Seeing Stone

By the cluster of Honey Fungus

beneath the oaks and by ivy vine

and while the shadows play among us,

the Seeing Stone stands —silent, divine.

Through its circle you can see by eye

beyond the veil of a mortal ’s thoughts,

leaves, trees, a columned hall neath the sky

and the viewpoint whereby truth is sought.

Gaze in to gaze out, eye to the stone,

the self becalmed within rounded frame

to concentrate what is One alone

and know the world by its wordless name.

With one eye closed and one eye opened

we see Life and Death, that grave starkness

known of beginning, betwixt, and end —

the laughing light and deaf-mute darkness.

The Standing Stone was born of the land

in ages long past, before Man rose,

planted in the wombed-tomb by no hand,

knowing the mysteries no one knows.

We may see through this bone of the earth

the living world known as we waken

and, one eye closed, the world before birth

and after death, all such dreams taken.

Holly Folly

An orchard of holly trees,
thousands unto thousands,
bejeweled with red berries,
each a crimson drop
of sacrifice,
each a
generation of Man
spawned hitherto
since before Man was Man.
Strolling among the shade
I wonder why we are so
as we grow among paradise.
A chill wind blows,
signaling Yuletide’s approach.
They like to say Christ died for our
but, if so,
why are the berries
still so deadly?
Why do we grow so plump
in our hearts
with a brimming poison?
Christ may have changed
water into wine,
but could he refine the deadly wine
of this bitter berry
into benign water
so we might wash away our sins?

Autumn Tea

Acorns underfoot, red foliage overhead,
we walk through the woods, to the wilted clover bed
where the Green Man lays, a god no longer green,
and soon to fade beneath that arboreal scene.
From his brow we take a handful of brown leaves
while the birds fall silent among the sylvan eaves.
He rouses, briefly, and offers to us a seed:
it smells of every plant, tree, and even weed.
Returning home, we set the water to boil
and dig a hole in the earth, planting in the soil
the seed that he gave us, a seed of Springtime hope
as we drink our Autumn tea and we try to cope.
The world is one of colors all flaring in hue,
life and death together—a bittersweet brew.

To Be Raised High

He was born low among the high green hills,
with high ambitions, pride, and a desire
for a life beyond the fields and the mills,
above the summit of Benbulben—even higher.

He wished to be as an ancient Celtic king
and sought those who would thus crown him
among a sacred Druid copse ring,
his brow entwined in leaf, petal, and stem.

Maidens and priestesses sang him songs
and served him wine, honey, cheese,
and danced to lutes in twirling throngs
as flowers flavored the throbbing breeze.

For a night he was revered, beloved, praised
and taken at last to a bower bed—
but, hearken, a sacrifice was thereby raised
toward the Moon, to whom he shall be wed.

And so the goddess descended from aloft
with a coronet of stars, a gossamer gown,
making love to him, her caresses soft
and the sickle blade sharp as it came down.

The Moon then rose once more, dark red
with the flush of her groom, his love
having filled her full, with child and well-fed,
as she returned to the higher realms above.