"brighid" poems
Dreamers of a mystic dream
We see a world that can't be seen
Fairies, Elves and Pagan Lore
We're lured to a misty moor
We fly away to the midst of Mebh
When Brighid's crown adorns our heads
Moist as the morning dew of Bel
A land where ancient mysteries dwell
Here Wood-Nymphs dance unseen
Flowers thrive near eternal springs
Bright rainbows point to pots of gold
As the twilight of our love unfolds...
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Maybe you dreamt of a flower
Something soft and small
And hoped it would be enough
That it loved you back
You almost named me after your favourite:
A small, sweet, delicate flower
Which climbs high and grows strong
But you changed your mind when you saw me
The name you gave me is no less beautiful
And I hope it’s still a testament to my person
The songs I sing for you are works of poetry;
All your old favourites
The love I offer you is endless
But maybe the idea of it wasn’t enough for you
To clear the skies enough
And end the monsoon season
I remember dancing with her in the rain
Clothes soaked through,
A small child,
I couldn’t see the irony of it all
The freckles that come with the sun
Remind me of you, remind me I’m yours
I think I’m still climbing
But I’m not sure I’m as strong as you’d hoped
I hope I didn’t let you down, that day.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
If God was an interior decorator named Brighid, which means Exalted One, how should I pray to her if I felt destiny pushing me to become more?
If I aspired to be an avant-garde poet, should I move into that half-basement of a four-story brown stone walk-up, even though the last two tenants who rented the apartment died alone, and the landlord expects me to clean the urine-stained carpet?
Would Brighid reveal her plan for me?
Would she command me to rip-it all out and put in factory-finished walnut, to throw-down a white bearskin rug in front of the obsolete marble fireplace?
And what of poetry and fire?
Would Brighid tell me, “There are no absolutes in life, only clichés?”
And what if I asked only for this god’s mercy, happy to become a grocery-store romance writer because until now all my work went into the one porcelain crapper, and my dreams stir only in the metal hospital bed on loan from the Salvation Army?
If my view of the world is to be framed by steel bars outside every window, would I pray to have fresco walls or hand-painted wallpaper?
And what if I heard her laugh and tell me, “Darling, why not go retro, clean up the **** carpet, hang some black-and-white photographs and posters of the Rolling Stones and the Hell’s Angels? You know the whole sixties thing.”
Would I be prepared to change the world?
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC