Angel of the Night

She found me in the dark,
I’d fallen deep within the sea.
She held me like an ark,
a vessel of tranquility.

She gathered up the night,
and tucked in all these
cares and dreams.
Sheltered my eyes from light
and spoke these words
as I fell asleep.

“Look to the stars
and let them remind you
of a light after life
that one day will find you.”
A kiss in starry light,
from the Angel of the Night.

“Look to the moon,
and let her guide you,
to a cherub of light,
that is living inside you.
A dream that comes to life,”
said the Angel of the Night.

Feather by feather
we are bound together,
by flame and wax
hopes held forever,
in flight up to the sun
such dreams must be undone.
By wing and wind
a mortal sail,
by flame and wax
the feathers failed,
so far above the trees,
until I fell into her sea.

She handed me a key,
a heartshaped locket
of memories.
Whence I held upon my breast,
starlight gave me rest.

She spoke to me in the night
when darkness gathered,
in a gown of stars.
A kiss upon my brow
to keep until the day I part.

“Look to the stars
and let them remind you
of a light in the night
that one day will find you.”
A glimpse in starry light
of the Angel of the Night.

“Look to the moon,
and let her guide you,
to the light after life,
that is living inside you.
A dream that comes to life,”
said the Angel of the Night.

Sweet Angel of Night,
bind me with you,
when daylight comes,
how I will miss you,
in the hour of the sun,
to the night my heart will run.
By wing and wind,
this mortal coil,
the feathers fell,
but the heart stayed loyal,
to the beauty of starlight
the Angel of the Night.

Epitaph of an Age

The congregation gathered
on the hillside at the dawn,
some had come to frolic
others came to mourn.
The poet spoke an epitaph
by a grave long overgrown,
and wept for the memory
of Apollo’s long lost bones.
Some thought he was perfect;
others thought him stained.
Many thought he brought the sun;
some thought he brought rain.
They wept for their lost savior
and carved his name on stones,
one claimed to hold a relic
of Apollo’s long lost bones.
They brought him from the east
to the steps of Athens grace.
They cast out the leviathan
the fates were soon replaced.
Carried by sword and spear,
by arrow and by stone,
all the world soon would hear
of Apollo’s long lost bones.
In Rome he forgot his name
and the priestesses soon fled,
he cut at the root of the vine
her statues lost their heads.
Known by a thousand names
and a thousand broken thrones,
names numbered like the days
like the saviors long lost bones.
At Delphi the oracle spoke
of a poet neath the waves,
who’d come to speak the epitaph
on Apollo’s long lost grave;
the keeper of the mirror,
the sleeper of the deep,
the serpent of the waters,
the crescent who must reap.
The congregation listened
to the oracles sad words,
they searched for any fractures
of the prophecy they heard,
and somewhere in the distance
they saw the vision fade,
as the sun sank into the sea
whence the light and waters played.
Farewell silver, farewell gold,
farewell stories told and untold.
Myths like sand that once was stone,
farewell to apollo’s bones.

The Crossroads

Sitting at the table
the boatman handed me a drink,
the music was such a ruckus
that I could hardly think.
I drank of his libation
and he offered me a ride,
and suddenly quite dizzy
I got up with the guide.
“Now give me just a moment”
I told him as I stood,
and gazed into the darkness
that lay beneath his hood.
“There’s one who I must visit
before I come along,”
and I staggered through the room
for his drink was mighty strong.
I looked into the corners
but there she was not found,
the entire place was swaying
to the music’s wild sounds.
I looked into the blackness
and looked into the light,
for the lady of the shadows
in a gown of silky white.
Standing by the doorway
I heard the sound of bells,
the lady sat reading
from the book of the Kells.
On a page about redemption
and the temptations of fate,
I moved to her quickly
for the hour had grown late.
“Lady may I ask you
of the words that you once spoke,
of a land of silver apples,
and one of fire and smoke.”
She handed me two coins
and whispered back “Elyse,”
one was marked with “want,”
and the other marked with “need.”
Then suddenly she vanished
and the boatman reappeared,
he said the ship was waiting
and all was as I feared,
for my feet had lost direction,
in this hour dark and late,
I headed to the waters
on a path no longer straight.
And the boat upon the river
of ghosts and sorrows black,
was all that I could see
and there was no way back.
The wayfarer reached his hand
on the shore in the dark
I handed him the coin I held,
marked with the word “want.”
The vessel departed
and such sorrows I beheld,
of souls long tormented
of spirits who long fell.
And I thought of the lady
and from the valley beneath,
I heard a voice whisper
the lonely name “Elyse.”
Just then the boat hit the shore
and ahead stood a gate,
guarded by a triple beast
and I beheld my fate,
and there the procession
slowly moved ahead,
my mind was slow and dizzy,
my heart was filled with dread.
We headed up the mountain
to the masters flaming throne,
and when I reached the summit,
suddenly alone,
and I could taste the flames,
and feel them on my skin,
yet he was nowhere to be seen;
for my heart he dwelled within.
I’d reached the furthest distance
of the blackened abyss,
yet now my feet were steady
as I remembered a kiss,
of a lady of sorrow
who long ago had fled,
bringing with the seasons,
down the path that lay ahead.
I could see her fading footsteps
from this grim forsaken place,
and I ran into the darkness,
in pursuit of long lost grace.
I could hear the flames behind,
cry “none shall ever escape”
yet I would not look back,
as to the shores I raced.
I heard the hounds approaching
at the back of my heals,
and the words “don’t look back”
rolled across the field.
I rushed through the shadows
to the river far below,
and met a dark guardian
who would not let me go.
“Present the sacred name”
implored the shadow beast,
and suddenly he vanished
as I whispered back “Elyse.”
By the river fast approaching
a hooded figure stood,
by a vessel on the waters
and all was understood.
I reached into my pocket
and the figure reached to me,
I handed forth the coin
marked with the word “need,”
and we headed across the waters,
this time still with peace.
The hood of darkness lifted
and there stood sweet Elyse.
Anto the shore of apples
we quickly did approach,
and landing on the shores
the lady softly spoke.
“Never forget the difference
of the coins of want and need,
standing at the crossroads
remember where they lead.
You may taste the flames of desire
or the apples of the queen,
you may know the lure of wanting
or the fruit of summers green.”
And suddenly I returned
to the table where it began,
and there stood the figure
with a drink in his hand.
My eyes found the doorway
and the lady dressed in white,
and I answered the boatman,
“No thank you, not tonight.”

March on Heaven

At the gates of old Saint Peter
the gathering began,
A host of familiar faces
of gods and beasts and men.
When the pipes of Bacchus sounded,
Coronis crooned along,
and the lovely sensuous sirens
touched the distance with their song.
Now the gates were old and rusty
and the latch was cracked and broke,
and the galloping of centaurs
could be heard to fast approach.
The wolves began to howl
and the bull stamped his feet,
but the gate remained untested
until the gathering was complete.
Arriving from the distance
were the souls cast to below,
children long forsaken,
by an age of strife and woe.
They carried with them relics
as they left the land of doubt,
and the gates began to tremble,
at the march of those cast out.
Now down from old Olympus
and up from the dark pit,
and from the western isle
the torches all were lit.
From every distant corner
the march had now begun,
as lovely Venus whispered
let thy will of all be done.
Now poor old Saint Peter
was nowhere to be seen,
and Michael and his angels
had long since fled the scene.
For the march of all creation
was ascending to the gate,
and led by none other
than the sickle bearing fates.
Now Jove in the castle
watched from the high throne,
he called upon his legions
but there he stood alone.
For all had long since fallen
and all had long lost faith,
none would carry the banner
none could bear the weight.
Now the mass was suddenly silent
for at the gate approached,
the queen of all the fallen
in her radiant scarlet coat.
As she stood on Judas shoulders
the pipes softly played,
and she spoke the invocation
as the fates raised their blades.
“This was once our heaven
and earth and legion too,
shadows were once holy
from Hell to the moon,
we do not ask forgiveness
we shall not dare repent,
of light or shade or twilight
all were heaven sent.”
Now at the sound of this invocation
the gates before them broke,
the masses all marched on
and appollyon awoke.
She raised the scales of justice
as they tipped back to the just,
from every distant corner
they danced up from the dust.
They marched upon the castle
and apollo fell and wept,
Yet none would bring him harm now
nor ask him to repent.
The priestess came before him,
she handed him a rose,
And Helios was weeping
for all the ages woes.
Looking upon the masses
who stood before the throne,
with a smile of realization
for his children had come home.

Maker of Kings

The wings run ragged
through her wild night,
the nights howl louder
in a stars frozen light.
Her branches grow naked
as bare fallen horns,
her roses have fallen
and left only thorns.
Oh the stars are much brighter
on nights stark and black,
her fires burn brighter
where brittle hearts crack.
When mother of starlight
moves without rest,
flight through the shadow
to her nocturnal nest.
Memory of evening,
midnights bright gem,
that once carried leaves
on summers green stem.
Up through the branches,
her lights broken web,
waves of the moon
a quiet eves ebb.
Up through the starlight,
rise through the cold,
move through the silence,
an evening grown old.
Priestess in search of
a vestals lost bed,
through ice, wind and blackness
where a mother once fled.
Oracle of the mer cave
on black ragged wings,
breathing life into death,
maker of kings.

Mother of Inspiration

Mother of inspiration,
she moves me to the well of deep love.
She is the poem that runs from my quill,
the dawning muse that awakens tired night
and stirs the soft bees from their flowery beds.
Burning fire at the heart of the temple,
she awakens mother loving wisdom
in lost sleeping hearts.
Children cling to her leg
knowing that she is the mother of lovers,
the spirit that watches over them by night.
Most angelic voice of the feminine mysteries,
she is the storyteller
who caresses the words of the bards,
from lips as tender as bloomings of the rose.
All words fail to tell of her grace
and the mysteries held in her every breath.
Yet the gods and poets strive to tell of her beauty in vain,
as the words fall like petals
tossed at her soft perfect feet.
They sing her songs
that the world might understand living divinity,
that the poem might give a glimpse of the pathway
illuminated by the footseps of a sacred priestess.
The generosity of her presence
fills the lives of all that walk in her midst.
Mother of care, sister of truth, daughter of dark and light,
she marries the broken heart of time in her every motion,
her black wings illuminating the dark
way with glints of rainbow as she turns.
She forever lives in the temples of long forgotten memory,
with one foot in our world
that we might for a moment remember.
With gratitude the sages bow before her beauty
in silence at last,
knowing that the words that they reach for in vain
are spoken by her very presence.

The Rye Wolf

The rye-wolf is walking amongst the grass,
the blade of autumn rising.
Days of spring have come to pass,
the reapers greet the ripening.
Whence fields grow heavy in the ear,
and pale turn sheaves of ripened rye.
The seeds in springtimes furrows cast,
crown first harvest hour sky.

Hear we offer
summer’s first fruit,
upon the altar
of a meadow bright.
Hear we share
summer’s first grain,
within the temple
of ancient light.

Oh gather thy sheaves,
raise thy sickle to the grains,
hear the season call your name.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.
Tears of joy,
tears of sorrow,
hear the call, come home again.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.

The wheat-wolf is rushing over the field,
windy steps mark summer blades.
The dogs of harvest howl and wail,
at the last stroke of the summer’s flail.
Whence the sheaves have all been chopped to straw,
the reapers march and sing their song,
the grains in springtime’s furrows cast,
rise to crown the sky once more.

Hear we offer
summer’s first bread,
upon the altar
of fading day.
Hear we share
summer’s first wine,
within the temple
of golden rays.

Oh gather thy sheaves,
raise thy sickle to the grains,
hear the season call your name.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.
Tears of joy,
tears of sorrow,
hear the call, come home again.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.

The corn-wolf’s hour is growing short
soon barley meets the threshing floor.
The seed is separated from the chaff,
as autumn raises her blade once more.
The fields of grain will soon be razed,
and the wolf will have no place to hide
Our hope’s in springtimes furrows cast,
shall bid the rye-wolf at last goodbye.

Hear we offer
summer’s first harvest,
upon the altar
of golden earth.
Hear we share
a horn of plenty,
a grateful blessing
of joy and mirth.

Oh gather thy sheaves,
raise thy sickle to the grains,
hear the season call your name.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.
Tears of joy,
tears of sorrow,
hear the call, come home again.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.