Paganism Poems - Poems about Paganism

Many members of the two youngest generations used to describe themselves as being "Nones," believing in no religion at all. But in the process they have decreed themselves to being their own gods by deifying themselves in the process. By not wanting to be held accountable, especially to the Christian God of the holy Bible, they have...

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acorns and leaves make up his mind too as foliage entwines ours like bridges, like walkways, camouflaged in an every-day of solitude; these berries may not last; his thought runs deeper - deities of the core, the spirits would say - to old log fires by weathered stone, you, his old flame, share but only when you think we're thirsty, that is...

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you were never properly afraid of my antlers in the grass that pierced our feet and the trains kept on rolling by tracks I wished I'd made but they would have flowed up trees to their branches not cities where you hid behind walls, you were never properly afraid of my antlers that I grew in my dying days to sing...

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sowing a melange of veined wafers viridescent shavings leaves upon leaves chaotically neat layered in tranquillity for the theatrical show of first feet premiere wellies curtain up at dawn cue the early walkers after a night’s forlorn which unseen hand spritely close knitted the forest cross-stitched floor taking their time perfectionist preparing fallen Jenga sticks behind the scenes but never seen Jack in the Green...

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[paraphrase of a Svan folk song] Tamar's mother said, "Tamar, You were born fully grown. Child, I saw you in a dream I looked into the starlit sky and saw That you were the village And you were the world."...

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Love and loyalty, You curve about my finger, ...

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At Stonehenge poised for morn in deepest darkness, We beckon Lady Ceridwen, our Goddess Crone, And mark Samhain’s quiet constant stillness, To death in Yule we walk with magic to the stone. Dark mother, wise one, heal us in the underworld, Where the winter souls find rebirth in breaking sun. It returns the fecund resplendence that it unfurled, And warms the blood...

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Beltane’s Night On the eve of Beltane The Earth’s call rang across hill and heather, towards ford and cliff From tree to river the door calls, spirits of earth so fair, Heard by elf and pixie, awakening the dryads in their trees of old. Summoning them with rallying cries, to the Seelie Queen in her halls of gold, While...

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Athena takes me sometimes by both hands and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember ,upon awaking, is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to drift far beyond any thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. * O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down...

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