Burn Baby Burn

Fire in My Head

I did not know just what it meant to have the fire in my head,
until one evening cool and calm, I lay alone up my bed.
And in the still sweet blessed dark, my heart let out a quite prayer,
and rising from that empty room, my spirit soared into the air.

And as my mind slipped loose it's bounds, in exhaultation did it blare,
it stretched to fill eternity, spread oh so thin, like glosmer hair.
Within that mystic vision sweet did sound a thundering note full blown,
and light did flare within my mind, and press upon it things unknown.

And in that moment I did know that burning which surpasses words
as truth and peace and blessed bliss came crashing down in golden folds.
The fire like a living thing did dance upon the heart and soul
An all consuming harmless flame of ancient means and timeless goal.

So trembling I lay alone, with smoldering ashes in my thoughts,
To ponder thoughts beyond the mind, which render written words as dross.
Sweet burning light, sweet wild might, come back anew and dwell in me
and dancing singing in the light, then all my days I'll blessed be.

Freeform

A Poem

I'm going to write a poem
  with no form
rambling, wandering
 without structure or rhyme or story or point.
But that's kind of the point, isn't it?
  the breaking of rules and melding of chaos and intuition
 often
  or maybe always,
like the seed of an oak growing to a great tree.
Roots stretching through the ages,
 binding the ages past with branches of the future reaching skyward with a beautiful form beyond the ken of human hands.
What birds must nest in the branches, singing songs of Awen to time out of memory.
 But anyways, I'm going to write a poem.
 Maybe you'll like it,
 Maybe you won't.
I can't say I particularly care, I'm not writting it for you.
Then again, I'm not writting it for me either.
Who am I writting it for? What God, Goddess, Spirit has placed the fire in my mind to call forth the stirings of my soul?
Splaying my heart on a screen of bits and bytes, plastered on the virtual bathroom stall wall of popular culture.
Is this magick?
 Or maybe just insanity?
But if it is, do you care? Do I?
 In a world were everything seems insane, is insanity such a bad thing?
And now I realize that I'm not going to write a poem.
Someone else is going to write a poem.
I'm going to tag along for the ride.
 I wonder what this poem will be?
Perhaps I'll turn a page to the future and find out.
 Then again, maybe the truth lays in the past, buried in a hollow hill under a full moon.
 At the very least, I can assure you that it was, it will be, it is and might be and always was a poem.
At its heart beats a thump, thump, thud, thump, deep and slow in time with the sighs of the world as it dreams.
 Thump, thump, thud, thumpa, thump, can you hear the dream? Taste the light as it flies flashing past realms of endless possiblity and soundless songs, and drink the three drops of knowledge.
 Overflowing, my mind spills to the page, a song of singers floating on a flaming wind.
 Maybe this isn't a poem after all. Words, words without words form shapes of shapeless truths.
 Is that what a poem is? Is this inspiration?

For my Wife

The Goddess in the brown fur boots

She calls my name
Standing on the corner in the rain
The water rolling down short cropped hair
The Goddess in the brown fur boots.

Balance of rage and beauty
Queen of house and hearth and love
fire of passion and flame of love
The Goddess in the brown fur boots.

Deep and quiet
The calm of the mountain of ancient days
Rock of peace and pillar of awesome form
The Goddess in the brown fur boots.

Light, Her touch
on the strands of my heart and soul
Seizing my love with the force of the fiercest storm
The Goddess in the brown fur boots.

Break the Cycle

Wrath

Upon your bones I could place a curse
a curse which would crush you to dust.
Upon your blood I could place a curse
a curse which would boil you alive.
Baleful woe could I invoke upon you
sores and boils, agony unending.

Your mind I could twist into knots
trapping you within a maze of nightmares.
A future of Stygian agony could I weave for you
bending fate and destiny in wrathful design,
pouring upon your head suffering measured out
1000 fold for each innocent you harmed.

In books ancient and dark, in shadows deep,
I could find the means to call down fire,
Condemning fires from the deepest pits.
From the path of the wise I could depart,
A wraith of vengeance to become, pursuing,
hateful, flaming, visiting doom upon you forever.

How easy it is to conjure rage, to channel hate
How tempting a power is wraith, how plentiful the targets,
How justified would be my fury against you, most evil one.
Such power, sitting within my grasp, beckoning
with what small effort could I seize it,
and grant you the fruits of your deeds.

But what curse could I utter to raise the dead,
what dark power would heal the lives you tore?
Would my rage, my lashing out, in anger I feel righteous
be any different from yours?
And who's child would I destroy, who's light would I snuff out,
who's joy would I shatter into untold pieces of dust?

What wrong would my rage right, what evil cure?
Instead another link in that vengeful chain,
would bind humanity closer still to harsh fate.
I would become you, the one I loathe, in different form.
I cannot give you forgiveness on behalf of those you hurt most,
but there is something I can do.

I can start the healing, I can put down my rage,
I can let the pain wash over me like a wave.
I can forgive, at least for myself.
I can wish you healing for your own pain,
the things which set you on this dark path.
I can be the start, I can unbind the chains of hate.

Off I Go

Into the Forest

I'm going to get lost in the forest,

never to be seen again.

To dance by the moon on the mountainside

To sit in the shaded glen.

I'm going to run off to the forest,

to spend the rest of my days.

To weave vines and leaves through my wild hair

To sleep where the fairies play.

I'm going to get lost in the forest,

that's really the point anyway.

To talk with the trees and the birds and the bees

And walk in the soft wet clay.

I'm going to run off to the forest,

But maybe you'll see me again.

I'll come back in a song on a clear summer day,

To take you away from a world cold and grey,

And then with oaks and the badgers we'll play,

As we both run off to the forest.

I'm still here.

If you need me

If you need me

I'll be the one sitting under the willow tree

I'll be the one listening to the soft song of the brook

I'll be the one gazing at the stars in awe.

I'll be standing still in this world of panic

I'll be singing a song which has no notes

I'll be there, waiting.

If you need me

You'll find me where dreams wake

You'll find me beneath the glow of the sun

You'll find me in the ocean waves.

You'll find me in the colors of a poem

You'll find me in the flight of the wild bird

You'll find me in the melting snow of spring.

If you need me.

Two short poems

Memories of my Grandfather

Lo, the sweet sent of foreign spice plays across the air.
Steam, fresh and sharp, to spread the taste divine across the room.
Match strike, the dried leaves glow with hidden life in the bowl of a pipe.
Against the skin, leather and velvet in the dark library, enclosed in aged oak.

Invocation of the Muse

Sing, oh Muse, of what will be.

Sing, the future, the dream of time,

the path of a man, the charge of a hero.

Sing, oh Muse, of the world that was.

Sing of ages past, brought to life in hymn,

what the world could be yet again.

Sing, oh Muse, of magic in the air.

Sing, of beauty, daughter of truth,

Of song, of love, of poem and myth.

Sing, oh Muse, sing to the world.

Sing of hope, of the woes of man,

of wounds self-made, of healing to come.

Sing, sing the creation of heaven.

Sing until the tide of the world ebbs,

till evil fades in the glow of Dawn.