Once upon a time…
there was a Pagan and a Marble
It was no regular thing
as it was something to Marval
As it journeyed across the ocean to reach her
It was named Transcontinental
It was bright and shiny and sparkly
Like new fillings crafted from a dental
She used her witchcraft to make it a thing
her cats enjoyed to play with
They would bat it and roll it
and spin it in a drift
But when she played the game of marbles
Transcontinental was the best
As it would leave the circle
Upon the shooter giving it heavy jest
The Pagan loved this marble
because it was gifted from a friend
And for the fun she’d would have with it
Never seemed to end
Why have you reversed your spins,
unfolded moon,
dancing widdershins
across the bridge of noon?
Circle, circle, line and line
make up a quarter:
cross them, cross them now to shine
from this day's starter.
Sliding high against the night
twists the snake's song.
Again, again the crossing light
returns to where we belong.
------------------------------------------------
The gold star weeps
twelve silver tears,
one still unshed.
Dawn's bow twangs
in the doe's soft ear.
Tang of fog,
tang of frost,
tang of fire:
three blonde crones
cast the horizon
of the chestnut hearth.
------------------------------------------------
The hunter flies
through the winter skies
so clear.
The baby lies
asleep and wise
so dear.
The morning’s daughters have come to bring
where the star stands
sweetness, power, and suffering
in their bright hands.
The soft snows keep
the earth asleep:
sunrise is near.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Father a clouded northern sky;
mother a troubled southern sea;
brother a smoky western fire;
sister a muddy eastern field.
Seeds of fire sleep in the field;
seeds of sky sleep in the fire;
seeds of grain sleep in the sea;
seeds of rain sleep in the sky.
Quarter the wheel to make it go;
quarter the earth to make it roll
under your feet like a moving stair;
climb so high you'll reach nowhere.
Four is two is three is one;
quarter the city to make it done;
quarter the shining to make the track;
quarter the darkness to bring it back
-------------------------------------------------
Samhain approaches, the mist falls low,
Where worlds divide and shadows grow.
The veils grow thin, the stars turn pale,
And whispers ride the autumn gale.
The hearth burns dim, the candles gleam,
Each flicker births another dream.
Through silence deep, the spirits wend,
Old blood, old breath, the ages blend.
From hollowed earth to moonlit skies,
The dead return with ancient eyes.
Their laughter dances through the leaves,
Their sorrow sighs where darkness weaves.
In mortal halls, we feel their tread,
A chill that walks beside the dead.
And in the night’s consuming seam,
All that’s left are screams—
to feed the fright, to wake the dream.
I wasn't truly attuned to the Bard
Who tried to show cosmic significance.
On the dark moonlit forest's stage, he starred.
His Bardic thoughts defying arrogance.
I met the night Bard while he was singing
In chorus with Oaks of the magic grove.
Sprouting with seedlings was his beginning.
Raised in the forest, his true treasure trove.
This bounty lies protected by wet clouds.
It seems nature knows how to calculate
The number of elements it enshrouds,
Even as they waltz on the lovely lake.
The wind plays the wooden flute merrily,
Pleasing the Stars with chants of forestry.
Born of Aphrodite,
in every life graceful.
Born of Aphrodite,
in every life loving.
Bound to children of war,
Sons and Daughters of Ares.
In every life devoted,
To loving and nurturing
In every life hers,
Those children of love.
Born of the love,
the faith,
and the long days of waiting
for the one they knew would come.
It's been a long road my friend,
Don't know where to begin,
The nautical miles we sailed,
Amazing where we've been,
You became a Pagan boy,
Leaving a rumble from your wheels,
Nobody heard you're dying words,
A numb touch without feels,
Reaching high for some help,
Second chance has begun,
A cross became imprinted,
Small battle has been won,
Journey way down south,
Your life now a holy cascade,
Looking deep inside yourself,
Past life begins to fade,
Who had you become,
On a chair an answer rung,
A voice rattled in your head,
A path of Love had been hung
Life's path begins to unfold,
More Christ-like from this day,
Deep you dive into His word,
The path you take, Yahweh.
O, Sapientia, Mistress of Our Soul,
Effulgent glory of eternal light
Spin the wheel of life that you govern
Ordering all within the moonlit night.
O come, fairest Sapientia, lead us into day
With saving hand, on heaven's sacred way.
A POEM FOR ANGITIA:
a paraphrased of Silius Italicus (c26-191 CE)
Angitia the Daughter of Eeta the Sun
And the Sea-nymph Persa
Was first to use herbs
In magic and wellness.
She is Mistress of Venoms.
She murmurs by the stream
To draw down the Moon.
By her command the river is held back.
The mountains and the forests become still.
The Devil's House
The house has lived for centuries,
on grim and dismal ground.
And when you've reached inside,
the dust and demons come around.
The lock is still unbroken
though has tried for years still
to knock itself to the ground
and bury brass and key.
For there are secrets
hidden inside
it doesn't want souls to see.
The house deceives, plays tricks-
the staircases twist and change.
It brings an air, warm from the fireplace.
Artworks, stone and living bone
still haunt the house today.
There are dolls and a haunted dog,
still playing in the room.
A sad man keeps to himself
because he knows
what harm he will come to.
What will happen, I ponder to myself,
when the Devil goes back to hell?
The house will still remain.
Upon the Demon's well.
Bacchus confronts us in a shady place, A tangled grove, and he, astride a cask. Gross limbs and belly, small besotted face, And lips pursed to the uptilted flask. A buxom dryad, white against his tan, Attends him (sturdy spirit o' the trees) ; As free a woman she as he a man, But gracious-limbed enough to please. Sportive, she smoothes his unambrosial hair, And binds a ruddy vine about his brows; A filet fit for marry-makers, where the wild and tendrilled berry grows. But stay, dryad, what need hath Bacchus' head of leafy trimmings ? Twist a leaf or two and wreathe his hardy nudity instead~ Garland him largely, Dryad, do !
I remain a stranger
to my husband’s kin
it’s strange I miss their stranger’s skin
but bring taboo to skin they’re in
if words I speak upon their name
I hide my words
in fear of harm
displease the trees who delivered man
and breezed them on a wind to farm
the land trees put aside for them
in my hands, a harp I made
bear and eagle, age they gave
a single reed cut from a blade
shamanic lines taught me to play
so free was I in what I say
so put to lips and plucked with breath
my voice through brass
at times bamboo
you will find it placed in my burial
alongside my husband and his voice too
Men bearing nakedness and strips of thong
running through and whipping the female throng
Blood red and milk white,
colors of delight.
A tradition for years that remained strong.
Young women wrote names with aim to belong.
Man drawing their name is their hopeful song.
Placed strip in an urn
for a mate they yearn.
The new couple together all year long.
Celebration of Lupa and Faunus,
the day is swiftly coming upon us.
festival of note,
formation to choate.
A fertile year for them was a promise.
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.