Angels Born Sleeping

Angels Born Sleeping.

I am sorry that my passing caused you so much heartache and such pain.

Although my sleeping form looks still and cold, - I am reborn again.

A higher call has summoned me to worlds beyond your sight.

And I am in a place of love and wonder, - and delight.

I will visit often, though you may not know that I am near.

But, if you listen carefully, who knows what you may hear.

My quiet voice will whisper words of comfort and of love,

For I have had the grace of being chosen by the one above.

Your sacrifice and sorrow will have never been in vain.

For our spirit lives forever and we all will meet again.

But I must be a messenger of hope and love to many who are born.
For I am now a light, to all who wait in darkness, for a bright new dawn.

Do not grieve too long for me or shed too many tears.

For I have risen far above all grief and left behind all sorrows and all fears.

I know you wished to be my guide and my protector and to share in all my joys.
But, soon enough, we'll meet again beyond the starry skies.

Patrick W Kavanagh.

16/10/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

Kiara  The early memories

Only a tiny person could see the entrance to Kiara’s world, and only a tiny person with true vision could see the green lady who guarded the entrance to the land of the Fae.
As is widely known, - but not so widely believed; - there are many physical entrances to this world, as well as the obvious routes on the astral plane. However, this entrance is very special; this is where Kiara first peeked out to see Jeremiah. This is when she fell in love and it is the moment that changed her life forever and also saved mankind from a terrible fate.

I was going to say it was the ending of her childhood, but, do the Fae grow up? Do beings with such a measureless lifespan have a beginning, a middle, and an end, - just as we do?
I do not know for certain. I have asked the Fae, but they have declined to answer. Trying to persuade a faery to be serious about anything is a difficult task. They love mystery and magic for its own sake and hate to explain anything in boring detail. In the end, I stopped asking. They are my friends and my helpers, and that is good enough for me. They are intrigued by our intellect and our ego’s, but they have learned from bitter experience that being too close to mankind for too long can have a corrupting effect. Somehow, it steals a little of their joy and innocence each time they give in to their endless curiosity.

How can I describe that world, whose entrances look so unremarkable to the human eye?
Many have spoken of the feasts and the music. There are also many tales of dancing and orgies too, - but perhaps these are the exaggerations of a medieval mind which was starved of joy and hope. Memory fails me where I need it most. Like the dreamer who struggles to recall their night of adventure, I am taunted by brief, half-remembered images of beauty and feelings of utter calm and peace. Even now, I can feel the gentle touch of leaves against my cheek. I can see a clearing where a soft light catches a multitude of tiny flying creatures. Are they faeries? I cannot remember. I can see orbs of many colours and I can smell the musty earth of the forest. The air is warm and moist. My clothes feel like they do not belong here, but I sense that to remove them may mean that I will stay here forever.

The flowers are beautiful. They are a strange mix of both tropical and temperate plants.
I sniff one and suddenly feel that I could shrink, if I wanted to, and nestle inside its cup-like petals. It looks almost like an upturned daffodil with a purple centre. Everything in this place seems to be asking me to stay. As I walk deeper into the forest, I come to a huge clearing. There is a river cutting through the woods, feeding a large pool that is sparkling in the sunlight. I can see larger creatures here. Wolves are blocking my path to the pool, but I do not feel frightened.  I hear the sound of a flute and look up to see a strange creature sitting on a branch playing a bright, cheerful tune on what look like Pan-pipes. He is much smaller that I had Imagined Pan to be. Perhaps he is a faun?

The wolves pull back to allow me to go forward. There in the pool are beautiful young men and woman splashing around. They called to me and invited me in, but my puritanical upbringing failed me, and the vision ended. I did return eventually, and I will share my memories as they return to me in a clearer form.
Patrick W Kavanagh 
Kiara’s later adventures can be seen at:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/589028

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/618855

'Distant Shores' is a collection of those poems which have touched the hearts of many visitors to my online pages. Book one, 'Voices From Beyond the Veil' It is part of a series of short volumes on various themes. This, the first volume, - is about parting with those we love, and the eventual acceptance and peace which can come in time. I hope that it brings some comfort to those who are grieving.

Lovers Moon

Dance with me once more beneath the sleepy moon.
The dawn begins to peek above the purple mountains all too soon.
The night has passed too quickly, and the garish daylight looms.
For me, without your smile, - the brightest day brings naught but gloom.

Whisper to me, one more time, - of love that never dies.
Show me once again, that far off world beneath the violet skies.
Share another kiss for all the ones which soon I’ll miss.
For there is nothing in life, for me, - but this.

Many were the nights I lay alone, by choice, before we met.
My heart was made of stone, and would still be, - if we were strangers yet.
But not a heart exists which can resist a faeries kiss,
And now my heart beats just for you alone, and none can query this.

How can I go back to dusty books when I have lain with you in quiet nooks?
Or tread the beaten path when I have walked the misty, moonlit road past sparkling brooks.
My weary eyes despise the bored and foppish dress of clerks,
When I have gazed upon the shining diamonds of your eyes, in caverns deep and dark.

Take my life, before you go away and break my foolish love-struck heart in two.

Do not leave this hollow husk behind with nothing left but memories of you.

Have pity on this mortal man.

And love me for whatever years are left in human life’s short span.

Take me to the world which blossomed long before the world of man began.

Patrick W Kavanagh  23/02/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

On a Mountain

“I never designed it like this, you must know!”, - 

Said the wise old man with a beard like snow.

He gazed down with kindness and gave me a bow,

“I never once ordered the flowers where to grow.”

The sky shone behind him with crimson and gold.

There was youth in his eyes, though I thought him quite old.

The birds sang so sweetly because he was near. 

As love overwhelmed me, I stifled a tear.

“But what of the sorrow and suffering and pain?

And those who must come back again and again?

He halted my questions and spoke with a sigh, 

“That was your own doing, my children, - not I!”

“I gave you this world to create what you will.

You have chosen to hoard and to hate and to kill.

I gave you a garden with beauty and grace,

But all that is left is just ruin and waste.”

“Your share of compassion has withered and died.

Your dreams and your visions are twisted inside.

I have often descended to help and to guide, 

But each time I fell by your malice, and died.”

“The trouble that comes will be wrought by your hand.

Your greed and your anger have ravished the land.

But, do not be troubled, for when it is done,

Your spirits will rise and will shine like the sun”

A music that I cannot ever describe,

Had lifted me up, - ‘til I stood by his side.

A chorus of angels, - a million or more, 

Extended as far as the distant shores.

I turned, as a Faery took hold of my hand.

She guided me back to my own sweet land.

For Angels and Faeries are much the same.

Like the faces of God, differing only in name.

Patrick W Kavanagh   21/02/2016

Art by Bill Oliver

The Faery Grove by Patrick W Kavanagh

The land that knows no ills

The land that knows no ills

One evening near the woodlands edge when all around were slipping into peaceful sleep, 

I watched the tiny creatures of the night, from all their little burrows start to peep.

A bat, not long arisen from his bed, with sleepy ears, had almost touched my head, 

As I wandered through the wonderland where day and night are wed.

At the turning of the light, when brother sun bows low to sister night, 

My eyes were filled with awe and admiration at a most amazing sight.

There beneath the drooping branches of the woodland trees, 

I saw the fairies trooping, with their banners waving in the gentle breeze.

Tiny horses galloped by on silver hooves that glittered underneath the moonlit sky; 

With lances high the banners fly as rows of faeries, spur their horses on and fly.

A touch of medieval etiquette as queenly faeries follow on, bedecked in jewels and the whitest lace,

Yet not a sprite looked back to see the light of pure enchantment shining on my upturned face.

How I longed to fly out west with you, to where the sky was turning into deepest, darkest blue.

I longed to see that land beneath the setting sun that lies within the kingdom of the ever-young.

Now I walk these woods each evening, as the sun begins to slip between the purple hills, 

In hope that you will once again return, and take me with you to that sacred place that knows no ills.

Patrick W Kavanagh   10/01/2016

Art by Bill Oliver   Boy So Blue GraphicArts and Photography

A conversation with the Muse

Finding the Pagan Way
A conversation with the Muse.
I found myself in a large cave, and my goddess, who as you may know is also my muse, was looking every inch a faery queen. Her beauty always leaves me breathless. She seemed to be wearing a circlet of pearls woven into a silver band made from many fine strands. The strands of silver seemed to branch out from the core and formed interweaving spirals, between the pearls. Her ebony hair flowed down into the shadows and her deep brown eyes filled my mind with half-forgotten memories of sun-drenched foliage and warm moist air.
“You have not visited us for a while”, She said softly. Her voice seemed to carry concern and a faint hint of humour at the same time. “I have been writing”, I said, defensively. “Sit down!” she said, and I noticed a plush sofa. As I sat, I felt a bony knuckle rap against the crown of my head. Looking up, I realised that she had changed personas. She was the ancient crone. Grey hair was tied into a scraggy bun with what looked like a leather thong and her perfect cheekbones stretched against the weather-beaten skin of her face. “You foolish child! how can you write anything of true value if you do not listen to your heart? You have wasted your valuable time in fretting about popularity and promoting your books! Listen and learn!”
I felt her bony fingers touch my forehead as the scenery faded and memory drew me back through time. I found myself at an age when age does not matter, and sitting on the floor in my maternal grandmothers flat in Ringsend, Dublin. All around me were treasures. Tiny little glass bottles of many colours and shapes. She had taken them from the glass cabinet for me to play with.  I was totally engrossed in the reflection of light through the bottles and the feel of the cool hard glass. Some were thick clear, uneven glass that distorted everything like a hall of mirrors as I looked through them. The glow of sunlight through the window shone golden through the amber vials. The green flasks made the room look colder and darker. Even on a summer’s day, the fire was lit and I could recognise the unforgettable smell of turf burning. Life was simple and safe. I was too young for fear or anticipation and my past had barely begun. I sensed, rather than understood, my grandmother’s love and her satisfaction in seeing me playing with her collection of old glass containers.
I felt a touch on my forehead and I was back in the ornate cave. Flaming red hair framed her vibrant green eyes and billowed about my goddess, then swept down and around a flowing robe of green as she danced and swirled. “Write for me! She commanded. I felt puzzled. She laughed. “You are sitting at your laptop, aren’t you?” Suddenly I am here and looking back at what I have written. Have I been dismissed? I suppose I must relax and see what it is that I must write. I decide to make a cup of tea first, and I can hear her giggle somewhere in the back of my mind, so I know that she is still very near. While the kettle boils, I search for an image to inspire me. Do I have one as beautiful as her flaming red hair and laughing eyes? It hardly matters to a goddess with a thousand faces. I choose a picture to match my mood then sit and wait for inspiration as I sip my tea. The first few lines are granted, and I begin.

My Lady Moon

Within that world, where ancient mysteries lie, unshared with few, except the brave.

I walk the sacred path, determined that I keep the promises I made.

I had sworn that I would live a life that was devoted to the truth and to the Fae.

I had promised I would strive to live my brand-new life, immersed in magic every single day.

A childlike heart is wont to stray within this night-time world of loving Fae.

Where fireflies flit between the flowering moonlit trees to guide your way

I stretch my mind to fill my senses with the beauty of this glowing aerial display,

For, soon I must return to all the trials and all the complications of the day.

I will walk the lonely path of mankind’s world and spend each moment longing for my kin.

I will count each weary day until my promise is fulfilled and I return again.

Here among the dancing trees where laughter floats on every floral scented breeze,

I will rest a little while, and I will find my smile again, among the flowers and bees.

Join me! - If you dare, in my sweet world where children dance and sing without a care.

Walk the starlit path that shines down from the moon and weaves between the trees.

Here, in the woodland glade, where lovers promises are made beneath her silver light.

My Lady moon will take you to a world where all is love and all is pure delight!

Patrick W Kavanagh    12/12/2015

Art by Bill Oliver    Boy So Blue Graphic Arts and photography

Roses,Pink, and Babies Breath

Roses,- Pink, and Babies Breath.

The icy pink against the misty white, 

reminds me of the day we wed.

I felt my heart would burst for joy, 

as hand in hand, our marriage vows were said.

Before the world and all the gods and goddesses, 

we vowed that we would be forever true.

And nothing in this world meant anything to me,

except to be with you.

Our children grew up fine and strong, 

while time just seemed to trundle gently on.

But, then the autumn years crept up on us too soon, 

still, we just carried on.

When later, winter came, we saw it through 

and kept each other warm as lovers do.

But in the spring, I handed you my ring and said goodbye,

Though love may be eternal, in the end, all lovers have to die.

It grieves me so to see you weep,

each day I watch you shuffle to my grave, on weary feet.

The journey growing harder for you every single day,

Yet in my heart, I know exactly what you want to say.

The roses,pink and babies breath, are beautiful my love. 

But yet, it is the beauty in your heart that warms me so,

And I will wait for you, my love, until your time has come.

Then we will walk together once again, in that sweet place, 

where clouds of babies breath and ice-pink roses grow.

Patrick W Kavanagh 10/02 2015

Art by: Boy So Blue Graphic Arts and photography.

Finding the Pagan Way

Finding the Pagan Way

A conversation with the Muse.

I found myself in a large cave, and my goddess, who as you may know is also my muse, was looking every inch a faery queen. Her beauty always leaves me breathless. She seemed to be wearing a circlet of pearls woven into a silver band made from many fine strands. The strands of silver seemed to branch out from the core and formed interweaving spirals, between the pearls. Her ebony hair flowed down into the shadows and her deep brown eyes filled my mind with half-forgotten memories of sun-drenched foliage and warm moist air.

“You have not visited us for a while”, She said softly. Her voice seemed to carry concern and a faint hint of humour at the same time. “I have been writing”, I said, defensively. “Sit down!” she said, and I noticed a plush sofa. As I sat, I felt a bony knuckle rap against the crown of my head. Looking up, I realised that she had changed personas. She was the ancient crone. Grey hair was tied into a scraggy bun with what looked like a leather thong and her perfect cheekbones stretched against the weather-beaten skin of her face. “You foolish child! how can you write anything of true value if you do not listen to your heart? You have wasted your valuable time in fretting about popularity and promoting your books! Listen and learn!”

I felt her bony fingers touch my forehead as the scenery faded and memory drew me back through time. I found myself at an age when age does not matter, and sitting on the floor in my maternal grandmothers flat in Ringsend, Dublin. All around me were treasures. Tiny little glass bottles of many colours and shapes. She had taken them from the glass cabinet for me to play with.  I was totally engrossed in the reflection of light through the bottles and the feel of the cool hard glass. Some were thick clear, uneven glass that distorted everything like a hall of mirrors as I looked through them. The glow of sunlight through the window shone golden through the amber vials. The green flasks made the room look colder and darker. Even on a summer’s day, the fire was lit and I could recognise the unforgettable smell of turf burning. Life was simple and safe. I was too young for fear or anticipation and my past had barely begun. I sensed, rather than understood, my grandmother’s love and her satisfaction in seeing me playing with her collection of old glass containers.

I felt a touch on my forehead and I was back in the ornate cave. Flaming red hair framed her vibrant green eyes and billowed about my goddess, then swept down and around a flowing robe of green as she danced and swirled. “Write for me! She commanded. I felt puzzled. She laughed. “You are sitting at your laptop, aren’t you?” Suddenly I am here and looking back at what I have written. Have I been dismissed? I suppose I must relax and see what it is that I must write. I decide to make a cup of tea first, and I can hear her giggle somewhere in the back of my mind, so I know that she is still very near. While the kettle boils, I search for an image to inspire me. Do I have one as beautiful as her flaming red hair and laughing eyes? It hardly matters to a goddess with a thousand faces. I choose a picture to match my mood then sit and wait for inspiration as I sip my tea. The first few lines are granted, and I begin.

My Lady Moon

Within that world, where ancient mysteries lie, unshared with few, except the brave.

I walk the sacred path, determined that I keep the promises I made.

I had sworn that I would live a life that was devoted to the truth and to the Fae.

I had promised I would strive to live my brand-new life, immersed in magic every single day.

A childlike heart is wont to stray within this night-time world of loving Fae.

Where fireflies flit between the flowering moonlit trees to guide your way

I stretch my mind to fill my senses with the beauty of this glowing aerial display,

For, soon I must return to all the trials and all the complications of the day.

I will walk the lonely path of mankind’s world and spend each moment longing for my kin.

I will count each weary day until my promise is fulfilled and I return again.

Here among the dancing trees where laughter floats on every floral scented breeze,

I will rest a little while, and I will find my smile again, among the flowers and bees.

Join me! - If you dare, in my sweet world where children dance and sing without a care.

Walk the starlit path that shines down from the moon and weaves between the trees.

Here, in the woodland glade, where lovers promises are made beneath her silver light.

My Lady moon will take you to a world where all is love and all is pure delight!

Patrick W Kavanagh    12/12/2015

Art by Bill Oliver    boysoblue.com