Nonsense?

She heralds the darkness with a call that is at once sweet and strange. A dimming of light, turning as if in autumn.

The crisp sweetness tasted then, the sharp and whiteness, acid, acrid, till it’s done.

We can but speak in whispers, no louder than this. No more the broken dreams of memory, only the undertow of home. Voices and laughter; the aching sweetness that is, that was, that can be and will.

It is home to you now, home to your soul; the chaotic gypsy hearts we breed. Curled and curved around you with so much to do and so many places to belong. We are the sweet tales, we are the night visions, we are the blessed acres of space where wildness may still bloom, the ever free who would surround thee.

If it is a memory then let it be the wash of truth that bares your soul. Ruthless distortions swept aside to leave you bare. Whatever we do, whoever we are, has reason and though there are no mistakes that may not be forgiven, all will be accounted for and better understood. What it means to you who holds on, who would avoid its eyes, what it means is to be counted, accounted as the responsible.

Forgiveness, disillusion, the one we thought you were not changed but grown.

Stand by your convictions and let them bloom, understand them, speak for them. Life is a steady stream that goes where it will. Who are you to move against the tide? Who could?

Bran

Speak of the sea; the grey rolling foam, the washing, washing water that comes as she does. Speak of the sea and all her silences, great as she is, quiet as she may be, of all her memory, of all the places she may rest. She is the greatness and the void. Stories that hold memory, that tell something in their telling, something more subtle between the lines. Between one meaning and the next a hidden history unfolds. Pages between the ones we see.

Dark hair, like night falling between my fingers, like night falling as a silken cloth over the land. Bright eyes upward turned to heaven. He could touch it with his hand, he could hold it in his palm.

Into Brilliance

Sweet bliss

Remember this

With the sweet hours fading

Into brilliance

The curve of your hand

As it holds your own heart

And the endless distance of heaven

Arcing into eternity

One and the same

We are

What the Sisters Whispered

The roses hold the moonlight, the memory of it. The blush of their hues like a tale now easily told among sisters.

Among the sisters and what they whisper.

If you tell me, if that could be its way, one to another, but mouth to mouth, word to word there is a change, subtle but real.

Know that some things are made beyond the reach of words and must be understood in the heart, in the blood, deep within the very marrow. Not spoken, but known. It goes beyond belief. It is what is.

Arianrhod

">There is an eight spoke wheel that turns and weaves in a distant place, far beyond where the eye can see. Some say it is of silver, spinning high and cold as the moon, some of wood from the 8 different trees of our seasons, but others say that it is cast of iron, rusting slowly on its axis. She, the great spinner of all, sits and spins us like thread, and the iron of her wheel is woven deep into our blood. Rust, dust, iron from the mother of all. Her lessons are not easy or sweet, but they go deeper than bone, to a time when we were but stone and mud.

Ahrianrod is the cold aloof light of a million stars and the very depths of the ocean in which they say she drowned. But then men are want to say these things, telling stories of how craftiness and female cunning can come to nought but a bad end, metering cause and effect out in neat little parcels. But life has a way of unfolding that is not so neat or seemingly just. Perhaps she did drown, surrounded by all her madness and wickedness the way they tell it, but we believe she swam with a different tide, untouchable by the currents of life as you or I would walk it. Ahrianrod was star born and star bound. She was as cold as the empty atmosphere just beyond the curve of the earth but as warm as a midwinter night, when the glow comes not from the brashness of the sun, but from the bright points of light we see in one another as we gather round to celebrate the ones we love at these times. She was not and could never be defined by the laws that the men tried to tie her story up in, she was instead as dark as the dark moon, untouched by her brother sun. But even there, there is some discrepancy… a magical child, some argument as to who the father was and Ahrianrod as ever, too proud and distant to say, as if the words would diminish her somehow.

Your Love

Her breath is warm

The downy hairs like a baby

Soft and golden, you are

Trying to survive in this world

With your heart on your sleeve.

Your breath, crying to the nape of her neck

A salt pool where it gathers

In the sweet unspoken places

Your love fills up

Moonlight

Wrap yourself around the moon,

As if she could become

A part of you

And walk by your side

Moonlight on a shuttered street

What would she whisper

What secrets confide

In the dizzying dark hours

After all the bars are closed

Pacing you like a dream

A secret sigh

Walking you home

As the cars go by