn and elder

For Mother Nature has smiled on the land in this the time of Beltane a time of new birth and happiness and a time of love and healing
How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
  The lamp of Heaven on Lora’s shore;
Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,
  And hear the din of arms no more!

But often has yon rolling moon,
  On Alva’s casques of silver play’d;
And view’d, at midnight’s silent noon,
  Her chiefs in gleaming mail array’d:

And, on the crimson’d rocks beneath,
  Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter’d ranks of death,
  She saw the gasping warrior low;

While many an eye, which ne’er again
  Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn’d feebly from the gory plain,
  Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
  They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer’d from above,
  A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva’s noble race,
  And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
  Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But, who was last of Alva’s clan?
  Why grows the moss on Alva’s stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
  They echo to the gale alone.

And, when that gale is fierce and high,
  A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
  And vibrates o’er the mould’ring wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
  It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
  No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar’s birth,
  When Angus hail’d his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain’s hearth
  Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast upon the mountain deer,
  The Pibroch rais’d its piercing note,
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
  The strains in martial numbers float.

And they who heard the war-notes wild,
  Hop’d that, one day, the Pibroch’s strain
Should play before the Hero’s child,
  While he should lead the Tartan train.

Another year is quickly past,
  And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
  Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
  On Alva’s dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas’d the roe,
  And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o’er,
  They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
  And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar’s hair,
  Wildly it stream’d along the gale;
But Allan’s locks were bright and fair,
  And pensive seem’d his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own’d a hero’s soul,
  His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn’d controul,
  And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
  Was shiver’d oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar’s ***** scorn’d to fear,
  But Oscar’s ***** knew to feel;

While Allan’s soul belied his form,
  Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
  On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon’s distant tower
  Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth’s lands to form her dower,
  Glenalvon’s blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claim’d the beauteous bride,
  And Angus on his Oscar smil’d:
It soothed the father’s feudal pride
  Thus to obtain Glenalvon’s child.

Hark! to the Pibroch’s pleasing note,
  Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

See how the Heroes’ blood-red plumes
  Assembled wave in Alva’s hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
  Attending on their chieftain’s call.

It is not war their aid demands,
  The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands
  Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar? sure ’tis late:
  Is this a bridegroom’s ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
  Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join’d the bride;
  “Why comes not Oscar?” Angus said:
“Is he not here?” the Youth replied;
  “With me he rov’d not o’er the glade:

“Perchance, forgetful of the day,
  ’Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean’s waves prolong his stay:
  Yet, Oscar’s bark is seldom slow.”

“Oh, no!” the anguish’d Sire rejoin’d,
  “Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
  Would aught to her impede his way?

“Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
  Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
  Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.”

All is confusion—through the vale,
  The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm’ring gale,
  Till night expands her dusky wings.

It breaks the stillness of the night,
  But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning’s misty light,
  But Oscar comes not o’er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
  For Oscar search’d each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
  His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.

“Oscar! my son!—thou God of Heav’n,
  Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
  Yield his assassin to my rage.

“Yes, on some desert rocky shore
  My Oscar’s whiten’d bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
  With him his frantic Sire may die!

“Yet, he may live,—away, despair!
  Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T’ arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
  O God! my impious prayer forgive.

“What, if he live for me no more,
  I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva’s age is o’er:
  Alas! can pangs like these be just?”

Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
  Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
  And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For, still, some latent hope surviv’d
  That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop’d and now revived,
  Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll’d along, the orb of light
  Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless’d his father’s sight,
  And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain’d,
  And, now, his father’s only joy:
And Mora’s heart was quickly gain’d,
  For beauty crown’d the fair-hair’d boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,
  And Allan’s face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv’d, some other maid
  Had claim’d his faithless *****’s care.

And Angus said, if one year more
  In fruitless hope was pass’d away,
His fondest scruples should be o’er,
  And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll’d the moons, but blest at last
  Arriv’d the dearly destin’d morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
  What smiles the lovers’ cheeks adorn!

Hark to the Pibroch’s pleasing note!
  Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,
  Throng through the gate of Alva’s hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
  And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken’d brow
  Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes’ far fiercer glow
  The blue flames curdle o’er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
  And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
  But light and trackless is his tread.

’Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
  The bridegroom’s health is deeply quaff’d;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
  And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
  And all the clamorous crowd are hush’d;
And Angus’ cheek with wonder glows,
  And Mora’s tender ***** blush’d.

“Old man!” he cried, “this pledge is done,
  Thou saw’st ’twas truly drunk by me;
It hail’d the nuptials of thy son:
  Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

“While all around is mirth and joy,
  To bless thy Allan’s happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne’er another boy?
  Say, why should Oscar be forgot?”

“Alas!” the hapless Sire replied,
  The big tear starting as he spoke,
“When Oscar left my hall, or died,
  This aged heart was almost broke.

“Thrice has the earth revolv’d her course
  Since Oscar’s form has bless’d my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
  Since martial Oscar’s death, or flight.”

“’Tis well,” replied the stranger stern,
  And fiercely flash’d his rolling eye;
“Thy Oscar’s fate, I fain would learn;
  Perhaps the Hero did not die.

“Perchance, if those, whom most he lov’d,
  Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov’d;
  For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn.

“Fill high the bowl the table round,
  We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown’d;
  Pledge me departed Oscar’s health.”

“With all my soul,” old Angus said,
  And fill’d his goblet to the brim:
“Here’s to my boy! alive or dead,
  I ne’er shall find a son like him.”

“Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
  But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
  And raise thy cup with firmer hand.”

The crimson glow of Allan’s face
  Was turn’d at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
  Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
  And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger’s eye
  On his with deadly fury plac’d.

“And is it thus a brother hails
  A brother’s fond remembrance here?
If thus affection’s strength prevails,
  What might we not expect from fear?”

Roused by the sneer, he rais’d the bowl,
  “Would Oscar now could share our mirth!”
Internal fear appall’d his soul;
  He said, and dash’d the cup to earth.

“’Tis he! I hear my murderer’s voice!”
  Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
“A murderer’s voice!” the roof replies,
  And deeply swells the bursting storm.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
  The stranger’s gone,—amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
  And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
  His plume of sable stream’d on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
  And fix’d was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smil’d, with his eye so wild
  On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown’d, on a Chief on the ground,
  Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
  And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
  Was borne on high by the whirlwind’s wing.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas’d.
  Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press’d old Angus’ breast,
  At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

“Away, away! let the leech essay
  To pour the light on Allan’s eyes:”
His sand is done,—his race is run;
  Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar’s breast is cold as clay,
  His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan’s barbèd arrow lay
  With him in dark Glentanar’s vale.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,
  Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
  For Alva’s sons knew Oscar well.

Ambition nerv’d young Allan’s hand,
  Exulting demons wing’d his dart;
While Envy wav’d her burning brand,
  And pour’d her venom round his heart.

Swift is the shaft from Allan’s bow;
  Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar’s sable crest is low,
  The dart has drunk his vital tide.

And Mora’s eye could Allan move,
  She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam’d with love,
  Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

Lo! see’st thou not a lonely tomb,
  Which rises o’er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
  Oh! that is Allan’s nuptial bed.

Far, distant far, the noble grave
  Which held his clan’s great ashes stood;
And o’er his corse no banners wave,
  For they were stain’d with kindred blood.

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
  Shall Allan’s deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory’s chief reward,
  But who can strike a murd’rer’s praise?

Unstrung, untouch’d, the harp must stand,
  No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
  His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow’d verse,
  Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father’s bitter curse,
  A brother’s death-groan echoes there.
Coyote Mar 2012
Vernal equinox
Beltane in the Celtic tongue
Bonfires hale rebirth
In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
it’s been foggy for the past two days,
i blamed fireworks on halloween
rather than guy fawkes’ celebration to
burn the magna carta... i still prefer the beltane
festival of burning rubber skin tires of pensioners
extending for a plastic surgeon’s career;
it was foggy these two past years,
i can almost start an art movement or set-up an art school
ensuring all paintings are painted with fog-overtones,
as i blow cigarette smoke into the air...
but this is the zenith of autumn,
the earth has started to breathe, the muddy field soil
has started to turn into mush, to mush,
it’s begging the plughole sepias of a hectare into easing into
moisture so the boots land a footprint into flemish tired in the trenches
for the toilet plop...i’ll dismember onomatopoeia spelling
and retrace the origins of dyslexia... i will!
insert this anti-intellectualism of england laughing at the words
sartre and *****... piston... etc.,
then become content with en masse surveillance.. everyone’s happy!
win win situation!
he he he... giggles for rounds of ***** shots and double-glazing...
keep the van gogh canvases... we need pristine voyeurism sights
across the street and never bothering to chip in to the gallery funds.
it’s autumn at its zenith with two foggy nests of the moon exposed
and i’m forcing cigarette smoke into the air to match up...
i’ve heard news that a lady psychologist and a professor are interested
in my works... back home in poland,
they are announcing a secret reading of my work
in the underground chambers of a church in szewna, akin me to a gombrowicz,
i’m about to become a merchant of poetry.... here’s cinnamon for words,
here’s chilli for specified terms that tingle the tongue.
back home i can reclaim this misunderstanding of all necessary jokes
in england...
so this article comes along... stresses the difference between england and france...
the difference?
in england: a. i’m trying to write a book... b. how much money did you get upfront?
typical of bank of england signatures being given with a safe investment...
in france? a. i’m writing a book... b. what’s it about?
that’s europe, cross-continental, with the isolationism of england
like the isolationism of england if f.d.r. was the prime minister
and everyone spoke gaelic, so there...
frogs are princes... with such cares the article mentioned...
it mentioned rousseau as the joker card of blames
for the french revolution...
well i know that scientist is a misnomer of intellectual,
after all, the scientist is the man with a ruler and centimetre
and the intellectual doesn’t bother to count up the centimetres
of welsh words... but a scientist is hardly a cobbler...
so i give darwin... the english intellectual exploit surfacing as
the modus operandi of the holocaust...
‘it’s almost like a darwinian pact,’ said faust,
'i peered into the monkey and knew of the trouble it would translate,
this collective categorical translation that didn’t say:
orangutan is chinese and chimpanzee is greek, the gorilla is italian...
how the hell could we have evolved from the monkey
if there is no single species of monkey, we’re already as diverse
as the ****** monkeys! so a chimpanzee ****** a gorilla
and the first humanoid was spawned?' ******* you english colonial
******* and your limb-for-limb relativity, oh wait...
i’m writing in english... now isn’t that paradoxical...
but the f.d.r. akin isolationism craves for artists that not only perform
with their backup cognitive singers, i.e. song writers...
(like the song by vanessa paradis - joe le taxi -
being almost like ellie goulding's on my mind)...
how did it all become defaced with karaoke and a prenuptial of fame...
i just want the original rolling stones... i don’t want people turned
into adverts... i don’t want artists turned into slogan pushers...
i rather keep the kites of drugs.... i can’t do this... my heart’s broken,
but that's because the audience that's being sold
the art is too young to respect the go-along practice of drug use with the arts.
A trenchant thought cut through the rest
to jolt me out of this haze (I savour), and
as the noxious redolence of Aetherius left
the fog of Endorphus settled in its stead;
While the mists of the oraculate cast
their insidious shadows upon
my bare chest.

Lughnasadh, Samhain, Imbolc and Beltane shall come to pass!
By harvest, hallows-even, spring and summer will it matter?
*Pharmahuasca maelstrom drank the earth
and I began to wander, in wonder again.
Medusa Oct 2018
Spinning like a dream,
Lady on the Del Mar

Not Beltane, not even May, any season, any time, things are
Jumpin' on Del Mar Avenue, we do it up right on the Ave
So there she is, we run all the way, eight blocks,
T. falls behind, but she tough, she catches up

Just in time

There she is, lone lady who climbs street poles
Hair dangling down like sheets of blessings
I'm too young, I get it, T. punches me in my
Back, yells "go home"

Spinning like a dream,
Lady on the Del Mar

Just in time

Just in time
She stay in my mind
Like she can find me
Back to myself

Cause I dream deep
Sometimes I dream so hard
I never wanna wake up

I'm a boy, I might be anything yet
Right now I'm an idea in my own mind. I 'm also a
'Good Person' so I don't bite or punch my sister
All the kids hold their breath as

Spinnin' like a dream,
  Lady on the Del Mar

Just in time

Stop sign makes us all one, we one organic thing
Watching her do unearthly dance for us,
Just for us. So we forget to breathe when she dips
down low, she swirl it around
so slow under the street lamp
dipping and swoopin' like a bird
I loved her then I knew love

all of the blocks got still

We feel like a church moment,
Try not to move, just hope she will
Spin like that, dip and defy it all

Spinning like a dream,
Lady on the Del Mar

Just in time

Hope might be a moment
Of some kinda Grace & Beauty

We feel hope, because we seen
Magic on the corner

Spinning like a dream,
Lady on the Del Mar

Just in time

Waits for you
For K de La F
Who is this poem
In every way.
StormriderIX May 2
I light
the four candles
one at a time.

I place my mask
on my face.

The music
is wild
and somber.

I dance
and dance
and dance.

At some point
I stop thinking.

I just dance
and dance
and dance.

I hurl my frustration
into the
candles of change.

My thoughts are
a whirling
swirling cloud.

I draw strength
from these
fires of fury.

I dance
and I dance
and I dance.

I ground myself.

I give
the furious strength

I go deeper.
I find
new strength within.

Not frustration.
Not fury.
But acceptance.

I smile.
I take my mask

And I keep dancing.
Happy late Beltane everyone!
"O' Circle O' ancient standing stones
        that excites the senses, chills the bones
        O' but to know the secrets contained in thee
        If but one secret, you'd give to me."

        When times were ancient, old and worn
        and priests,those Druids in secrets sworn
        To cast like Merlin amongst the breeze
        the secrets of Oak and Rowan trees.

        The wise ones in circles of primal flame
        would cast and call upon the sacred name
        The elements would shake at this request
        knowing to well the Grails Holy guest.

        The Heavens would darken, the thunder's roar
        As lightning would strike into Earths central core
        The Sea's would rumble ,roar and over flow
        and all the Earth would shake wishing to know.

        The Sigil, the Talisman,what form it took
        What mighty symbol could life's foundations have shook
        "No mortal man this, with powers so grand
        Is Merlin but a Mortal,or a God upon the land?"

        For in Sacred groves under Beltane's flame
        come the cries of the Lords born without name
        and above the horizon, twined with the Moon
        arises the Heavenly Mother to her full bloom.

        Dance young Maidens,lease forth your cry
        come in songs O' joy, let your emotions fly
        Young Celtic warrior brave ,portray you your glory
        and give Honor to Honor, Holy to Holy.

        Look at Merlin, how he walks with the fire
        Filled with the passions of Life's true desire
        Watch him grow ,take wing and fly
        upon the breath of the Dragon ,in the sky.

        So set sail ye the soul, that ancient form
        and cast forth thy will into the depths of the storm
        Follow ye, the wind from the Sacred East
        and there meet the mighty man and priest.

        Release your bonds, set free your heart
        gaze within the depths of one's inner part
        Then take hold the maiden, Mother and old Hag
        Love them equally and do not sag.

        Give freely of thy spirit,receive nothing in return
        then come Earth's Child to the Stones to learn
        The secrets of secrets,within each of us one
        that by which all is cast and eventually is done.

        Then be you like Merlin and others before
        that have entered our gardens,Returned form behind it's door
        So fear ye none save yourself, that is the truth
        something one can never learn, while their mind plays in youth.

        But gather you together the strength of the will
        Once that be done, Son, then you shall we fill
        And the days shall sing of praises, the rain shall fall like wine
        Invigorating the Earth,making all once again mine.

        Such shall it be, the day a Merlin shall arise
        to relieve the pain and suffering of Man's stifled cries
        For we are the Ancient of Ancients,Born but with one name
        We are the keepers of the Soul's of Arianrod and Heaven's great flame.

        To whom ever dares, wishes or enters here
        Let him meet first his deepest darkest fear
        And should he surpass all tests and walk on through
        Then behold the cauldron of rebirth awaits you.

        For the Rod of Merlin shall await the one
        and the Crown of Dana,bold as the sun
        Then shall we come with hearts full and rich
        To teach our secrets, their tone, Their pitch.

        Alas, fulfilling the destiny we made e'er so long ago
        the returning age of Arthur, for all to Know.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
The Fire Burns Apr 2018
Dancing bodies in flickering light,
beads of sweat from the heat,
blessed between the bonfires,
between spring and summer meet.

Bagpipes play a haunting tune,
sacrifices are freely made,
these gifts we give to nature,
hoping for an even trade.

Golden flowers braided,
into locks of ladies hair,
scattered in the bushes,
luck and beauty shared.

And when the night was over,
sacred fire taken to the homestead,
bring good fortune and health,
to greener pastures, our herds are led.
Rachel May 2019
A festival of celebration
An ancient Celtic religion      
May Day, the Spring equinox
The Summer solstice
Happy heathens, pagan pride!
Honoring Nature, the Seasons,
The Elements, Spirit! Gods, Goddesses
And deities of our hearts
Childlike, we are, dancing around
The May Pole of bright colorful ribbons
Weaving up and down, as above so below
Offering flowers, acknowledging
fertility and abundance
Communing together in the Woods
Feasting with our friends, our families
Our Tribe!  May you never know hunger
May you never thirst!
We are many and we are of one heart
A sacred bon fire blazes in the night
of the Forrest, emitting its protective
powers as we leap the flames and
dance around the fire of our souls
A W Bullen Jun 2017
It is
a lazy nod of orchid shift that sees
the poppies lean in times, where
glockenspiel lanyard clings are
goat herds on a Cretan rise.

Sweet boat-words claim a beltane fare
that calls to mind all Summers gone
in spools of warming solitude
that talk of when the Earth was young.
Bee Orchid
Goat bells/ yachts
Graff1980 Dec 2017
There was a time
when the Beltane fires
blasted, the massive
crowds face
with orange heat,

when women danced,
swirling and singing
in an orgiastic fury.
When a poet’s tongue
could raise a lover’s skirt,
and with passions
unparalleled part
a ******’s legs,

when well written words
would stir adventurous hearts
to grand feats,
and the poets would be seen
and remembered.

Now black hole brains
and shallow stares
sink solemnly
onto their blinking screens.
The poets are not seen.
Their truths are no longer gleaned.
Their words are not heard.
Dull faces are lit
by other people’s
facebook, twitter,
and instagram *******.
The fools have forgotten
the former passions
of this existence.

Thus, the poets dies,
by the unmoved masses.
Liz Ringrose Jan 2019
Down in the garden where moonlight doesn't reach,
the water is boiling with embracing couples.
Slithering and submerging, surfacing, sinking again
in their alligator rolls, legs pushing, touching others and veering away.

Not yet Beltane but the drive is strong and urgent,
they meet once a year in this fecund rite, old hands and new.
How long they seem to stay beneath the water,
skimming the bottom where smooth newts bide their time
gliding in lithe figures of eight.

Back on the surface throaty voiced princes, hands spread upon their lover's shoulder,
stare into space at either side and sigh all hours of the night.

Tomorrow in warm sunlight they will spread, replete
upon their tapioca pillows dotted with new life.
The annual love fest in our garden pond :-)
andi Jul 22
the words hit me
and now i can't understand my own native language.
you're leaving, so soon.
i fell for you,
and i should've known from the beginning that this wouldn't last
when you said your college was so far away.
i wish i could make you stay here with me, but that's selfish.
i know what you're going to do, and i wanna prevent it.
please don't say the words to me that will break me.
please don't hurt me.
please say it to me when i'm at home in my bed so i don't have to drive anywhere in tears, or face your family after sobbing.
please say it to me gently, so not to shatter any of the pieces of my heart left unbroken.
please say it with love, so i know you don't want to either.
but most of all
please only say it when i'm sleeping.
please only say it when i'm not around.
please only say it in my head.
please don't say it.
please don't do it.
don't hurt me.

i just want to keep you, i don't know how.
i want to find some way to show you that i'm here no matter where we are on this planet.
i want you to feel the same way about me as i feel about you, i want you to think that it's worth the distance to be together.
i can make it work somehow, i know i can, i know it.
please just stay. please just stay. please don't go.

and when i go to your house now, i'll treat every time there like my last.
i'll look at all the nice little things i made for you, and the chair i sit in, and the blanket i cuddled with, and i'll drink my last peach tea at your house with a smile on my face.
in my heart i'll be screaming.
i'll say goodbye to all the memories we had, and the sweet moments that could have been.
i'll say goodbye to the place i would've admitted that i loved you if you had stayed.
i'll say goodbye to your dogs, to your sister, to your mom, your dad.
i'll say goodbye to your car, to the drive there, and the drive home. i'll say goodbye to the sun.
i'll say goodbye.

i don't know if i can go on without you in my life, as childish as it sounds.
i didn't think i was this attached to you.

right now i'm saying goodbye to the smell of you. i know that i won't be able to keep you around.

in my heart i know what you're going to do and i don't like it. aren't things supposed to be discussed as a couple before it's done? why is breaking up not one of those things? i can't just say no to you leaving me, even though i really want to.

you'll fall in love with someone in new york and she'll treat you so much better than i could've ever thought to do. you'll hold her like you hold me, and you'll tell her all the lovely things you tell me. you'll play with her hair, and massage her back, and make her feel loved and important like you do to me. but she'll do more for you.

i don't even want to think about you with someone else. even if it means you're happy. i'm so selfish. i want you to be happy, but i want you to be with me.

i know that in order for you to be happy you may want to be single, and that's okay. i won't make you stay if you don't want to. i wish i could convince you to stay. i wish i could keep you.

in case this is the end, i'll document the things i loved the most during our time together.

the day we got together. not only did we celebrate beltane together but you asked me to be your girlfriend on my favorite holiday.

when you said "i love everything about you". i think you didn't mean to say it, but you did.

hearing you tell your friends i'm amazing.

the day you held me while i was panicking and reminded me that it's okay, and kept me close until i was okay again.

everytime you made me something.

the day we painted the aang sculptures together.

every single time you called me beautiful. every one.

when you rode with me in the car for the first time.

the first time we kissed.

when you told me "i like you a lot, more than like" (your own little hint at loving me)

every "i'm so proud of you".

when you wore my shirt, even though it looked so silly!

every time you asked me to tell you when i made it home so you knew i was safe.

you taught me to love myself, to get the help that i needed for so long, that my trauma doesn't define me. you taught me to be proud even if everyone else ignores me. you taught me to be strong. you taught me that everyday is a reason to smile. you showed me that there is more to life than the past, you taught me to go with the flow.

i will miss you.
and i'm sorry i wasn't enough.

— The End —