The Ramblings and Wanderings

Posts Tagged ‘Bardic Circle’

ani difranco 2001

yes,

us people are just poems

we’re 90% metaphor

with a leanness of meaning

bordering on hyper-distillation

and once upon a time we were moonshine

rushing down the throat of a giraffe

yes, rushing down the long hallway

despite what the p.a. announcement says

yes, rushing down the long stairs

with the whiskey of eternity fermented and distilled

to eighteen minutes

burning down our throats

down the hall

down the stairs

in a building so tall

that it will always be there

yes, it’s part of a pair

there on the bow of noah’s ark

the most prestigious couple

just kickin back parked

against a perfectly blue sky

on a morning beatific

in its indian summer breeze

on the day that america

fell to its knees

after strutting around for a century

without saying thank you

or please

and the shock was subsonic

and the smoke was deafening

between the setup and the punch line

cuz we were all on time for work that day

we all boarded that plane for to fly

and then while the fires were raging

we all climbed up on the windowsill

and then we all held hands

and jumped into the sky

and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast

and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed

and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar

looked more like war than anything i’ve seen

so far

so fierce and ingenious

a poetic specter so far gone

that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling

over ‘oh my god’ and ‘this is unbelievable’ and on and on and on

and i’ll tell you what, while we’re at it

you can keep the pentagon

keep the propaganda

keep each and every tv

that’s been trying to convince me

to participate in some prep school punk’s plan to perpetuate retribution

perpetuate retribution

even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution is still hanging in the air

and there’s ash on our shoes

and there’s ash in our hair

and there’s a fine silt on every mantle

from hell’s kitchen to brooklyn

and the streets are full of stories

sudden twists and near misses

and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters

with tales of narrowly averted disasters

and the whiskey is flowin

like never before

as all over the country, folks just shake their heads

and pour

so here’s a toast to all the folks who live in palestine

and iraq, and el salvador

here’s a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation

with gi joe still coming back for more

here’s a toast to all those nurses and doctors

who daily provide women with a choice

who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city

just to listen to a young woman’s voice

here’s a toast to all the folks on death row right now

awaiting hot oil or guillotine

who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads

to find peace in the form of a dream

cuz take away our playstations and we are a third world nation

under the thumb of some blue blood royal son

who bought the oval office in that phony election

and i’ll tell you what, while we’re at it

let me state unequivocally

he is not president of me

he is not president of me

cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation

i’ve got no room for a lie so verbose

i’m looking out over my whole human family

and i’m raising my glass in a toast

here’s to our last drink of fossil fuels

let us vow to get off of this sauce

shoo away the swarms of commuter planes

and find that train ticket we lost

cause once upon a time the line followed the river

and peeked into all the backyards

where laundry was waving

and graffiti was teasing us from brick walls and bridges

we were rolling over ridges

through valleys

under stars

i dream of touring like duke ellington in my own railroad car

i dream of waiting on the big wooden benches

in a grand station aglow with grace

and then standing out on the platform and feeling the air on my face

give back the night its distant whistle

give the darkness back its soul

give the big oil companies the finger finally

and relearn how to rock-n-roll

yes, the lessons are all around us and the truth is waiting there

so it’s time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets

and clear the air

get our government to pull its big dick out the sand

of someone else’s desert

put it back in its pants

and quit the hypocritical chants of “freedom forever!”

cuz when one lone phone rang

in two thousand and one

at ten after nine

on nine one one

which is the number we all called

when that lone phone rang right off the wall

right off our desk and down the long hall

down the long stairs

in a building so tall

that the whole world turned

just to watch it fall

and while we’re at it, remember the first time around?

the bomb?

the ryder truck?

the parking garage?

the princess that didn’t even feel the pea?

remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?

can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design

following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline!

it was a joke, of course

it was a joke

at the time

and that was just a few years ago

so let the record show that the FBI was all over that case

that the plot was obvious and in everyone’s face

and scoping that scene

religiously

the CIA

(or is it the KGB?)

committing countless crimes against humanity

with this kind of eventuality

as it’s excuse

for abuse after expensive abuse

and it didn’t have a clue

look, another window to see through

way up here

on the 104th floor

look

another key

another door

10% literal

90% metaphor

5000 some poems disguised as people

on an almost too perfect day

must be more than just pawns

in some asshole’s passion play

so now it’s your job

and it’s my job

to make it that way

to make sure they didn’t die in vain

listen…

baby

hear the train?

Hurry

Hurry up!

All these people speeding along

Going so fast they disturb the wind

Racing off to …

Where?

To work

To the Bar

To the store

To nowhere

Nowhere at all

They leave themselves no time

To smell the roses

To play with the children

To pray to the gods

To feel the wind

They worry

About a pile of bricks and mortar

And not their own heart and mind

They fill their lives with needless things

And restless activity

So they don’t have to smell the roses

Or play with the children

Pray to the gods

Feel the wind

Because if they did …

They would realise how stupid it is

To worry about a pile of bricks and mortar

And not your own heart and mind

To race off to work

And the Bar

And the store

To hurry up to go nowhere

Nowhere at all

~ Juni

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A Hedgewitch’s Poem

Tangled weeds
and hawthorn grow
Through the gap in old hedgerow
leading to a dark green grove

With courage in the face of death
step bravely through thinning Veil
Sure of foot and strong of breath
Find wisdom there beyond the pale

Give and take with careful hand
Be honest but of watchful eye
When meeting spirits of the land
do not think they cannot lie

The delicate dance of Nature
a balance of wrong and right
The many worlds are made here
in the Dark and of the Light

Take lightly not the witches charm
Steady hand and eye of steel
For to heal is to harm
and to harm is to heal

Ancient flame on modern hearth
Seeking near forgotten lore
Gleaning secrets from the earth
Witches ladder above the door

Walk along the shadowed paths
that few before are said to tread
Journey to find elusive truths
Honour now the ancestral dead

Tumbled stone
and blackthorn grow
Through the gap in green hedgerow
leading to a hearth of old

~ Juniper

“Not I” Said the Witch

(Based on a children’s folk tale called Little Red Hen or “Not I”, Said the Cat)

Once upon a time, a Hedgewitch was working on her farm when the spirits there reminded her of a promise she had made; to give up the use of some of her land for her fellow pagans and witches. They informed her they wanted to hold a celebration right there on the farm as a way to begin.

So the Hedgewitch phoned up all her friends and asked them to help her create a wonderful little retreat for pagans and witches on her land, and to help her kick it off with a big celebration.

“Who will come and help me plan and prepare and make this a magickal event for all?” asked the Hedgewitch.

“Not I,” said the Greenwitch “not if I have to do any work! I have enough to do in my own garden without having to weed one for other people.”

“Not I,” said the Druidess “not if my Grove and I have to pay for gas to come all the way there AND then have to do work for the farm as payment for using it.”

“Not I,” said the eclectic Witch “not if Lord Name-Dropper and Lady I’m-So-Special are going to be there!”

“Not I,” said the Fluffy Bunny “Not if you’re going to let Christians and Left Hand people use the land too! That’s persecuting ME!”

“Not I,” said the Wiccan “spiritual services should be completely free of charge, in fact, why don’t you pay for my gas to come out there?”

“Not I,” said the newbie Witch “what if someone made fun of me?”

The Hedgewitch began to despair, would no one come and help her make a sanctuary for her faith? Would no one come to celebrate Beltaine?

“I will,” said the Druid “I will make an Oak King mask, and lead a boar hunt and dig a hole for the maypole!”

“I will,” said Momma Witch “I will make gifts with fairy bells for everyone, and I will also bring my son, who will jump the belfires!”

“I will,” said the High Priestess “I will round up others to come, and we will bring good food and good cheer!”

“We will,” said the Drummers “We will bring music and rhythm and laughter to your celebration!”

The Hedgewitch’s heart lifted, the show would go on!

So they came together on the farm and they praised the land, and learned about what grows there. They honoured the gods and the ancestors. They shared laughter, wisdom and a good meal.

Though things did not go as smoothly as it would have if there had been more helping hands, they made do as best they could with what they had.

When everyone left, the Hedgewitch was glad and filled with gratitude. For her promise was not broken, and new friends had been made. She was very proud of her little, awkward Beltaine.

So the Hedgewitch phoned up all of her friends and said “There are groves to tend and stones to raise, holes to dig and gardens to plant. There’s far too much for just one little Hedgewitch! Who wants to come and help me build a home for our community? ”

“Not I” said the Shaman.

“Not I” said the Heathen.

“Not I” said the Witch.

There is no end to this story yet, as it has not been written. I invite you to help inspire me to finish it …

By Juniper of Walking the Hedge 2009. Permission to reproduce granted.

Howling wind
And blowing snow
Silver as ice
Jasmine, nightshade
Silver as moonlight
And elderflower glow
She rides a pale horse
She is a pale horse
Wise winter owl on wing
A great dark hound
Dark like earth
A white sow in the shade of trees
Black and white badger
Raven in flight
Dark like blood
Prowling cat
She holds the key
To mystery
Black as ice
Lady of secrets
Keeper of memories
Black as night
Queen of witches
Sharpened knife
Grey as an unknown fate
Bleached bone
Blacked womb
Hallowed life
Hardened stone
Grey like icy cold slate
Sacred tomb
Find her at the crossroads
Pale like mists
Heart and soul in hand
Pale like death
Be prepared to pay
The price that she demands

~ Juniper 2009