To witness no trace of a step, that has lingered beneath the dewy lush grass.
Then to gaze upon greatest glory! While creation unfolds right in front of you.
Revealing its treasured secrets, while you stand stunned, eyes wide open as you try to take in the entire sky and landscape about you. As countless eons pass before you in an instant. Suddenly, you have grasped eternity to be but a moment to a greater source. This self-created source gave birth to eternity and all that is and is not, and is to be. Its being is woven in all that it has created, and still, it appears to have vanished!
If there exists a higher power to this, then it is because it has felt the need or necessity to create one or more. Thus allowing it to do what it does best... CREATE. All three must be simultaneously in action. To be the Creator, He must create, and be in creation. So I would assign the number three to the creator.
ah-oh-en
Our Awen does this, Awen is a Welsh, Cornish and Breton word that means (poetic) inspiration, and the three rings around it represent the three worlds the Druid must walk in. Three rays of light. Awen is the wisdom, truth and most of all the inspiration, Awen is Nature, the universal power behind life, yet it is never born and shall never die.
Awen is a force or energy forged from an indivisible source that is the power behind the physical and non-physical or spirit forms Existence, and the distinction between nature and the supernatural becomes meaningless, as both are the personification of Awen. Every link which is a part of nature, be it a man, animal, plant or elemental force, each holds its own little piece and together make up the whole chain which is Awen. Awen is the spirit of Druidry itself, it is knowing, sensing and feeling it in your essence and true being, it is the freedom to accept one's nature.
While the concept of Awen and its solar connections are popularly regarded as Revivalist, rather than an ancient Celtic symbol, some Druidesses and Druids do believe that Awen, translated as flowing spirit, may be an ancient concept that was Christianised. They point to such examples as tales of the sixth-century bard Taliesin (although these tales were recorded centuries later) who claimed to have received three drops of Awen that splashed from the Cauldron of Cerridwen and these three drops are depicted in some symbols of Awen, falling from the sky.
Of course, if Awen does come from the Cauldron of Cerridwen then this solar power is female-inspired and directed and the solar connection is that it is brewed from herbs and flowers that grow in the sun.
It represents a rebirth into light, such as the boy Gwion experienced when he was swallowed in the form of a grain by Cerridwen in the shape of a hen and was reborn from her womb as the bard/magician Taliesin nine months later. Gwion, foster son of Cerridwen, was stirring the cauldron (the owner of the cauldron is called Awen) at the time and claimed that three drops of inspiration splashed on his fingers accidentally, an explanation not accepted by the irate Cerridwen who pursued him in animal different forms in what has become a classic example of shapeshifting.
Awen is a complicated concept and hard to understand. Teaching its meaning is often not clear and imprecise. I can only offer my sense of feeling and, as sure as the wind drifts sand, my own perspective may shift slightly as time moves on. I only know what I feel but only arrogance sets opinions in stone, may I be preserved some such folly.
Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017
Dionysian passion fills my soul
With a stream of life, that knows no restraint,
Your frantic current defies all control-
Awakens the devil within the saint.
Injected with life, I'm lost in your force
As waves of strange visions rend me apart,
For purpose that has no ending no source-
Oh, come to my rescue creative art.
Apollo, come harness this raging stream,
With power of reason, channel the surge,
Reshape my voluptuous, savage dream-
Transmute its horror to aesthetic urge.
Bring order to chaos—hold tight your rein-
Come, challenge this frenzy of energy!
You both are needed—the crazy, the sane-
Dionysus! Apollo! Balance me!
August 26, 2014
~2nd Place~
Contest: Love Letter II
Sponsor: Viv Wigley
Judged: 04/08/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: The Doesn't Fit Contest
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Judged: 10/17/2015
=================================================
*In Greek mythology, Apollo and Dionysus are both sons of Zeus. Apollo is the god of reason and the rational while Dionysus is the god of the irrational and chaos. The content of all artistic creation is based on the tension created by the interplay between these two. The use of the concepts of the Apollonian and Dionysian is famously linked to the philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche.
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2014
B good.
B brave .
B sure .
B cause
B fore
U love .
U do
U nite
B loved
B longings .
Copyright © Sean Kelly | Year Posted 2007
A Dylan Thomas State of Mind
It’s precisely 2:45am...the time when
~ if I’ve fallen asleep ~
I always awake to find
Myself drenched in sweat.
I lie here beside my beloved
~ as I have so steadfastly since
16 November 2016 ~
Thinking about...wondering...pondering
The end of my existence.
I am not talking about
Taking my own life.
NO!
I’ve seen, heard, touched, tasted, smelt
too much...
I’ve survived too much, felt too much...
I value Howard’s sweet...sweet...
Nurturing soul’s devotion
To keeping me alive these past 40 years
To raise my hand against myself...now.
I AM talking about these things:
Where do we go when we die?
Do I have a soul?
Will I be conscious — at the moment it happens —
That I am drawing my very last breath?
Sometimes, when I awake in the early morn,
Howard is motionless beside me
And I stare at his beautiful face.
Dare I reach out and touch it with one finger?
What if it’s stone cold?
His flesh heavy...dead?
Death.
The End of Living.
The End...The End...The End...
Last January I begged for surcease...
For an end to the pain...
An end to the physical torture...
An end to the psychic suffering...
The constant thoughts of:
“Is there a Hell?”
“Will I go there if I take my own life?”
“What does ‘eternity’ mean?”
Now this morning of 19 October 2017
I am thinking...feeling...praying:
Please...Please...Please...
God/Goddess/All That Is/The Universe/The Spirit
Make my neglected hated scorned body
Healthy and whole.
So I may live
today...
tomorrow...
next month...
next year...
Do not let me go gentle into that good night.
I am alive now...
And I rage...
I RAGE NOW!
....against the dying of the light.
Barbara Dickenson
19 October 2017
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017
Today I was cooking, cutting up tomatoes, my husband called me while mashing potatoes
"Hurry to the bedroom, they are playing a song, that has made me think of you all my life long"
Busy as I was, I was curious to see, what song made him think of me.
Down the hall, opening the door, my husband started dancing with me on the bedroom floor
The melody surrounded us like a cocoon, safe within his arms lost in the tune
"I have waited for you all my life" were the words of the song
We danced in that moment so long
A moment that brought tears to my eyes, My husband asked, "Why do you cry?"
"This moment, a gift you made mine, is a precious moment in time."
Back to the kitchen to do my chores, Treasuring a moment I will remember forever more.
Copyright © Shirley Rebstock | Year Posted 2015
That clock on the wall is going too fast,
If it continues this pace I don’t think I will last.
I woke up this morning and looked over the sink,
to see my reflection and it got me to think...
There are lines on my face that I’m sure were not there,
and to my surprise; a new color of hair.
My eyes are not as innocent, and my nose a little round,
and perhaps around my middle I could see an extra pound.
Where did all the time go? Is this some silly trick?
There on the wall that clock continues to tick.
I listened for a minute, as that clock seemed to slow,
as if for a moment to say “don’t you know?...”
And then time stopped still as I remembered the years,
The times that I’ve had, the laughter and tears,
a flood of fond memories began filling my head,
like a book of my life but much easier read.
My time with my brother and sister of course,
my favorite things, a new bike and a horse.
Swimming and tennis and rodeos, too,
my friends and the crazy adventures we’d do.
My very first kiss; my heart skipped a beat,
the first time that I drove a real car on the street.
High school and college and meeting a wife,
overcome by the joy of adding kids to my life.
My thoughts now turned to my mother and dad,
I am grateful to them for the life that I had.
They cared for me always, and taught me so well,
as I replay these memories it’s easy to tell.
I’m grateful for all the of the things that they gave,
the lessons and wisdom I was able to save.
That clock on the wall doesn’t have any brakes,
no way to slow down and it gives me the shakes.
But I don’t mind the wrinkles, the lines or gray hair,
I’ve had so much fun and the timing was fair.
I know that my life is like one giant cup;
The great times that I’ve had were in filling it up.
Copyright © Cary Snowden | Year Posted 2018
I'd risen from my bed quite early, in the pale silent sunshine,
And I thought to have a day out, and not waste summer's prime.
The world still was sleeping, but the bluebirds sang a tune,
And blooms held onto dewdrops, until arrival of noonday swoon!
I relished a cup of coffee, along with my toast ham and eggs,
And went for a morning jog, for fun and to exercise my legs.
The sun was fully arisen by then, and skies were azure blue,
And the scenery was coming alive, like a flower long overdue!
I ran through the summertime, in a blur of blooms and of trees,
And flew past the redbirds, their songs echoing in the breeze.
Then I slowed to a pleasant walk, feeling refreshed and happy,
And as the breezes found me, I hummed a tune that was snappy.
I saw that I was now approaching, our metropolitan art museum,
And I knew it'd be enjoyable, in all colors of the spectrum!
As I entered the cool building, I was eager to see all the art,
Especially the particular pieces, that always touched my heart!
So I wandered here and there, deep inside the pleasant interior,
Pondering what to see first, modern art or maybe fine sculpture.
At last I turned into a corridor, to view classical paintings,
For at the hour dawn skies are vivid, is when every robin sings!
This wing seemed unfamiliar, in some way I could hardly fathom,
But I did not allow the feeling, my great enthusiasm to dampen.
So I entered a bright chamber, and was shocked but truly elated,
At an impossible artwork collection, both newer ones and dated!
What first caught my avid eye, was the figure of a crouching man,
That was nearly 20 feet tall, lost in thought, chin upon his hand.
I was in such awe of The Thinker, and it was the original one,
Like the premiere flower ever to bloom, under the orangey sun!
Then turning around I walked, into an impenetrable Lavender Mist,
An expressionist painting by Jackson Pollock, among his finest.
The vibrant colors came alive, seeming to virtually draw me in,
Like the persistency of a dawn fog, concealing where you've been!
My eye was subsequently captured, by a large earring of pearl,
Which was beautifully adorning, a wide eyed and mysterious girl.
The Girl With a Pearl Earring, appeared to be staring right at me,
With her exotic headdress, and also a compelling question, maybe.
I then noticed a captivating figure, reclined in an endless sleep,
It was The Death of Cleopatra, as lovely as the midnight so deep!
Created by a 19th century African American, a giant of her time,
Edmonda Lewis was as divine a sculptor, as sunset at its prime.
I drifted then to the Nighthawks, having their late dinner downtown,
Showing there's still life in the city, after the red sun goes down!
Nearby the Pop Artwork titled "Eggs," was so electrifyingly vivid,
An Andy Warhol and Jean Michel Basquiat collaboration-very splendid!
Like the intensity that arrives, after the large storm cloud goes,
Or the gorgeous colors of autumn, when summer comes to its close.
Then looking upwards I beheld, the statue of David, by Michelangelo,
Looking relaxed, but alert and ready, just prior to the fatal blow!
Moving on with eager anticipation, I saw an extremely familiar face,
It was the portrait of a woman, full of intrigue mystery and grace.
Mona Lisa was faintly smiling, against the lush distant backdrop,
My day now held such enchantment, that I never wanted it to stop!
And when I had turned around, I looked into a beautiful Starry Night,
Like a wide eyed hooting owl, when the shimmering full moon is bright.
I was then quite overcome, for the strange scene dazzled my eyes,
Like the amaranth sunrise of summer, searching for a new surprise!
Moving on to see more masterpiece art, I was suddenly taken aback,
To see a wildly Weeping Woman, Pablo Picasso's stirring abstract.
As a solid teardrop flowed to one ear, her anguish was so captivating,
Like a dream that holds you in its grasp, though the dawn is waiting!
Later it was my pleasure to encounter, the haunting Bust of Nefertiti,
Which was crafted by the sculptor Thutmose, around the year 1345 BC.
She looked to be frozen in time, so filled with loveliness and grace,
With her red lips, jewelry and crown, a Mona Lisa smile upon her face.
This chamber I was in seemed to be, quite a bit larger than I thought,
Though I could see the opposite wall, it seemed farther than it ought.
I wanted to see everything at once, but my watch told of night falling,
The museum would be closing soon, and supper and rest were calling.
I determined to return next day, to see more of the amazing new annex,
Like all seasons returning again and again, to see what happens next!
I arrived at the museum early the next morning, in eager anticipation,
But the charmed annex couldn't be found, though I sought in frustration.
Yet the breathtaking beauty of that day, is emblazoned upon my heart,
Like all the rainbow colors gathered, with each one playing its part!
Copyright © Evelyn Judy Buehler | Year Posted 2020
The child stood valorous before the door
With nary a tinge of fear or dread.
Armed with a spatula and a pancake flipper...
She wore a stewing pot on her head.
Her hands were protected by leather gloves
With her Father's boots to guard her feet.
Her swimming goggles were securely placed
And beneath her shirt... a cookie sheet.
With a determined sigh she cracked the door
And peered suspiciously through the night.
She momentarily thought the coming battle
May be best done in the bask of morning light.
But time was short and with each passing hour...
Others would surely die.
So she began her journey to confront this beast
Who had taken so many lives.
She made her way through the wretched gloom
And gave thought to her parent's fears.
She had never seen them so full of doubt
In all her seven years.
But the time had come to join the fight
To aid those who gave protection.
And she was well aware of its woeful lair
Where she would fight this damn infection.
A nurse stood wavering from a vengeful night
As another dozen deaths had left her cold.
But she then heard a voice so free of fear
It brought a peaceful solace to her soul.
'I wonder if you would be so kind
To take a moment and give me some direction.
For I am stout and brave with pluck and daring
And I will help defeat this cursed infection.'
The nurse's eyes welled up at such a sight
And a smile reached across her face.
As by her side stood a little girl
Who would defend the human race.
So remember this when all is lost
And the best of us lose heart.
A unsung hero will rise to bring us hope
And inspire us all to do our part.
Copyright © David McHattie | Year Posted 2020
A word spoken
Its journey not known.
A word passed
To hear and see.
Enjoyment…, anger…,
Direction given without fear,
For what I say is what I intended.
What I intended is what I say
Clearly given explicitly.
Not a doubt of what my meaning would be.
I have no idea…
Why are you upset with me?
Copyright © Wilbert Webb | Year Posted 2018
A WORLD OF IMAGINATION
Shell we reside in the world of perdition ?,
or will we know life ?, after death, through attrition.
Hell is not to be Dante’s, inferno ?,
the void ?, fires ?, the black hole we think we will go ?
Hell is the ever lasting pain we endure
as we walk alone, into the future.
Hades, created by man’s imagination.
From fear, it became his creation.
Hell is the pain - of our regret -,
caused to others, we will never forget.
Forgiveness of one’s self,
is the only way to put guilt upon a shelf,
live out one’s life, free
to walk this plane and be
as one with this universe.
As I come to the end of this verse,
we will never see beyond the veil,
for there is no one who may tell the tale
of what the future will hold,
no one who knows the tale to be told.
Time is the keeper, of all we have come to know.
Time is the transporter, taking us to where we will go.
What ever is to be our destination ?,
it has been of our own creation.
B. J. “ A” 2
May 26th 2012
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2012
I quietly walk through its abandoned rooms.
Softly as a mouse.
So as not to disturb or rouse.
I try to feel, reach out to past.
Sense what has come to pass.
I listen intently to the silence.
Free my senses from constraint
An penance.
I slowly walk down its thorough fare.
Past rooms of gloom an dusty ceils.
Into a kitchen of yore an backdoor.
I stop and close my eyes.
Reach out to lives cast.
Hoping for a vision that lasts
Of this farm house,
Long past.
Copyright © Dominic Middleton | Year Posted 2018
When I heard your violin by chance,
I fell into an amazing trance!
What beautiful music and dance!
I have never had such an experience!
My world will never be the same
After your melody suddenly came!
Your music fascinates me like a flame;
And not a day without it is now my aim!
It is a wonder that you can combine
Playing the violin with a dance so fine!
You are wonderful like the sunny shine!
Every time I see you, it is a good sign!
Your music sounds in my mind;
So much meaning in it I can find,
As if revealing the feelings hidden behind.
I have ever felt nothing of the kind!
Your melodies guide me all the time
And help to better spend my time!
With your music I live in chime;
Your creative work is the sublime!
Now I hear your violin with permanence.
I like the feeling of this amazing trance!
What beautiful music and dance!
I’m so glad to have such an experience!
Dedicated to Lindsey Stirling
November 1st, 2020
Copyright © Nikolay Lopatin | Year Posted 2020
The wind fiercely blows across the paths of tranquility.
And the rain pours endlessly where the sun once shown so bright.
But all I can do is sit and watch the immense change in the
atmosphere of my life.
And I am helpless!
Written by,
Sheri Lynne Evans
early 1978
Copyright © Sheri Evans | Year Posted 2020
The steadily falling cold August rains
Continue to pour upon Cheshires lanes;
Over flattening fields of soddened wheat,
Soaking the grass, splashing the feet.
Stands the Combine in the shed;
The unripened apples hanging rosy red.
Stands the caped heron all alone -
His glinting eye as cold as stone.
And in amongst the many puddles
We step around like our troubles:
So lurch ahead with our retreat
Like drunken fools in the street.
And through this months darkly frowns
The cleansing downpours wash the towns;
Scrubs the spire from ingrained time -
Absolves the guilt from the crime!
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014
We loved the land
We tilled the earth, under sun we toiled
We pledged our souls, to nature’s whim
The King of France none to pleased
We took the sacraments
We held our faith, mournful to fates embrace
The British demanded a new oath we take
And scalped we were, both sides did partake
Our villages burned, our fields afire
Our woman and children, in hunger perished
We feared Monckton, a hunter of death
And from him, to ships hold, deported at best
We preyed to Canada, to lend us a hand
Evangeline an angel of our land
The darkened forests, to where we fled
Became bloody in battles, and turned to red
For Redcoats wandered in search of scalps
As Father Le Loutre preached unheavenly deeds
He was bloodthirsty and in skirmishes his evil flourished
His Mikmaq warriors helped rivers flow to blood
We lived along the rivers edge
We fought them all, to no one did we pledge
As serfs we served, to whom did rule
In the end, the forest sang our quiet eulogy
The vessels sailed from Halifax
With their human cargo of Partisans
Off to the West Indies, and a new land
Disease triumphed where Lord Laurence failed
And so the voyage, onward went
The traditions of Grand Pre, to Louisiana was lent
And there they settled, peace at last
As angels of their battles, in sacrifice did rest
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013
A white tailed doe, was grazing there, aware and keen of eye
She perked up ears, alert for sound, yet, still she had not flown
Dare I break the silent calm, with breath or just a sigh?
Or take a step, in chance my foot could rustle twig or loam?
This stance of wills...intense and poised, a fleeting chance to flee
She perked up ears, alert for sound, yet still she had not flown
Enhanced by peaceful solitude, in twilight, crimson crowned
There, in tensile grace she stood, enchantment in disguise
Lightly splashed in backlight, where the tender grass had grown
A monumental moment, as she stood before my eyes
First stabbed by startled fear, new trust came pouring down
There, in tensile grace she stood, enchantment in disguise
Caressed in beauty, and sun embraced, revealed for me alone
Dare I break the silent calm, with breath or just a sigh?
First stabbed by startled fear, new trust came pouring down
Eyes made of glass, as windows are, in which the iris tongue
We made no move...each one transfixed, no air in lungs to breathe
So inter-laced, with life force crossed, in universal one
Our spirits twined against the sky, beneath the copper trees
____________________________________________________________
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013