The Ramblings and Wanderings

Archive for the ‘Bardic Circle’ Category

I see them and it makes me shiver

Teenagers teaching workshops

With confidence and skill

Children who had magick sung

To them each night

Over their cradles

As the Moon rose in the window

I know it sounds cliché

But the future is in their hands

*

Grey haired Elders

Who bitch and complain

Certainly they have the right

To say they’d never do it again

They talk and rant about things

Out dated by twenty years

Embittered by drama and gossip

They walk away tired and disillusioned

I know it sounds cliché

But the future is leaving their hands

*

I hear the whispers from people who know

Things are changing in a quiet sort of way

Some folks are scared and worried

What does the future hold?

I see children run by at the Gathering

I smile and I say

I know it sounds cliché

But expect to be similarly surpassed

In ways we can’t even imagine

I see them and it makes me shiver

With anticipation

They meet at the appointed place and time

And greet each other warmly with a smile

Up the hill and into the woods they climb

Down winding trails they walk in single file

*

Passing under maple trees, oaks and birches

Entering a hawthorn grove they slowed

Where three paths meet stood three witches

And prepared for a ritual at the crossroad

*

With candles carefully lit they begin the rite

Tentatively they start to drum and chant

Voices raised in celebration well into the night

With gratitude for gifts the gods do grant

*

Then the lights go out and into darkness they gaze

Quietly they call to the spirits and then they lay

The forest turns into a dark and ghostly haze

Witches whisper with delight and watch the fae

*

Prayers are said and magick spoken

But soon its time to pack up and head home

Offerings given as some small token

Three witches always sisters wherever they roam

It’s Still Pagan

*

To the tune of “Its still Rock  n’ Roll” By Billy Joel

*

What’s the matter with the robes I’m wearing?

“Can’t you tell that your cord’s too wide?”

Maybe I should buy a hooded cloak

Like back in the burning times

Where have you been in the broom closet honey?

“You can’t dress witchy ’till you spend a lot of money”

*

Everybody’s talking about the new Path

Funny, but its still NeoPagan to me

*

What’s the matter with the broom I’m riding?

“Can’t you tell that it’s out of style?”

Should I get a store bought besom?

“Are ready for us to laugh and smile?

Nowadays, you can’t be too traditional

Your best bet’s besom made exactly the way we tell ya”

*

Dark Goth, Light Fluff – even if it’s old junk

It’s still NeoPagan to me

*

Oh, it doesn’t matter what they say in the Circle

‘Cause it’s always been the same old scene

There’s a new Grove in town, but you can’t get the word

From a story in a magazine

Aimed at your average teen

*

How about a pair of pentacle tattoos

And a dress from the renaissance?

“Well, you could really be Selena Fox, baby

If you would just paint it all black

Don’t waste your money on a shiny new cauldron

You get more mileage from a cheap-o pot”

*

New Age, Faery, Wicca craze

Anyways, it’s still NeoPagan to me

*

What’s the matter with Coven I’m joining?

“Can’t you tell that they’re out of touch?”

Should I try to be a solitary Pagan?

“If you are, then you think too much

Don’t you know about the new Wicca, honey?

All you need are books and a whole lotta money”

*

It’s the next thing, Heathen, Druid, Celtic

Anyways, it’s still NeoPagan to me

Everybody’s talking about the new Path

Funny, but its still NeoPagan to me

*

By Juniper 2006

No, I don’t consider myself to be leader (see my about blurb to the right) this was written for friends and loved ones.

*

Build you up to tear you down

Spitting on their heroes

Tearing you part

Then holding their hands out

What the hell do they

Think that they doing anyway?

*

They say toughen up and deal

If you want to be a leader

Then harden up your heart

And don’t take it oh so hard

Do they not understand?

Can they not comprehend?

It is that very soft spot

That giant loving heart

That makes you willing and able

To be a Pagan leader

*

They say it’s all trade off

Part and parcel for the fame

As if you were Madonna

Riding around in a private plane

*

Why do they do it?

What could be their reasons?

Do they think that they are

Doing the community a service?

Are they stroking their own egos?

Riding on your coat tails?

Or do they just want to see you suffer?

*

Making two whole dollars

For each and every book sale

Speaking at the festival

And getting paid with peanuts

Isn’t all that easy

When you have mouths to feed

*

Buying up a property

Organizing a gathering

Taking out a second mortgage

Promoting and volunteering

Working when you could be

Spending time with the kids

*

And then the people show up

And they have so much fun

Then toss a bag of chips

Out the window on their way out

Leaving you to clean the litter

*

They say you can take it

Even if you hate it

Take the heat and love it

Or get your Pagan ass

Out of the kitchen

*

I can’t help but wonder

How long they could do it?

Would they last a week running fest?

Or teaching a class?

Could they handle all the slander?

From those they are serving?

I know that I am dying

To see them dying inside

And know how it feels

To be hand that’s feeding

Only to be bitten

*

They pick and they snipe

Argue and criticize

Gossip and spread rumours

Then expect you to give them

Everything for nothing

*

They only want what they want

Never mind what they need

Tow the party line

And you must tell them only

What they want to hear

Remember to always cater

To the lowest common denominator

*

Don’t expect them to think

Don’t ask them to examine

Their very own beliefs

Just spout New Age bullshit

That’s all they want anyways

*

And then some day they wonder

Where did all our leaders

Disappear to?

Where have they gone?

What caused the burnout?

Why did they leave us

Hanging in the wind?

*

So why even bother?

What’s the point of doing it?

Why spend back breaking hours?

And waste hard earned money?

And take time off from work?

*

They obviously

Do not deserve it

Respect it or want it

Anyways!

*

Do it for the father

Who hands his teenager

A book on Pagan ethics

*

Do it for the girl who

Is learning about the Goddess

And how to love the body in the mirror

*

Do it for the baby

Sitting in the Circle

Nawing on an acorn

*

Do it for the gods

Who want only to be

A part of our lives

*

Do it for a culture

Steeped in hate and ignorance

Arrogant and proud

Do it

To turn it into something

Worth living in

*

Do it for the planet

Our most sacred Mother

The rocks and the trees

The animals and bees

*

Do it to spite

Those narrow-minded idiots

Who never think to say

Thank you

Or please

*

So be a Pagan leader

Work your fingers to the bone

Expose your bleeding heart

Protect and serve

Give everything you’ve got

Give them all that you are

*

And when they bitch and moan

Just smile and tell them

Congratulations!

You just volunteered!

Oil is not blood

It is million year old Sunlight

Captured by the Earth

In liquid form

The good green things

Drink up the light

Photosynthesize

Die and decay

Buried and pressed

Digested by the land

And transformed over eons

Into liquid Sunlight

We with our opposable thumbs

Dig deep and greedily

Hungry and careless

Thirsty and addicted

Spoiled gluttons, never satisfied

Always wanting more

Like sociopathic children

We tear into our Mother’s body

Rip and rend

Slice and cut

We plunge long hungry hands

Through ocean-life-blood

Push greedy fingers into the soil

And suck out the liquid Sunlight

Buried within

With noisy machines

And without empathy

We penetrate and violate

We force our way in

We rape our own Mother

Remove the Sunlight within

To fuel our sick and twisted desires

To fuel our fires

To feed our noisy machines

To heat our homes

To make our lives easy

Because we are spoiled and greedy

To make this liquid Sunlight

Fuel our fires

We must pump toxic fumes

Into the Sky and the Air we breathe

The Oxygen we share with other living things

Which damages the thin layer called ozone

That protects us from the Sunlight

There are other ways

To fuel our fires

But we are too lazy, spoiled and greedy

To turn to them

And to learn new habits

Because we are addicts

Blinded by greed

The need to be comfortable

And the fear of change

We will keep digging deep

Until all the liquid Sunlight

Is gone

Burned up

Used up

No more

And then we will tear ourselves apart

Just wait and see

I always thought that crochet was invented by an ADD woman, being one myself.

Once upon a time, long ago, probably in France, a woman with undiagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder was puttering around her cottage. Doing much but getting nothing done, of course.

In fact she was very busily working hard at trying to find the key to her chest full of yarn (and other odds and ends that had found their way into the chest). She tore the whole cottage apart and simply couldn’t find it anywhere. She did, however, find one of her long lost knitting needles in the process. Distracted by the find, she looked about for the other kitting needle. Alas she couldn’t find that either. (For the record, the key to the chest had wandered off to the barn and the other knitting needle was out in the garden having spent part of the summer holding up a young bean stalk.)

Suddenly remembering what she had been doing a few minutes before, our heroine return to her chest. Using whatever she happened to have in her hand, the single knitting needle, she was able to pry open the chest. Happily she dug through the disorganized tangle of yarn within. Unhappily, it seemed as though all her other knitting needles had also vanished (who know where they wound up) and the last remaining one was now bent at one end.

Thinking she ought to run to the market to buy more needles before winter came, and perhaps a few other items as well, she threw on her cloak and walked out the door. Into a snow storm! Oh no, winter had started and she hadn’t gotten around to knitting warm woolly socks for her family yet!

Somewhat panicked, our heroine went back inside her home and paced about. Her husband and sons would return from the fields soon and be very cold, when they found that she still hadn’t made them socks to keep their feet warm she would be berated and hollered at for certain.

So she took up her single, bent, needle and started to desperately mess around with her wool. After much cursing and swearing, and putting that creative, think-outside-the-box, mind to work she invented the art of crochet!

The End