Form: Séadna
The hawk hung high on heavy wing,
Above the grey, gasping tide;
Where gorse–gold fires fiercely sting,
And the pale–faced changelings hide.
A silver breath on basalt stone,
Where the cold, keen waters climb;
The sea–caves hum a hollow tone,
A rhythmic reaching of time.
The Fomhóraigh stir in the peat,
Where the dark, deep bog–pools sleep;
With rhythmic pulse and restless feet,
A secret, old watch they keep.
One–eyed kings in the iron mist,
They rise from the shelf of salt;
With a heavy, crushing, blue fist,
And a step that makes earth halt.
The rowan bows it's berried head,
To the wind's wide, wintry wail;
Where ancient kings and heroes bled,
Beneath a torn, misty veil.
The currach dances on the crest,
Of a salt, soul–shaking swell;
The sailor seeks a silent rest,
Where the deep–sea giants dwell.
A lightning fracture splits the blue,
Over jagged, iron shore;
The old world breaks and births anew,
In the Atlantic's wild roar.
The emerald pulse of Ireland's heart,
In the rain's rich, rushing scent;
A landscape torn and pulled apart,
In a wild, green wonderment.
In the evenings twilight gloaming
daytime changelings cease their roaming
place acorn hats upon their heads
lay down in hidden feather beds.
Some sleep while others shake in fear
as blackness comes so ever near,
and beasties you should never see
will search the night for me and thee.
Strange sounds break silence of the night
as darkness takes away your sight.
Scuffles, howls, a sickening moan;
echoes that chill you to the bone.
When, if you sleep, they stay with you
they live within you through and through;
the beasties you should never see
who search the night for me and thee.
The cockcrow is some distance yet
more demons you have not yet met.
Night seems much longer than a day;
that moment when the changelings play.
Is that the creaking of the stairs?
You quickly say your hasty prayers
that beasties you should never see
don’t search the night for me and thee.
Some had bank accounts taken t'was on the news this
Situation'
Though some reasons were given.! That these people were un-ruly
Un-shriven?
Yet that turned out a misnomer? Or a lie.? Maybe
Just a stumer?
Let us trust in the passage; of some time, all can't
Manage, thats.Just fine.
Will there be a retribution? On these operatives of
Institutions?
Social steerers; cheerers of default changing, who appear
Mostly as changelings'
Should the cohorts of a feather? Get some tar as per
To the letter?
Will the emails be 'flying?' Will many pundits be vying??
Is there any reality?
Can there; be? some countering of such insanity?
opaque simplicities
genesis forever lagoons
time honored changelings
Up in the above
roof gardens pluck air out of thoughts.
Changelings run between
brick walls
one is dead-eyed and evermore shall not see
yet it grows itself upon a dendritic tree
to hear what the empty places speak of.
Long moved furniture’s leave there after-images
they remain as stains upon inlayed grains.
inside the crumbling interior of bare floor
wood owls slowly turn spiral eyes
to see for those no longer here.
Above this homeless and dreaming mind
a straight-backed chair plays a dark cello
most melancholy are its tunes
that resound on ceiling and echoing ground.
The space within the structure will one day rupture
but for now a ghostly grey-matter
knits together
the under, the over,
and that room
where music sighs between two lovers.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eh1m3vCCGdA
Black Princess of the night chin strapped to her violin
she plays the notes from her memorable heart of blue
while the moon in her sorrow spills light upon the Quin,
she plays on, a Stradivarius interlude of thin soulful Adieu;
Arrivederci (goodbye)
Donna (woman)
Ingannato (deceived)
even the stars weep under her spell as her raven changelings
scatter like black ashes to the wind
Five seasons of partings five degrees of loss, still no light
bursts forth from a soot sky of ebon black
lamentations and moans
heaven groans
from the weight of her sorrow comes the eye of the storm
as she plays her last note of deep unrest .
"In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous." Aristole
Clouds,
Drifting
Gossamer,
Amorphously
Cumulonimbus
Botryoidal changelings
Bulbous body-building boils
Robustly rising with swelled heads
Bragging with bursts of thunderous joy
Eager to display lightning anvil crowns
Exist in heaven, or the spirit realm,
Which is a level of existence
Higher than the physical universe. ...
God created the angels through Jesus,
“The firstborn of all creation.”.
Are they real, how do you feel???
O’ Lo yon -spiritual being,
Whose ever so real Seraphim.
One of the many arch angels as well as Cherubim.
O’ Lo yonder, Thrones.
Dominions or Lordships.
Virtues and or Strongholds.
Mystical creature
Gatherings Powers or Authorities.
Principalities or Rulers.
All those for mentions spawn Archangels.
Dance and dream wit me yon twilight skies
In deeming spirituality feminine energy
My childhood and beauty shapes
Fixing broken withered plants
Cousins unto the angels photo kinesis project and control nature and light
Changelings
Little, little people Brownies, Pixies, Leprechauns
Dwarves, Elves, Kobolds
Nature Fairies
O’ Lo yonder, Thrones.
Dominions or Lordships.
Virtues and or Strongholds.
These are just some more of those…
Mystical creature
11/21/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
(2 Peter 2:11)
Written for class November 19, 2019 assignment (WIPS)
North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
The place where your butterflies flitter
free in the meadow,
licking the ambulant stream,
the dew from life's vessels,
perspirant milk of purity honey-
Bursting from out of the seams.
The shine of the little fluttering-Bearcat,
pillar of change,
for seasons changelings stage buttering.;
In that; constant, source of inspirationing,
constantly in ironys schemes.
Vacation on vocational vexillology,
Vocation-vacationing
in the spring.
I hope you always find yourself a wonder-pleasuring.
A pleasure in-wondering at home in the free of bond.
But never in singularity.
Never reeling, never changing.
Always becoming to the laeity of the des-parity.
A Carrier to Carry-On.
Leaves of green become red, yellow, and orange
Their colors, they mix and rearrange
These changelings, to the ground float
Many colors coat
Warms grass in
Fall
Range displays
A Kaleidoscope
Pigments on grass, how they gloat
Such beauty is an autumn art show
Be certain to partake of its bright exchange.
10-23-18
For: ANDAREE POEM Poetry Contest;
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Angel?
Demon?
Faerie?
Witch?
Random labels
None apply.
We are all changelings
Pure and simple
Or complicated and unpure
Depending upon the mood, the moment, and our momentous events.
Divorce, death, cancer, car wrecks, they all take a toll on us.
Changing us completely in one second.
Giving us a perspective we never had before.
Showing us that our opinions are not the same now.
Sometimes switching to the opposite side in one second.
When we become the needy, we stop bad-mouthing the freeloaders.
When we realize how close we are to homeless, we maybe develop a little more empathy for them.
There are life-changing events happening every day.
We may go into some of them kicking and screaming,
But we still
Go into them
Changelings that we are.
Angel? Demon? Faerie? Crone? We’d best leave labels well and good alone.
From Birth to Hearse
‘Tis said that we are sinners - all
before we ever rise - we fall.
Is there no way to beat the curse
that follows us - from birth - to hearse?
For we are bathed in living’s dreams
darkened halls with violet themes,
the orange maw of changelings hue
transfiguring through greens – to blue,
windblown brushstroke-fashioned clouds
move about in eerie shrouds
opalescent shifting reds
glistening through tartan threads.
Witness, as in the timeless nest,
the crimson golds of sunrise – set,
cling to horizon’s blue-edged lie
that colors – separate - the sky.
Distorted by the muted browns
the shifting dunes of opal gowns
flowing in chimeral white
across the darkened stage - of sight.
‘Tis said we are and will be dust
colors changed by living’s touch,
beauty that reversed the curse
that follows us - from birth – to hearse.
8/1/2014
For Charlotte Puddifoot
Vibrant Verse 2 poetry contest
A mom tucked in her child one night
In bliss he fell asleep
Her horror grew at day’s first light
She could not help but weep
A changeling lay in her son’s place
With wings, large hooves and tail
She scorned the babe who sought embrace
“Lord, curse the troll,” she wailed
For in the night a being crept
Through her New Jersey home
A fiend was left as she had slept
A gift from Satan’s gnome
Her handsome son, such envy sparked
Now resting in a troll’s domain
The changeling’s face by Satan marked
And love she could not feign
This curse she felt was envy pure
She could not bear its sight
A hateful child she’d not endure
Such scorn did he ignite
To Mother Leeds this thirteenth child
Became a castaway
It flew into the pines reviled
And to this day seeks prey
*Based on the legend of the New Jersey Devil.
Changelings are infants that are replaced overnight
by devilish imps from trolls or elves according to Irish legend.
Entry for the “Creepy Irish Creatures” contest.
Sit here and listen now.
She tells her story well.
You will too wonder how.
That these new changelings tell.
She has her maiden form.
She does have twenty more.
As quick as summer storm.
She will change body’s core.
This is my story true.
I am a changeling now.
My soul has become blue.
I would not ever scowl.
I have the power strong.
To be one creature good,
Or another so wrong,
Would you be if you could?
I chose my current look.
To be your double now,
Since it will surely hook,
Our lives to surely prow,
Do you now believe too?
That there are changelings here,
You would best believe clue.
Or at least boldly fear.
written for
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name Creepy Irish Creatures
I met November;
with its calico seals of Samhain
slain in a fair death
and bled by symptoms of naked hours
and loneliness.
I shivered with
the Strange dread,
not of predator
or prey
but the threat
of being siphoned too deeply,
into phone -cord spirals;
into the greedy sponge of Midnight veils
that wave amidst alabaster winds.
I found myself swathed in a patient void
where
sepia changelings in breezes
brushed desperate hands
and manipulated
a restless heart.
I was so long compromising,
imagining
warmth from stagnant shadows
and seasons circled in windswept dances,
where the choreography seemed to
alleviate me of reality.
But now,
the Autumn frolics
whisper of winter,
spreading a carpet of gossip
scrawled on tablet sheaves
the prose of windswept vows
that leave empty souls as they pass on,
gust to gust,
heart to heart
and stroke the conscious mind
and castrate the thread
that welds Love and Dream together.
Until,
the white ash of burnt love
tucks small flaming shards of hope
into a heavy envelope
and seals it with hushed lullabies
and promises
of a Spring.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.